To Jump, or Not to Jump?

I stand at this moment at the great abyss.....

....of change. 

I know! I know! We've all stood here before. In fact, the act of standing here, really, is an endless metaphor; there are likely millions of people who stand at this same precipice, at any given moment, in any given time zone. Somehow, through the great space and time continuum, we are all connected. 

So. 

Here I am. 

Can anyone hear me? 

(Stage Direction: She waits a moment, listening to the silence. She takes a deep breath that reaches down to her toes before coming back out slowly and audibly. All at once, she has become vulnerable. She looks down at the ground, and then back at the audience with shining eyes.) 

I just quit my job to join the gypsies. 

(Mutterings of disapproval are heard from offstage. She holds her hands up defensively)

Alright, alright!  I accept that it is a little nuts, out of the ordinary, and irresponsible!  You have every right to voice your concerns.... but please: hear me out!

(She waits for a moment for he mutterings to stop before continuing)


O.K. so I may have some explaining to do. (She sighs, almost somewhat in defeat) Truth be told... I've been stuck. I'm an artist who has forsaken the mediums which I had once paid regular tribute to. I don't draw anymore, I don't perform. My guitar callouses have all but faded away completely, and I'm not even journaling. And trust me... if you've put up with what I've put up with at my last job for the past 3 years, you would have quit, too!

(More muttering arise, she shouts to calm them)


Hey! I'm not finished here! O.K., I recognize that it was a little rash, but please. I feel it in my gut! It is something I felt I had to do! I keep hearing about how important it is to listen to your intuition, and I have allowed mine to shout until it was hoarse without heeding it--deluding myself that if I just stayed on a few more days, weeks, months--it's been a year, and my entire savings is down to thirty bucks and a cent! I need to come up with rent and security before the month is out! (She holds up a warning finger) Yes! I get it! 'How are you going to accomplish this without a job!?' And well-- I used to listen to you all the time, now look where I am! I can't let you run my decisions anymore. You're just going to have to trust me on this one.

I really believe deep in my gut  that this is all going to work out.

There are other jobs--I have a lot going for me. I am not helpless. And I'm not going to die if the plan falls through; I have friends, family--people who will feed me if I face 'starvation'. At least I know that in making this decision, I am finally listening to myself.... and not my fears. 


(She stands in silence for a few moments, looking left and right. She waits for the mutterings to start up again, but they are silent. A soft glow of light fades up from below, casting eerie shadows over her face. She looks down into the 'abyss' and smiles.)


See? This isn't so scary.

It's actually kind of easy when I feel this light.

(She takes another deep, invigorating breath that reaches her toes.)


My life is about to get really interesting.

(She jumps. There are a few long moments of silence following her exit before lights fade to black.)

End

Hannagan - Story Snippet

Hannagan took her cloak off and swung it over a chair back, then rested a hand upon it.  From above the rim of  her sunglasses, ruby-colored eyes floated about as she took in the scene. It was just an empty in a nondescript sort of way, lacking in any kind of personality that she could see.  With the hand that held her long cigarette, she pushed her glasses back in place, fit the cigarette in her mouth, and a flare preceded the smoke she quickly pulled into her lungs. She pushed her long, cherry red hair out of her face, relishing in the first, smooth drag she’d had all day. “What comes after, the chick or the smell of rot,” She sang in an under-breath as she exhaled. If nobody was expected back at the office, then nobody would mind if she lit up. Not that she was really considering caring about what any of the occupants of the building felt. She, after all, was among those who wanted them dead. And if not dead, than she’d settle for really, really gone.  

However, this would require that somebody be home.

               “Wince,” She called in her high contralto. A heartbeat or two passed before she heard the soft flack of Winston’s patent leather shoes on the cheap linoleum. She closed her eyes and sucked on her cigarette. He walked into the room like a small whirlwind, his own dark cloak billowing about his ankles as he stopped before her, removing his fedora. From the tone of his stance, she knew he had found much of the same as she.

               “Nothing.” He told her. Hannagan blew the smoke above his head, which was about a foot below her own. She was not a short woman, nor was he a tall man.

               “They must have known we were coming, then.” She finally said.

               He sighed. “I think they had known for a while. I don’t feel any warmth from this place at all.”

               “And the lack of pictures makes it all so drab and dull, I don’t know why we left our party for this wreck.” Through her glasses, Hannagan checked his expression. His face was a bore.

               “Yet, I was so sure we had found them.” He said quietly.

               “It was a stupid lead, and we both knew it.” She scolded. He didn’t take the bait.

               “Well, we’ll have to burn that source. He must have known what we were after…”

               “Like I said, Wince, that guy didn’t have brains of his own.  

               “We couldn’t have stopped them, anyway. There were too many.” He conceded.

               “Don’t say that!” Hannagan reprimanded. “Don’t underestimate us like that.”

               “I’m not underestimating, I’m being realistic. This isn’t a battle we would have strolled through.”

               “But that doesn’t mean we couldn’t have beat them.”

               “In an office building? I thought the plan was to get them to a park.”

               “Yes, but you said, ‘the element of surprise is indispensable..’”

               “And it is, when there are people for whom the surprise is intended.”

               “So why would our boy lead us astray, I wonder.” Hannagan switched gears, taking a stroll about the room and lighting another cigarette. Winston ignored the way she curved as she walked. “He could have been one of two things: a) too scared of them to give us real information, or b) another memory-altered idiot planted there to give us misinformation.”

               “Perhaps it’s all a trap, Hanny. Have you considered that this all may be an elaborate trap?”

                “You’d smell a trap, Wince.” She cooed, and touched his nose. “Don’t put yourself down like that. And quit being paranoid; it’s unnatractive on you.”

               Winston fixed his eyes on the gray, moldy carpet in an effort to hide the reddening of his cheeks. Hannagan let him think that he had succeeded. He was so cute when he tried to hide things from her.

               “What I find strangest is that this address just happens to be unused.”

               “But it isn’t unused, Hanny, there’s furniture. And machines—even telephone lines.” Winston held up a phone chord as proof.

               “But no evidence of people. Tell me: have you seen any refrigerators? Any water coolers? Anything that would indicate that people might work here for stretches of time in a day?”

               “Hm. Yes. And you’ve already pointed out the lack of personal effects.”

               “I thank you.”

               “But what do you think it means?” Winston’s opalescent eyes begged hers.

               “I don’t know, I’m only saying that it’s strange to make an office and then not put people in it.”

               “You’re right, it just doesn’t make any sense.”

               “And why would it? It’s not like these people get off on giving us the run-around or anything.”

               “Quite right.”

               “You know, I’m starting to think this place isn’t as dead as an end as we were thinking.”

               “I’m starting to feel that, too.”

               “Right. So it isn’t just me?”

               “Well, the point isn’t what might have been, the point is that they’ve already left.”

               “But they haven’t won, ye—”

               “Hanny, they might as well have, this was supposed to be our last chance!” Winston’s opalescent eyes, as they glared up at her, harbored hints of orange. Hannagan knew what orange meant, and she paused for a few draughts to ponder on it. He gave her her silence, during which he sighed and dropped his eyes away, resolving to glare at the open door he had come through. This left Hannagan staring at the side brim of his hat, where a bit of ash had fallen. She reached her hand out to brush it off, and Winston’s arm whipped around reflexively to block her. She grabbed the rouge hand, all but biting back her power to keep from burning him. They locked eyes, surprised. His were wide, but back to their normal pearlescense.

               “I’m sorry, Han, I—“ he tried to get his arm back from her, but her grip held firm and hot. Her glasses had slipped off the bridge of her nose. Her eyes were glazed over, and he knew he was in trouble.

               “Hannagan.” He breathed, hoping her name might bring her back. But he knew the signs—the forgotten cigarette on the office floor, the labored breathing, all together with the eyes—she was about to have another vision.

               Either a vision, or an aneurysm.

               Winston swallowed back the bad taste in his mouth, and attempted to steady her tall frame with his free arm. Meanwhile, the pain in the arm she held was becoming harder to bear with a straight face. Even though Winston knew she wasn’t aware of him in this state, he still wouln’t give her the knowledge of his pain. This was soon to become a futile effort.

               Hannagan cried out unintelligibly—it was a guttural sound. Her other hand  clenched the material of her dress at her stomach, the black and glittering cloth shook as her hand trembled there. This was followed by several sharp intakes of breath, and a final, tortured moan. Winston felt her sway on her feet, and tried to bend her to the ground before she took them both for a tumble. With her next, labored breath, her knees buckled, and she fell with him onto the hard linoleum.

               “Hannagan!” came Winston’s yelp, but it fell again on deaf ears.