The World is Strange
(a man is sitting at an old typewriter, cigarette in hand. The ashtray on the desk
beside him is overflowing with smashed butts. Sweat drips from his brow, and he is
The world is strange. Full of strangers, full of scary thoughts. Men rape women,
children taunt one another to suicide. Miracles happen every day. People with
terminal cancer suddenly become well. Babies born 4 months premature become
leaders of American business. The world is strange.
(the man's shoulders slump. He begins typing. The keys clack very audibly. The
sound is uniform in its randomness.)
I met a woman. Many years ago. Seven, to be exact. She never leaves my mind, ever.
We've had it strange. Things happen between us, things that neither of us can
explain. I sometimes think the term for us would be soulmates, but that tastes sour
on the tongue. I've wracked my brain to figure it out, to no avail.
We live apart, in different cities. I saw her once two years ago, at a motel. We went
to dinner, and talked in the car. It was a strange time. When I left and went home,
I couldn't sleep for days. She's a drug, and I'm a life-long addict.
My mind is not good. I have had problems with depression. She is my cure. I wonder if
that's why I met her. To keep me tethered. Maybe.
(The typing stops. He puts out his cigarette and automatically lights another. The typing
The world is strange. Things change, never for the better. I had a chance to be hers,
to be her man. Her husband maybe, one day. Past tense. Had. I fucked it up. I don't
know why I did it, and I've never forgotten it. I've always, since that day, wanted her.
The world is strange. Strange indeed.
(the man stops typing once more. He ejects the paper from the typewriter and places it
on a stack next to several other papers. He butts his cigarette, stands up. Perfectly
still. After a moment, he screams and slams a fist into the desk, jarring it badly.
The papers scatter onto the floor. We see the papers, and all are blank. There's one
paper separate from these. The man picks it up and looks at it. It's a letter, the date
She wrote me this. Last week. In it she mentions how much she missed me, and how much she
wanted to see me. She had just broken up with her man. At the bottom, instead of signing with
her name, she simply wrote: "I will love you forever." When I read this, I cry.
(He drops the paper to the ground, and a single tear falls from his eye to the page, staining
She died two days ago. She was beaten by a man. I don't know the details. Maybe that's for the
best. I've had bad thoughts about that man. I bought a shotgun this morning from the pawn shop
below my apartment. He smiles a lot. I never smile. I have a piece of paper. It has a name.
(The man sits down at the desk, and lights a cigarette. It is the last in the pack. He throws
the empty container into the wastebin beside his desk.)
I will love her forever. It is all I can do.
(He stands up from his desk, in what appears to be indecision. He then goes to a closet, grabs
a long, thin object that can only be a gun from it, and puts on his hat and coat.)
The world is strange.