Mr. Burns and Other Plays. Anne Washburn
(Continuing): where I thought it had failed to ignite: the connection was miswired, the fuse fizzled, the material misincorporated, or just too old. I was, in those microseconds, violently alive. But microseconds pile up, and eventually we came to the end of them.
RUTHIE: What are you learning? Moods? Plants?
THE NON-PROPHET: Some of the Big Kids—
ALL: We were overcome with signs
BARUCH: Their bodies dazzled in the morning
Gunpowder and stars.
Blackout.
A BRIEF PLAY ABOUT THE END
PRODUCTION HISTORY
The Small was produced by Clubbed Thumb (Maria Striar, Artistic Director) in Summerworks 2010 at the Ohio Theatre in New York City. It was directed by Les Waters. The set design was by Louisa Thompson, the costume design was by Kirche Leigh Zeile, the lighting design was by Jane Cox, the sound design was by Bray Poor, and the music was by Dave Malloy; the production stage manager was Colleen M. Sherry. The cast was:
| DUNCAN | Matthew Maher |
| LEAH | Maria Dizzia |
| MARC | Gideon Banner |
| WALT | Dave Malloy |
| LORI | Susan Pourfar |
THESE ARE THE PEOPLE IN THE PLAY
| DUNCAN | a man, in his forties |
| LEAH | a woman, in her early thirties |
| MARC | a man, in his early thirties |
| WALT | a man, in his forties |
| LORI | a woman, in her mid-thirties |
NOTES ON NOTATION
Words or phrases in square brackets are thought/implied, but not said.
Sentences which don’t end in periods are thoughts which have come to a close but not been entirely concluded or dropped.
A slash ( / ) indicates the moment when the next line begins.
Long sections of text with minimal punctuation are not an invitation to speed forward.
NOTE ON MUSIC
Dave Malloy contributed many of the lyrics to “They Said What’s That Coming . . .”
THE SMALL
The small birds swirl around
the high cicadas chirr
a towhee pecks the ground
I look at the first star
My heart held to its joy
This whole September day
The moon goes to the full
the moon goes slowly down
The wood becomes a wall
Far things draw closer in
the wind moves through the grass
then all is as it was
What rustles in the fern?
I feel my flesh divide
things lost in sleep return
as if out of my side
on feet that make no sound
over the sodden ground
The small shapes drowse—I live
to woo the fearful small
What moves in grass I love—
the dead will not lie still
And things throw light on things
and all the stones have wings.
—Theodore Roethke
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