"Colossal Head" by Westward Ho

            (A foolish individual, THE SOOTHSAYER, is seated near a large bowl of fruit.)

THE SOOTHSAYER

Yet again, humankind strove too hard and builded unto the Lord a colossal head, so that they might remind Him of shared likeness.

            (THE SOOTHSAYER picks up a piece of fruit.)

                   THE SOOTHSAYER (Continued)

But the head got unmoored and rolled through the town square like a ferocious orange.

            (THE SOOTHSAYER lets the fruit slip from his hand.  It bounces along the floor.)

            THE END

"Last Supper" by Westward Ho

            (As the NARRATOR speaks, FIGURES act out the story---the two women, the
            grim goblin, and the ghostly death-ship.)

NARRATOR

The sign called out, “Eats,”
So in walked Inez and Julie
And Death was their waiter.
            No, not Ptomaine,
            Nor Trichinosis---
            Just grisly old Death,
His grin fifty cubits wide by thirty cubits high,
The perfect ark for transporting souls to Hell.

            (Brimstone.)

            THE END

"Mrs. Ho"

WESTWARD

Lately, my audience has wondered if I have a mother ---

MRS. HO

You do ---

WESTWARD

And they wonder, if I have a mother ---

MRS. HO

You do ---

WESTWARD

If she, also, writes plays short and strange.

            (Pause.)

                    WESTWARD (Continued)

Mother?

MRS. HO

I've seldom put pen to paper.  Really, I prefer flowers on porcelain.

WESTWARD

Have you considered?

MRS. HO

I could try my hand at a play.  It won't be soon.  Sunny is coming from the provinces; and there's work to do.  And I haven't picked the color for my window box yet.

WESTWARD

But you'll write a play?

MRS. HO

            (Thinks)

Everything happens eventually.  When I write this . . . play, as you call it --- where do I put it?

            THE END

"Strain" by Westward Ho

            (A WOMAN dirties up the place.  She is speaking to---I don’t know, someone.)

WOMAN

I think your problem is that everything is always too clean.  Too nettoyé, as the French might say.

---

Why would you --- ?

WOMAN

For your own good.  There’s something enticing, yes:  my movements, my discordant motherliness.  Get off that pillow, so I can rumple.  Promising, yes.  Set that dish aside; I'll smash it later.  But there’s too much of . . . or not enough ---

---

Of what?

WOMAN

I don’t ---

---

Restraint?

WOMAN

Certainly not!  If anything, it could be viler --- snappingly viler.  Restraint, no.  But strain . . .

---

Strain?

WOMAN

I don’t know against what.  Hand me that filth.

---

Look at me.  Look in my eyes.  Why don’t you choke on your --- ?

WOMAN

Really ---

---

And get the hell out of my salon!

WOMAN

            (Arched eyebrow)
Salon?

---

Parlor.

WOMAN

            (Arched eyebrow)
Parlor?  And you criticize my nettoyé?
            (Yawns)

---

Get the hell out!

WOMAN

            (Arched eyebrow)
My my.

---

            (Fuming)
I mean it.

WOMAN

The problem is that we’re here in the first place.

            THE END