Moments
of Mr. Penn

by Chad Yang



Moment One: Talking to Faith in Times of Despair

There was a small child on a hill in the plains, standing in the tall
grass. It was stormy, but there was no rain, only violent winds that caused
the grass to ripple. It tore at the child�s long ragged shirt, but he
didn't seem to notice.
He was talking to someone, and if one could look closely in the direction
the child was looking, it might be possible to make out a faint glow, the
form of a woman.
"What is your name?" the woman asked.
"My name is in the past, and I dare not think about that which has been,
for the more I remember, the more I want to forget."
"Where are the other people?"
"Where is no one here anymore. Once there were many, but they have all left
for a better place," said the child.
"Why are you still here?"
"It is my fate to be here, and I shall fulfill it."
"When will you leave?"
"I shall never. I love this place, and I shall protect that which I love,
else there would be no meaning to what I do."
"Can you live on?"
"I live in the future and the future is unknown. I shall make it so."
"Can I trust you?"
"I have nothing to lie for, nothing to lose."
"Thank you," said the specter, and with a gust of wind, she dematerialized
in front of the child's eyes.
The child looked up at the sky.
"I remember your name. I have lost you once, and I shall never lose you
again."	



Moment Two: Through the Storm

�In our village, there is a tale of a fire demon who used his flames to
kill the evil and save the good. In the end, however, it was not his flames
that killed the evil and not his flames that saved the good, for the evil
killed the evil and the good saved the good. His flames burned nothing, and
killed no-one, and all he succeeded in doing was make himself sadder than
he had ever been before. There is nothing we can do to save him now, for he
has condemned himself for what he has done. All we can do is wait . . .
wait until he sees the light."

At twilight, the sky was clear, the storm having passed. There was a puddle
next to the wall at the edge of the village. A child squatted looking at
it. With a stick, he made a cloud of mud, then watched it settle back,
revealing a stone. He stopped, and looked up. In the distance, he heard a
sort of a padding sound, and he saw that there was a man on the road
crossing the fields. The man had stopped as well, and was standing next to
the end of the wall. The boy studied the man, unable to decide whether to
greet him or to run away. Certainly his attire was strange; the man had a
soiled cloth covering the bottom half of his face, and equally soiled
clothing plastered to his skin by the wind and the rain. The sleeves and
the pant-legs of the man�s clothing were baggy, and as for the pattern, the
boy couldn�t make it out. The man had only his right arm! The boy tried to
see the eyes of the man, but a hood blocked the twilight from illuminating
the face, and the boy was scared. The man started again, walking towards
him this time. The boy closed his eyes, hoping that this was not a bandit
come to rob his family of what money they had. He felt a tingle as a hand
landed upon his shoulder, and now he dared not to open his eyes, for fear
of their meeting with those of a monster. The tingle that the touch had
caused was now replaced with a warmth, radiating through the thin cloth of
his shirt.
�Do you know where the Chens live, boy?"
The boy opened his eyes, and now he saw that the man had eyes like any
other person he had known.
�Y. . .Yes."
�Show me."
The boy pointed to a house down the road, and the man walked past him. He
turned around slowly. The man walked on. The boy held back for a moment,
and when he was sure that the man was no longer looking at him, he
followed. The man faced the doors of the house and ripped down the piece of
paper that sealed it. He opened them and passed through into the courtyard.
The boy ran to the tree next to the house and climbed up to a spot at which
almost everything done in the house could be seen. He looked down. The man
stood alone, surveying the yard and the surrounding rooms. He walked
forward, across the yard, and opened a pair of wooden doors. The boy tilted
his head so that he could see what was inside. It was a table, a table like
the one his family had in the same room of their house. The man walked up
to the table and picked up something that looked like a wooden tablet. He
dusted it off, and the boy saw that it was engraved. He couldn�t read, but
he guessed that it was a name. It had to be, for that was the only kind of
thing he had ever seen engraved. The man set it standing up, then walked
back down into the courtyard and kneeled. He removed the cloth from his
face and pulled back the hood. The boy looked in surprise, for the man�s
hair was completely white, whiter than that of any old man he had ever
seen. What surprised him even more was the fact that the man�s face was
young, almost with an adolescent appearance. The man was crying.
�It is all gone . . . none is left . . . I have destroyed them."
There was a new voice, the voice of the boy�s father. 
�I knew you would come today. It is the same day you left, thirty-two years
ago."
The man turned. The father took off his foreign hat and stood at the door
waiting as the man studied him. 
�Shih-Lang? At the capital, they say that you retired as a scholar. You�ve
changed . . ."
�Yes, and you haven�t changed a bit. Where have you been?"
The man looked down.
�I couldn�t find any job . . . I entered the army. . . fought . . . fought
in the opium war. The foreign devils had these things called guns, and they
sent a shower of metal pellets at us. I was lucky . . . I was only hit in
the arm. Those who fought with me in the front line were killed, their
heads . . . smashed like melons before my eyes. I escaped from the army,
and wherever I went, I saw those who were kind to me killed . . . all
because of me . . . they do not treat those who abandon well. They hunt
them down. They . . . actually like doing it." The man was sobbing now,
shaking violently.
�I�ve heard about the foreigners and their strange weapons, and I�m sorry,"
the boy�s father said feebly. �I�m very, very sorry."
And both were silent for a very long moment.
�What�s happened to my family? Where are they?"
The boy�s father was quiet for a moment.
". . . Two of your brothers have moved. Two died of diseases in their
organs, I don�t know which ones . . ."
�What of my father? Is he with my brothers?"
�How old do you think he is?"
�Eighty."
�Yes. He�d be in bed with a lung disease."
�He�s dead? Is he dead?" Tears fell anew. The man looked shocked, as if his
fears were proven to be true. �I have killed him . . ."
�It wasn�t you who killed him. You did right to beat the rich man�s son.
The fool was going to spread rumors if your father didn�t give him money
for his women and his opium. After you left, the rich man apologized to
your father for his son�s behavior. You shouldn�t feel ashamed of yourself,
for it hadn�t been you, the rich man might have never learned of what his
son did when he was not around. After that event, he kicked his son out of
the house, leaving him to die in the streets. He did it in shame, but he
did not regret it."
On the man�s face was an expression of surprise. And slowly, he brushed his
tears aside, and the line of his mouth curled into a slight, humble smile.
The man kneeled again and bowed his head.
�Thank you. Thank you for telling me this. Thank you for telling me that he
who killed my father is not I. Thank you."
�It is but the truth, and anyone who knows the truth will be willing to
tell it."
The boy�s father left the yard, and the man still knelt. The boy came down
from his perch in the tree and raced after his father.
�Father, who is that man?"
The father smiled and put his hat back on.
�He is one who has walked through a storm more violent than any that you
have ever seen . . . and have survived to see the sunlight."



Moment Three: Roommate

That morning, he left. I knew he was going to, and it turned out that he
did. I was roommates with him, and the night before, after I�d blown out
the candles on the little counter between our beds, he�d told me of his
plans. He really didn�t have any. He said he was going off on a journey, to
where, he didn�t know. He said going to start out by foot and go in a
straight line from the dormitory. He said that he was going to pay for his
travels by writing whenever he got to a city. I don�t know if he could
manage to do that, but, with him, anything�s possible. He�s always wanted
to be an author; it�s his dream. Yes, he�s very talented. He�s won awards
for his writing three years in a row, and that�s something no one else in
this school has ever done. He�s a legend. I thought he would make it, so I
supported him. He was tired of the boarding school, tired of seeing the
same old faces again for four or five years. He wanted to go home, but of
course none of us has a home to go back to, else we wouldn�t be here. He
took the next best thing; run away. He wanted out. He certainly deserved
it, for there was no way he could do any better in this school. He was not
at the top; he was the top. He set the school standard, and he couldn�t
bear the stress of doing so anymore. That was why he left.
Our room was one of those poor deprived rooms in the second class
dormitories that the government lent out to orphanages and boarding schools
as charity. It was nice enough, better than some I�ve seen. The floorboards
were whole at least. Not to mention polished. Even so, the fact that the
walls hadn�t been cleaned and the windows dusted took something from it.
The fact that these things hadn�t been done for years took something more.
The fact that we didn�t have curtains as all the other boys in the dorm did
added the final touches. The janitors only bothered as far as the floor. It
was quite bright that morning, on a account of the light reflecting off the
snow. That why I knew that he was already up when I woke that morning,
fully dressed while I was still in my pajamas. And not in his normal
clothing either. I don�t know where he got it, but he had this ridiculously
large trench-coat on. It appeared to me that he was wearing a fine suit
underneath because he has this bad habit of never wearing a tie except when
was he was wearing a suit to match it, and here he was wearing this fine
tie that I didn�t even have the money to buy. I think he must have saved
his allowance up for a long time in order to buy it, but considering the
fact that we only get a thru-pence piece each month, he must�ve not spent
anything for well over a year. That�s how serious he was, I thought at the
time.
�I�m going," he�d said.
There was no one else up, so I didn�t bother to dress. Barefoot, I
descended the old Victorian stairs we had down to the first floor main
hallway, then walked down hall to the door. It was cold that morning, my
mistake not to have changed out of my pajamas. So there we went, him first
and me following. I remember hearing the clank, clank, clank of his boots
against the old oak floor. They were the loudest sounds in the world, and I
still wonder why no one else woke up. He�d carried his old derby on his
chest door, and now he put it on. Umbrella in hand, and without anything
else, he�d opened the door. The cold wind sent shivers up my spine. The
coldest month of the year, and here I was in my pajamas, facing the north
wind. 
�You really going to leave?" I asked.
�Yes."
�I wish you luck."
�Thank you."
�Goodbye."
�Good bye."
I�d known him for six years now, and I�d thought that perhaps my friendship
with him had lightened up somewhat on the emotional level, but tears came
to my eyes when I saw him smile that smile of his. He turned and left.
Maybe because I was too busy concentrating on my sadness, I forgot how cold
it was. I looked out on to the field in front of the boarding house. It was
completely barren but for a couple of bushes that didn�t have any leaves
even in the spring. He walked towards the distant fences, leaving a trail
of deep prints in the snow behind him. 
He�d lied. He hadn�t been planning to do what he had told me he was going
to do. He was almost at the fences before he looked back at me again. He
smiled and took a book out of his coat, then turning away again, he threw
it out as if expecting it to fly and flutter away like a bird. To my
surprise, it did. And, he, he just looked up at the book and followed it.
He kept on walking, leaving the ground, going up higher and higher, farther
and farther, until all I could see were two black dots above the white
horizon.
 I never saw him again. I don�t know what became of him or where he is now,
but if I could get my hands on him now, I�d strangle him for leaving me
behind. And you know something? Somehow, when I say that, I don�t feel mad
at him at all. Sometimes during the winter I go out for long walks. I go
out on the moor where nobody lives, and I just stay there for hours and
hours until I can barely make out a faint distant voice.
�I�ll remember you."


Moment Four: Clockwork

In this town, there is a district of old houses; houses that have survived
the passing of the ages, and have seen everything imaginable. Tonight, a
man in a trench-coat walks down the cobblestone streets and finds himself
in the silence in an abandoned city. There, he finds a toyshop. He takes
off his derby hat and peeks in . . .

There was a time, long ago, when a person had only to worry about himself
and his family. There was no greed in the hearts of men, and nor was there
sorrow to wet their eyes. A golden age had come, and the people knew it,
for all of them had memories of pain. They knew that they should be
thankful for what they had, and they were. They also knew that, inevitably,
the golden age would end, and it did. It was at this time that the owner of
the toyshop first came to this city.
Now, he was no different than any other young man, and he acted no
differently. He tried to perfect his trade, and lived, in doing so, very
poorly. This was not due, in any way whatsoever, to the fact that he was
inexperienced at making toys, for he showed in the making of his toys a
spark of what one may call genius. Though the toys he made were but crude
ones of metal and wood, they seemed to possess lives of their own. 
These toys were famous indeed, and even the rich went at lengths to acquire
them. However, such a status given to his toys gave him nothing, and though
his toys were wonderful, he had not much a concept of trade. Those who
tried to get a hold of his creations only thought good of them. As for who
made them, they didn�t care. Here was a man who could only be referred to
as either being too kind, too foolish, or both. He gave most of his toys
away to the poor, and made barely enough to pay his rent, his taxes, and
money for his food and the parts of his toys. In short, he had nothing of
spare to spend on his own whims and his wife�s, if indeed they had any
whims but to make toys.
But they didn�t need whims, for they felt that living life as they did was
right. They were as content as any young couple could be, happily going
through their lives without ever caring about how they were treated by
others and how much money they had. How was this so? How did they manage to
do this? The answer is very simple. They were happy for the fact that they
could bring happiness to every child they saw. They spent all their skill
to bring back the laughter in who they thought deserved it. They gave the
best of their toys to those poor waifs who would otherwise never have any
happiness, and never cared how others thought of these actions. The monthly
income of their shop could only be written in smiles.
He perfected his skill in making toys as the years went past, and slowly,
the toys that had once but appeared to be alive became alive. Exotic
creatures that could only have been seen in dreams previously now came to
life. And he was happy, for not only could he but bring the laughter of
children now, he could bring life back to those who were resolved to end
it. He lived in a dream.
Even though the perfection of his skills was indeed a grand thing, he had
another dream; to create a wonderful toy. It was to be a most intricate, a
human child without human parent, but human in every way except what it was
made of. It wasn�t to be just a mockery of life; it was to be life, a
creature to live as their child. He began to work on it, but because he was
so busy, he could only complete a little each night, never being able to
finish.
Every day, he and his wife worked until they could work no longer. They
visited orphanages, hospitals, and gave alms to the poor. Where there was
death, they brought life; where there was disease, they brought health;
where there was blindness, they brought sight. Though the gifts themselves
were never permanent, the things that the gifts did for the children were.
They didn�t perform miracles; they just cast misery away. This was deemed
miraculous. 
Then his wife fell sick. When the toy-maker knew that there was no cure, he
closed the shop and began completing the toy on a bit of saved money, so
that he would at least be able to show it to his wife before she died. And
then that he realized he had never really done anything for himself. He
wouldn�t be able to go on like this forever. So he began working to finish
his creation. He toiled on it, every day for a year, and at last he was
completely satisfied with what he had, finding no reason and no way to
modify it. Then he showed it to his wife.
�Marian. This is our child," he said. �Do you like her?"
She saw it. And she cried.
�Thank you. Thank you."
What had he gained in return for the years he had spent on children?
Nothing but the perfection of his art, and the eternal happiness of knowing
that, though he had no son or daughter, his name and faith would not die
with him. What he believed in would go on with his child. And what was his
child? His blood and flesh.

In a rundown tenement of this district, there is a shop, a quaint beautiful
one, with its windows forever lit. Within the window, the man sees toys,
all made so fine as to be alive. And the door opens and the bells jingle. 
�All are welcome," says the woman in the doorway.
�Thank you."
�Who might you be?"
�Just a writer."
Both smile. The snow is warm.



Moment Five: The city becomes still.
A very short play
Actually a Choral piece with some Choreography

by Chad Yang

Cast
A Choir of 32 People:
(32 preferable, but 16 possible, in which case choral sections should have
four people each.)
Eight Bases
Eight Tenors
Eight Altos
Eight Sopranos

One Speaker, a member of the Choir

Stage
The City:
Foreground in front of Background.
The foreground set: Black silhouettes of various buildings. The set shall
stretch the length of the whole stage. The set shall be lit in the by a dim
light behind the foreground set.
The background set: A white backing stretching the length of the whole
stage. 
Props optional. Dress casually.

There shall be eight groups. Each one shall improvise chatter until the
spotlight assigned to them is turned off. When the lights turn off, they
shall sing or hum the note assigned to their section, listed as follows.

Do for Bases
Mi for Tenors
So for Altos
Ti for Sopranos

The groups shall be separated as stated below.

Group I is Bases
Group II is Sopranos
Group III is Tenors
Group IV is Altos
Group V is Bases
Group VI is Sopranos
Group VII is Tenors
Group VIII is Altos

The groups shall be scattered so that none of the groups are adjacent to
another group of the same section. Once a group starts singing, they will
continue singing until the last group has sung for two minutes, making a
very gradual crescendo, then a decrescendo until only a hiss remains.
Lights will turn off by order of group.


The play will last for fifteen minutes, longer depending on the detail and
length of the improvisation.
The Speaker shall be male, dressed in a black trench-coat and long, formal,
black pants, wearing a derby hat. At the end of the singing, he shall step
out from the choir to the middle of the stage and start his paragraph.

Speaker: 
�It was another world, shadowy, white, and above all, silent. The city�s
silence however, was only the solidification of all its countless sounds,
fused by mass and distance. Against a background of viscous blue, towers
rose like bone. Volumes of unheard sound lifted from among them and floated
up, channeled and directed to a place unknown, where it would be received
as a dense static, a hissing, a white noise, like surf. The light, too,
would compress upon a distant shore. As steadily as a machine, the city
signaled its existence in a spectrum of low thunder, with arms outstretched
to the future, and memories of what lay ahead pulling it in omnipotent
traction."
						�page 268 of Winter�s Tale, by Mark Helprin.

(Note)
I love this paragraph. This �play" was my attempt to show its power.



Moment Six: Dawn

The sun was setting upon the waters of the Strait as I approached. The old
man looked up. I sat down next to him.
�Sorry that I�m late. How long have you been here?"
�A long, long time."
�Sorry."
�No, you shouldn�t be. I like it here."
�You�re here often?"
�Yes."
�Why here? To look at the sea?"
�To meet old friends."
�Your friends come here too?"
�You can put it that way."
". . . Well, it�s like this . . ."
He stops me.
�Before you ask me any questions, answer this one."
He pulled an old, stained, black-and-white photograph out of an equally
ancient album and showed it to me. Three young men were standing on a beach
at sunset, a beach bearing a close semblance with that which we faced from
the ledge our bench was on. This struck me as strange. Why didn�t the
camera have any problems with the exposure? It was a sunset this picture
was of, and the picture itself must have been taken more than fifty years
ago! I couldn�t imagine how much skill was involved in it�s creation!
�When I was young, I wanted to become a photographer. Bad choice of
profession, I have to admit, but I was young then and had no way of
knowing. No, I wasn�t involved in the war. I�ve been a �civilian' all my
life. I came to Taiwan at twenty to start a business with three of my
friends, and I�ve been here ever since. I took that photograph for them."
�Are they the friends you referred to earlier?"
�Yes. But we never really got that business started, and we were stranded
here without money. Eventually, we split up, went our own ways. I lost
track of where they�d gotten to by the third year we had separated. They�d
probably returned home, but I didn�t think so." He pauses for a moment,
then says, �Never mind about all that now. This is my question: where do
you think this photograph was taken?"
I thought for a moment.
". . . Did you take it here?"
�No. I took it on the east coast. Tricked you, didn�t I?"
I examined the photograph again. He must�ve taken this at dawn!
�On the east coast?" 
�Yes."
 As I began to look away, the watch on my left wrist caught my attention.
It was five-thirty, and I decided to hurry up. I began to speak.
�Okay, now I can start . . ."
�Don�t bother," he said, interrupting me.
He appeared a bit tired, a bit older, and his words were slower than they
had been before.
�Excuse me?"
�Don�t bother interviewing me."
�Why?"
�My life story isn�t worth telling. It�s just like anybody else�s; long,
boring, and pointless. Today, I�ve told you all that�s happened to me
that�s worth telling; everything that I�ve learned."
�Huh?"
�Do you know why I asked you that question, the one about the photograph?"
�No. Why?"
�So that you would think of the sunset."
�What?"
�The point is this: every end is just the beginning of something else. It
was this knowledge that drove me on through that despair I experienced when
my friends' fruit store failed. It was this that made me feel happy when
I�d lost track of them. Why? Because I was sure they had gone through the
sadness of loss and come out on the other side, just as I had. I was
right."
�You met them again?"
�Yes, and what a surprise! We met at a meeting, all four of us eminent
representatives of our companies. Amazing coincidence, but it does go to
prove that nothing ever truly ends. No �end' can ever be truly recognized
as an end at the moment it happens, just like in that photograph. A moment
frozen still by the camera, containing a sun on the horizon does not
necessarily have to be a sunset. We just perceive it that way. It might
even be a picture of dawn, for all we know. You should never perceive
things as they are in a single moment. You have to perceive them as they
will be in times to come."
He replaces the photograph and closes the album. He stands up and looks at
me, throwing his business suit across his shoulder.
�Sorry if you didn�t get the interview you wanted. You�re not going to
write all that down are you? Trust me. It won�t be interesting."
". . . Maybe . . ."
He paused and looked at me for a moment, and then he smiled. 
�Good luck."
�Thanks."
He left me at the bench, leaving me to look at the sunset. I looked.
Perhaps it was dawn.



Moment Seven: Preacher

Grandfather sat in the second bed, waiting. And I was waiting as well. The
nurses had asked us to keep the lights on during the day, but we hadn�t
bothered. The walls were bleached, and with the lights on, staying in the
room would be blindingly painful. The disinfectant was bad enough. We
didn�t need to turn on the lights. More correctly, we weren�t in the mood
to turn on the lights.
Silently, the door opened. A man in a trench-coat entered. He walked over
to the bedside table, pulled the small stool from under it, and sat down.
He took off his hat and laid it on his lap, alongside the umbrella he�d
been carrying.
�Are you the preacher?" asked my grandfather.
�You can call me that."
�You look like a good man." My grandfather smiled.
�I hope not."
It was a joke, but there was no laughter in the man�s voice. My grandfather
looked down, the smile still on his face, overshadowed by his head. A tear
dropped on to the sheets, leaving a small wet spot.
�I am not," said my grandfather.
�How do you know?"
�A good man does not fear death. He does not question destiny. He does not
question the fate of his soul. He need not worry about burning in the
depths of hell, for even if that is where he will go, the flames will never
burn him. Yet I fear. I question. I worry. That is proof enough."
". . . Do you really believe that?"
�Yes."
�I fear as well."
My grandfather looked at him.
�What did you say?"
�I said, �I fear as well.��
�Why?"
�The difference between the good man and the bad man is slight. Both will
take just as many blows delivered to them; both will burn in hell, but only
the bad man will do anything about it."
�Why? Won�t a good man do the same?"
�No, for the good man does not question his destiny; he does not worry
about what will become of him. The bad man will, for he does not want to be
stepped on, insulted."
�You mean that anyone who does anything is bad?"
�Yes. According to your definition."
�But . . . how can that be?"
�It is not."
�What do you mean?"
�Your definition is wrong."
�Wrong?"
�Yes. Let me ask you a question. What is the meaning of life?"
�To live on? I don�t know."
�To do what you want to do as well as you can do it. To leave a mark. You
are right. The good man is one who does not need to worry about what will
happen to his soul. What you�ve forgotten is the fact that there is a
reason why the good man can do that. I�ll tell you the reason. The reason
is that, no matter what happens to your soul after you have died, you will
be remembered in the hearts of those who can appreciate the mark you have
left. If you believe that what you have done is righteous, then you need
not worry, for you will not die. It is the memories of others that make one
immortal."
�But why then do you fear?"
�All beings fear. If ever a creature upon this earth stopped fearing, it
would be no different than its construct of molecules. It is fear that
makes the living alive. "
The man turned to look at the clock on the wall.
�I must be leaving now," he said.
He got up to leave the room.
�Wait," called my grandfather.
�What is it?"
�You�re not really a preacher, are you?"
�No I am not."
�You are Death."
�You can call me that." The man smiled, then left us.
Grandfather, his eyes closed, was smiling as well. Only now he wasn�t
breathing.



Moment Eight: The Forest

Amidst the trees of another age, 
another place, another time,
there blows a breeze, 
a breeze that cools the soul 
like a wind off the sea. 
In the moments before dawn, 
a wind blows upon my face,
Here, 
you can let it blow into your face 
without feeling the discomfort of watchers. 
Here, 
you can let it rinse your spirit clean
and never shall any question of your conduct.
and I, in the lonely darkness, 
remember the trees to be young.
Stillness dominates the corridors of wood, 
in the gaps and the paths of this forest, 
and no matter where you go, 
all you�ll hear is your own breath. 
Dawn breaks, and brings a sparkle of life.
In the stillness, I breathe and smile again.
Perhaps you�ve been here before, 
known the forest and walked its walks,
perhaps not, 
but I�ll tell you of it. 
I�ve been here before, I know what comes.
Mustn�t be fooled, for come another dawn,
It is the forest of the past, 
the forest that continually ceases to exist. 
This too shall be but a memory,
never to return, a distant dream.
Shadows and their steeds 
dance in forgotten groves here, 
in slow, perpetual motions 
that hold the darkness spellbound 
by its own essence. 
The shadows of the past dance away.
I seek to forget, but how?
The trees listen as the breeze, 
almost a wind now, breaks in tides, 
and they hear as it sweeps 
invisible leaves 
through the gaps between the trees.
I know not, and nor do the trees.
They stand there, listening to the wind,
This is the forest.
awaiting the coming of a new age,
not to be eroded by the sands of time. 
The forest that lives on in the hearts of men, 
where nothing will ever touch it.
There are no rights here.
No wrongs. No lies.
The truth that all men hope will never change
and, as long as they hope so, will never.
Only a truth that I know not.
Do you?



Moment Nine: Death Sentence

A grassy hill. The light is bright. You see only silhouettes. That of a
man; he is thin, very slight, a young man. A figure beside him; shorter,
hunchbacked. You cannot tell if it is a man or a woman. The figure limps
along slowly, the man helping. Behind them, the sky is orange, fading to a
dark red as you look up. The clouds are glowing, brighter than the sky
itself. 
There is another silhouette. A larger man; tall, muscular. He is walking
briskly, his face down. He bumps into the shorter figure as he passes them.
He stops, turns about, and points to the short figure, now lying upon the
ground. He says something. The younger man says something. The larger man
punches him in the face. He falls back. The larger man takes out something
. . . a pistol. He points it to the short figure. Pulls the trigger. 
There is a crack. Blood stains the grass.

"What is your name?"
"That's none of your business."
". . ."
". . ."
"You know you'll have to do time if you don't."
"So what if I do?"
"If you do, there is a chance of us being able to rescue you from that."
"A chance? I'll take a chance then."
"Please! We're trying to help you!"
". . ."
"Are you aware that there's a death penalty in this province?"
"Yes."
"Don't you even regret what you've done?"
". . . No."
". . . You are guilty of two murders, one of your mother. What are you
going to do?"
". . . Nothing. Nothing at all."
". . . I cannot help you if you do not cooperate."
". . ."
". . ."
". . . Comrade? Have you ever looked at the sky?"
The "Comrade" in the derby hat sighed. He signed for the guard to come.

You are seeing the silhouette again. The younger man is kneeling upon the
ground, looking at the shorter figure. His shoulders are slack, as if
everything he had was now lost. The tall man threw the pistol down and
walked away. 
The younger man sat still for a while, then slowly got up. He picked up the
dropped pistol. Pointed it at the man. Pulled. The first shot missed.
Pulled again. His body jerks back.
The tall man falls to the ground.
The younger man's arms fall. He lets them hang at his side. The pistol
slips from his fingers. A sparkle falls from his face. A tear wets the
ground beside him.
"Waaaaaaah!"
The sky above him is dark red.

"Do you have any last words?"
"Yes."
"Say them. They will be recorded."
"Mother used to tell me that when good people die, they go up into the
heavens. I am sorry for her, because I will never accomplish that. I hope
that whereever she is, she will not be lonely. She is with father now. I
hope that is enough. I will never be there to accompany her."
Silence.
"Are you finished?"
"Yes."

You are looking at the younger man's face. It is no longer a silhouette.
His face is bright in the sunlight. He is smiling.
Look into his eyes. They are strong; hard as diamond, soft as cotton. 
The rifles crack.


File Subject: 	23076
Charge: 		Assasination of Provincial Military Police, Sergeant Pingh.
			Murder of subject's mother
Plead:		Guilty
Sentence:		Death

"Who was he?"
"A prisoner."
"What was he in for?"
"Killing his mother and an MP officer."
"I see."
"Can you believe it? His last words were for his mother."
"Some people are so shameless."

Moment Ten: Dance in Delirium

"Elder sister. Sister? Where are we going? Who was that man? Why is he
chasing us? Why? . . . Please! My hand hurts, sister. Please don't pull so
hard! . . . Sister! Please don't run! Mommy! Daddy! They're still there! In
the house! Why are we leaving Mommy behind? Why did we have to leave by the
back door? What do the men want with us? Why did they point to us with the
metal rods? . . . Sister! . . . What was that sound? Thunder! It must be
thunder! But . . . but . . . but the sky . . . there are no clouds! . . .
Please sister! Let go! I want Mommy! She'll make it better! Sister! Let's
go back to Mommy! Maybe Mommy knows why! Maybe the men have gone away! . .
. Sister! No! Mommy told us never to go out of the village alone! There are
bad people out there! Mommy says that there are monsters! Please sister! .
. . Let us go back! Please! . . . The man! The man is there behind us!
Sister, he's still following us! Why is he following us! Have we done
something wrong? Is that why he's chasing us? But . . . What have we done
wrong? Did we do something to those men? Is that why they're chasing us? Is
it? . . . Sister. Sister! Please answer me! . . . Ow! Please sister! Don't
pull so hard! It hurts really bad! . . . Ow! Sister! Sister! Please don't
leave me behind! My knee! My knee is bleeding! Sister! Sister!"

My younger sister has fallen. The man is coming. I have to hurry.
We were running to fast, and now she is a distance away. The man is nearing
her. 
My heart! My heart is going to stop. It's pounding so loud. Why?
As I run back to my sister, I can hear nothing but the sound of my
heartbeat. I lose my balance and fall next to my sister. 
The man he is running too. He's coming nearer and nearer. I close my eyes.
Pound. Pound. Pound. 
Is it my heart? 
Pound. Pound. Pound.
Or is it his footsteps?
Pound. Pound. Pound.
It cannot be my heart. My heart should be faster. 
Pound. Pound. Pound. 
No one could be that slow in step.
I feel my cold sweat.
Pound. Pound. Pound.
What is it? I don't know.
The pounding stops.
I wait, my eyes squeezed shut.
Nothing happens. And still nothing. I open my eyes.
The soldier is standing above me. I see his form against the bright of the
sky, the bright of the son. I do not see his face. Only that he doesn't
have a gun. He is reaching out, ready to pull me up. 

Moment Eleven: Rainy Day

It was raining. Hard. I had made up my mind that since I could not possibly
get home with a single dry spot on me, I would get as wet as possible. It
wasn't as if it mattered.
Before me the street was blurry. Rain drops made a white mist, only I could
feel it; liquid mist. The stores were closed today, and there wasn't a
single person on the street. It was as if I were wandering about a deserted
city in a dream. I didn' t know where I was. I had come out this morning
with the single goal of getting somewhere, and I think I'd succeeded. What
in? Getting myself lost. 
I trudged on, the weight of the rain in my soaked pants making each one of
my steps slow and heavy. My shoes were soaked through, and I had the
distinct feeling that the skin on the bottom of my feet were melting,
coming off in the acid rain. Maybe not, but it is a good exercise of
imagination. Whatever the truth, it did annoy me a bit. The rain seemed to
go in and not come back out again. It got warmed by the warmth of my feet,
and it was the warmth that annoyed me. I had wanted to get completely wet.
This was not for the sake of being wet; rather, it was to embrace the
coolness of the rain. Perhaps embrace is not the right word. You cannot
embrace rain. It would fall straight between your arms. No, I was not
embracing rain. I was swimming in it. The cold of the rain cooled my soul,
washed me free of any nagging thought. That was why the warm water at my
feet annoyed me. I was not completely washed. I kept on having to step into
puddles to refill my shoes with cold water. Thank goodness the streets in
Saigon were so bumpy.
I do not know the reason, but I was feeling light hearted. Very happy. I
cannot say that I had ever felt happier in my entire life. The little
bubbly sounds that my shoes made with every new step did not in the least
way effect my state. All I thought was, "Ah, so it's not my skin floating
around in my shoe, it's the bubbles!" This silenced any argument I could
possibly have with myself. Sometimes when I remember this, I cannot help
but wonder if I have a trace of madness in my blood as well. It runs in my
family, you know. My uncle, he went mad during the war. He went out when
the bomb shells were being dropped. We never saw him again. Rain bombarded
me. I believe there are similarities. I broke into mad, maniacal laughter,
like drunk downstairs does sometimes. The laughing is hard, by extremely
light. It was as if a man was trying to laugh like a child. The harder I
laughed, the better I felt, and I laughed harder and harder.
My mother taught me to read. She has a library of really bad romance
novels, with no other purpose but to satisfy the thirsts of extremely bored
people. She taught me to read by teaching me all the words on each page,
one by one until I could read them all. In these novels, you always get a
scene where a man's lost his lover, and he goes out on to the rainy street
and cries. I really don't think that ever happens in life. Or I would have
done it three times now. No, I do not cry. I was running down the street in
the rain, the weight of the water blunting my actions. I did not know where
I was going. Only that it just felt right right then. It felt right to be
running in the rain, exposing myself to as much rain as possible. Laughing;
yelling; singing at the top of my lungs. I ran and ran and ran, not
stopping, not bothering to look around. I couldn't see a thing, for my
vision was blurred by the rain in my eyes. 
It is acid rain. For my eyes hurted. Warm liquid flowed down the side of my
cheek. Tears? Rain? It didn't matter. For at least somebody, somebody was
mourning for my sister. The sky was crying for her.
I hated myself. I hated that I cannot drop a in a time like this. Three
months previous, I turned her out because I found out because I found out
where she got her money. The day before, I had to beg in order to see her
body. And I was now running in rain laughing. I should be ashamed.