Randi reads a letter from her mother and confronts Shane about something he’s been hiding.
Cast
Randi Halle Millien
Shane Mark Millien
SFX and Music Contributors
SFX
Q Tone [Query]
Tone 4.wav by patchen of freesound.org
Q Tone [Response]
Tone 3.wav by patchen of freesound.org
Music
Helen’s First Letter
Sad Boy by Sizeoff of looperman.com
Created by Mark and Halle Millien
Cover Art by Halle Millien
Written, Directed and Produced by Mark Millien
Glossary
American Political Parties
Black Party the coalition that concerns the rights of people of color specifically.
Condemnics an offshoot of the religious right who traffic in conspiracy theories concerning the what and how of COVID-19.
Democrats the center-left establishment.
Green Party environmentally centered and extremely powerful.
Jurists an offshoot of the mainstream right that considers the rule of law to be sacrosanct with literal originalist dogma with no variation.
Loyalists an offshoot of the GOP that considers the 45th president to be the greatest president in history and seek to emulate and venerate him in every way.
Platonics an extreme left wing group that demands socialism and observance of every cultural hegemony.
Helen’s Letter:
Dear Harrison, this will be a series of minor and major confessions which seem apt since we are all being punished. We decided that we would share these with you when you turn ten. For you, that’s just two short years away, but you’ll still be too young for all of this. You say you understand what’s happening and I believe that you do but I confess to you, that I do not understand what’s happening. Every morning I wake up knowing exactly what to expect. It’s been a series of unchanging yesterdays. How could that be? There should be something inherent in the DNA of a Monday that differentiates it from a Sunday. Something your circadian rhythm would pick up on and murmur to your subconscious. But to me it’s all a desert of time like an hourglass resting on its side. Second confession. I am not fond of the Phillips. Mara walks around like the queen of the vagabonds, tethered to so many things that are somehow still important. Desmond watches over you and the other children like he is competing for an award, or attention or maybe affection. Before we were abandoned in this place I had decided that I’d had my fill of these people so everyday is a new torment in tedium. A third confession. Part of it you know, so I’ll start there. Your father is a hero. Objectively. To his community. His city. America. Shit. The world. A cosmic savior. So powerful in his generosity that he has given his family to the people we share a wall with. Saint of saints. He is here less and less. I don’t know what to think of that. I don’t know how to feel about that. I confess that I hate him for it. I will confess that I can say things to you that I cannot face myself because the man that you will become can handle my weakness. You can forgive me for it. My sweet boy, I can ask that of you in a way that I can’t of your sister. She is too strong to forgive me for becoming this angry, petty person. So to you, my future son, I leave one last confession. I saw a post today of spouses who are doctors, who spend 18 hours out of every single day, fighting the virus. You couldn’t see any part of their skin in the post. They were covered head to toe in medical blue latex and plastic. They held one another, separated by their transparent face shields and the contagion that could be lying dormant in their breath or blood. It is the only contact they are allowed and it was clear that they cherished it. There was nothing routine about the need between them. I envy them so.
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