Tristin stood on the shore, watching the sun set. He had been given three days.

Just three days.

It shouldn’t have been so difficult. His face was still his face. She should have recognized him even without his voice.

She should have known that it was him.

She didn’t.

She didn’t know him at all.

No recognition.

He had tried so hard and failed. Three days of trying. Three days of failing.

Tristin heard the sound of her laughter in the salted seaweed air. He glanced back.

She ran across the beach. Her bright red hair flowing behind her head like a horse’s mane.

The familiar pinprick sensation came over his legs.

If only.

The sensation deepened into a dagger’s stabbing.

If only.

Tristin winced and cringed as the pain worsened. He staggered into the water. His feet became clumsy. His legs became unstable. He tripped and fell face first.

Ice Princess picked up Solar Guy’s weapon: The Radiator. Even with the solar power cell removed, Ice Princess had to be careful handling it. One wrong touch could singe her fingers down to the bones. It could theoretically melt her bones.

Of course, she had never tested that theory. It sounded close enough to the truth and she was content with believing it.

The Radiator always reminded her of him. Solar Guy with his perfect physique, his golden blond hair.

The Radiator always reminded her of how hard she had fallen for him. In retrospect, it was inevitable. They were such polar opposites. Of course, they had to fall in love and, when that went wrong, they had to become mortal enemies.

They were incapable of neutral ground. It was either love or hate. Unfortunately, hate won the day.

Killing him was likewise inevitable and she had done it so…

Like many of my other posts on major American playwrights (most recently Tennessee Williams), this is adapted from my personal notebooks. I don’t deal much with biography here. It’s mostly critical ruminations inspired by Hellman’s writing. 

Lillian Hellman (1905-1984) is one of my (guilty) favorite American playwrights, combining intelligent dialogue with big, memorable characters and juicy, melodramatic villainy. Hellman always dares to go into scary, risky territory…it seems to be her principle delight, dragging us into the horror. She is the heir apparent of all those writers of 19^th century melodramas…no expressionistic tricks with form and structure for this dame. And yet for her sheer theatricality and her straightforward storytelling she is yet another playwright I vastly prefer to the supposed lion Arthur Miller.

Hellman’s paramour Dashiell Hammett was Hellman’s well-known editor and muse, but it seems pretty clear (to me) that he was more than just an…

The first time Shelly saw the house, she fell in love with it. A two story ranch beach house on Nantucket Sound. Her and Bob will be able to move in after the wedding. Shelly always wanted to live on the water.

Seventeen days later, with the stress of the wedding over, they settled into their new house. Shelly had to spend that first night alone because Bob was unable to get the night off. He was the night time ER doctor at Nantucket Cottage Hospital.

Around mid-night Shelly woke to a rapping at the door. Ignoring it, she tried to fall back to sleep, but it kept getting louder. She peeked out the window next to the door. Shelly did a double take to make sure what she saw.

Shelly had herd stories, but thought they were only myths. It looked like a man covered in sea weed, but…

It’s so hard to be married. Waking up to the same guy day after day. Dealing with all of his stupid moments and all of his faults.

Why doesn’t he ever tie up the bread bag?

Why can’t he lower the toilet lid so the dog doesn’t get into the toilet?

Why can’t he take his dirty laundry downstairs himself? Why do I have to do it?

Why do I have to do everything around here?

Why can’t he chip in for once?

It’s just.

Just so many little things that annoy me about him. So many things I wish I could change about him. No. Things that he should change about himself. Why should I do all of the hard work?

Why does it always come down to me doing everything?

*sigh*

It isn’t that I don’t love him anymore. I do. I guess I do.

I just wish—

Two black cats, Tenebrae and Anxiety, slipped out of the farmhouse and into the cornfield. The snow had kept them housebound. But winter was gone and spring had arrived with full tubs and oceans full of rain.

The snow was gone, thawed and washed away. The rain had stopped of its own accord. The puddles dried from lack of new rain.

And the two cats were ready for fresh air and fiendish fun.

They ran in sleek panther lines. Their shoulder blades rose and fell in identical rhythms. They gloried in their freedom. They rejoiced in the night air.

Yet, they ran in silence. Their feet did not betray them. Their voices were silent for now. Later would be the time for screams and yowls.

But not yet.

They had mischief to accomplish.

Mischief that required the deepest and most perfect of silence. A betraying purr or meow would ruin…