News from Paradise
(Zenobia and Sinclair)
A Colonial Drama
Author: Benjamín Gavarre
NEWS
FROM PARADISE: ZENOBIA AND SINCLAIR. © 2026 by BENJAMIN GAVARRE is licensed
under CC BY-NC-ND 4.0
gavarreunam@gmail.com
SYNOPSIS
In the grand parlor of a
Caribbean colonial mansion in the mid-20th century, time seems to stand still
beneath the crushing weight of a sweltering heat that not even the strongest
ceiling fan can dispel. There, Zenobia—a haughty woman of ancestral roots and
fierce island pride—and Sinclair—a rigid American heir impeccably dressed in
white linen—find themselves trapped in an arranged marriage driven entirely by
economic convenience.
Through scenes that operate
as recurring loops of tension, the play dismantles the cleanliness and decorum
of social etiquette. While speaking aloud to maintain the bourgeois composure
of the post-WWII era, the audience becomes complicit in their rawest, most
uncomfortable thoughts through asides and inner monologues. What begins as a
diplomatic negotiation rapidly transforms into an ideological and animalistic
duel: a head-on collision between the Old World (Zenobia's history, myth, and
bloodline) and the New World (Sinclair's money, casinos, and expansionism).
Just as the arrogance of
their power plays and their unbridled attraction reach a boiling point, nature
tears their masks away. A real, unnamed hurricane violently breaches the
parlor, forcing the Amazon and the upstart to strip away their titles and become
two vulnerable bodies who, panicked by the end of the world, must confess their
truths before seeking refuge within the solid walls of the house.
DIRECTOR'S
NOTE
This piece discards
chronological time, operating instead on the logic of suffocation and
escalating desire. The space is conceived as a transparent, claustrophobic cage
where the physical environment acts as another character. Aesthetically, the
staging evokes the icy distance and geometric alignment of an Edward Hopper
painting, suddenly flooded by the burning, volcanic, and visceral palette of
Rufino Tamayo. A dark comedy about the collapse of appearances and mutual
domestication in the eye of the storm.
Important: The
space is rigorously minimalist. There is no actual glass breaking or physical
debris. The natural phenomenon (the hurricane) must be built entirely through
sound design, lighting, and the sheer physical exhaustion of the actors.
CHARACTERS
- ZENOBIA: Descendant
of a colony on an imaginary island. Of diverse roots, part mestiza, part
aristocrat, very much an Amazon (a mulatto Amazon). Haughty bearing,
fierce gaze, and a volcanic temperament hidden beneath etiquette and
protocol.
- SINCLAIR: A
foreigner, heir to an empire. Impeccably dressed in white linen. His rigid
Anglo-Saxon demeanor masks unbridled instincts and a repressed passion on
the verge of exploding.
SETTING
The immense parlor of a
stately mansion. Soaring ceilings with ceiling fans that spin lazily, utterly
failing to defeat the swelter. Heavy mahogany furniture. Upstage, the spatial
suggestion of a terrace overlooking the Caribbean Sea. The sky is a threatening,
leaden gray. Absolute scenic minimalism.
Scene 1:
The Swelter and the Wind
(The
light cuts out Sinclair and Zenobia on opposite ends of a very long wicker
sofa. They are completely motionless, like wax statues. On the table sit two
untouched mojitos, the ice melted but the mint still resplendent).
ZENOBIA
(Traces
her fingers over the sweating glass. She speaks with a deep, firm voice,
without looking at him) I've never seen rain like this… And it usually
rains here, it really does… but these last few days… you know… it’s been out of
control…
(Heavy
silence. Sinclair, rigid, nods and takes a long sip, dabbing his lips with a
lace handkerchief).
ZENOBIA
The rain
sometimes lets up… and when it stops… the heat that follows is… a heat… that
takes on a body, a visible heat… as if it were a body made entirely of heat…
such a heat… What are we to do with such heat?
(Radical
lighting shift. The parlor goes dark. A zenithal spotlight isolates Sinclair.
The rest of the world freezes in a dreamlike blue. Sinclair stands up and paces
frantically).
SINCLAIR
(Inner
Monologue) What are we to do? What did she mean by that? With *such heat*?
Is it a veiled allusion to wanting a child?... I find that indecent. The first
thing these modern women want is to secure the marriage while they are still in
heat, to get married and have thousands of children to ensure the union. They
want to birth heirs before their time runs out, lest the groom leaves and they
remain all dressed up, flustered, married, deflowered… and without descendants.
Because… if there are no children, there are no guarantees, no loans, no
control over our investments, our properties, our fortunes. Without children,
there is no family honored by the continuity of blood. Such heat, she said! The
swelter that not even the strongest fan can strip away, intense, suffocating,
churning heat, it steals your breath... It sticks to the skin, sticky and damp.
The heat, the swelter that wrecks the nerves and makes animals succumb; dogs
lying on the floor, motionless, exhausted, unable to wag a tail or bat an
eyelid... they remain fixed and mute. Like those ridiculous rag dolls the
natives stick pins into… cheap superstition, voodoo nonsense from people who
reject science, absurd rituals that civilization simply cannot tolerate.
Asphyxiated dogs, exhausted men in hammocks, fainting men, women with fans...
Is she calling me a "dog"… between the lines? An exhausted dog that
doesn't even pant, doesn't even move? A rag doll pinned to this sofa, taking
nothing, giving nothing? Is she implying I am like a noble dog, a white dog,
pale, bloodless, a Yankee without fire? What insolence! What arrogance. (Pause.
Transition) And what Beauty, even with that fierce bearing, as if defying
the most intense heatwave of the century. What an imposing woman! Look at
her... she has the shoulders of a warrior, her skin taut, powerful, command in
her eyes, eyelids that never surrender, an absolute Amazon... She terrifies
me... and she fascinates me.
(The
general lighting returns abruptly. Sinclair stops pacing and snaps back to the
sofa, recovering his stiff, prim posture. He crosses his legs delicately).
SINCLAIR
Ah, yes.
This heat is suffocating, isn't it? And it is curious, but in an instant, the
climate of the island can dramatically change… without warning. At a certain
hour of the day a storm falls upon us, like a rehearsal for a Hurricane showing
up unannounced, it pours, the sky falls as they say, but it's not a metaphor,
the sky actually falls… and in an instant, everything is resolved, the heat
returns, the air is so hot you can't even breathe, suddenly the asphyxiating
swelter arrives… and then, to top it all off, in the early morning, the cold,
the dampness that freezes your bones, the wet, freezing night that can only be
cured by… the heat of bodies?
(The
lighting changes abruptly again, focusing obsessively on Sinclair, who presses
his hands against his thighs).
SINCLAIR
(Inner
Monologue, sweating profusely) Ah, but what am I doing? She will surely
take it the wrong way... She will think I want to rub my body against hers, to
cure our fever… the cold, the damp cold of the endless early mornings… Like the
cold I rub my body against when those uncontrollable desires hit me, where I
hardly need an image to let go and unload all this poison I carry in my
belly... Leaving the sheets entirely yellowed and with such an enormous amount
of semen it seems I am a horse or a bull and not a simple Anglo-Saxon boy lost
hopelessly in the Tropic of Cancer…
(General
lighting returns. Sinclair jolts, clears his throat, and stares fixedly at
Zenobia).
SINCLAIR
Ah… and
on the sheets hanging on the coast, the wind seems to draw choreography.
ZENOBIA
Are you
trying to compose a poem? Wind in the sheets?… the good thing is that in the
tropics they dry quickly, sometimes not so much, if there's humidity they never
dry… But, damp or not so damp, they must be sent to be washed with very hot
water and plenty of bleach.
(The
light shrinks to a beam isolating only Zenobia's face. She glares with contempt
into the void).
ZENOBIA
(Inner
Monologue, stamping her foot with a dull thud) The sheets hanging on the
coast… Is he trying to tell me between the lines that he likes his sheets
washed by hand… just like the women at the port do… Wash the sheets? By hand,
is that a hint, is he insinuating he likes to be served, to have his sheets washed,
his shirts, his… trousers? Ah, he wouldn't dare… I have always been a powerful
woman educated to be served and now this nobody wants to force me to perform
menial tasks I could never bring myself to do… No, I do not accept it… He
better not even think about it!
(General
lighting returns. The sound of the outside wind roars louder, simulated through
sound design).
SINCLAIR
Ah… and
then when the hurricanes arrive, they wipe out everything.
ZENOBIA
Of
course, the hurricanes. Because hurricanes are governed by no one, they are
relentless. They obey no one.
SINCLAIR
Ah, yes,
they are powerful, they clean house. They drag ships, destroy groves, they are
so potent that in a few hours their presence dramatically changes tranquility
and normal life. They do not ask permission. They throw themselves upon the
earth like an enormous beast in heat.
(A sharp
thud of wind is heard. Sinclair and Zenobia stand up at the exact same time,
rigid, staring at each other with a violent and uncomfortable desire).
(QUICK
LIGHT CUT. BLACKOUT).
Scene 2:
The Fragment of Mamey and the Repeated Sheets
(Action
restarts. The light snaps back on over the wicker sofa. Sinclair and Zenobia
are slightly closer than in the previous scene, but their postures remain rigid
and aristocratic. Zenobia now holds a plate on her lap with an open mamey
sapote, red and pulpy).
ZENOBIA
(Inner
Monologue, squeezing the mamey pulp, staining her fingers with a thick, crimson
juice) Such suffocating heat! Damp and freezing early mornings? Bodies
that warm up with bodies rubbing together! What is this newcomer trying to
insinuate? Does he dare to think of me as a victim of the most vulgar desires?
Or, worse still, wouldn't the fool dare to think I am one of those frigid,
easily frightened young ladies of high society? Oh, he wouldn't dare… Poor
wretch! If he knew that beneath this imported silk runs blood of telluric roots
cultivated by the crack of a whip and the sun… He cannot imagine that my fiery
deliriums nearly set the linen sheets ablaze in the early mornings! He doesn't
know that I have to bite the pillows to stop myself from screaming when I
please myself alone, imagining the most savage and insatiable tempests!
(She
discretely sucks her finger, licking the red juice. General lighting returns).
ZENOBIA
Yes… and
the swell on this island is completely unpredictable… There are moments of
subterranean calm, but in a second, without warning, the sea simply roars and
slaps us with absolute might.
(The
light centers on Sinclair as he paces the parlor neurotically, as if forgetting
what he just said aloud).
SINCLAIR
(Inner
Monologue. He loosens the knot of his silk tie slightly) Ah… but what am I
doing? I can't stop thinking about… I don't know if I said something of what I
was thinking, or if I have shown what I feel… Surely she has noticed my
uncontrollable desires, I don't want her to suspect what I feel in my guts... I
don't want my desires to manifest with such overwhelming firmness… I must
remain still, center myself, concentrate so as not to become an executioner, my
own executioner. Cross my legs, reflect no emotion, speak of trivialities…
(General
lighting returns. Sinclair clears his throat, trying to recover his composure,
staring at her).
SINCLAIR
Ah… and
on the sheets, it's very noticeable when the wind slips through.
ZENOBIA
(Monologue
or aside) The wind slips through… That's new… He speaks of the wind in the
sheets… when they hang them… the women… the ones at the port, I suppose… The
maids are the ones who wash the sheets… they use bar soap… the
maids. (Transition: aloud, confident) I take care of washing my own
things, you know?… My intimates, my garments… My undergarments… I use a soft
soap… liquid… pink…
(In that
instant, the general lighting flickers subtly, as if the house's electricity
suffered a dip from the swelter. Sinclair jolts violently, brings a hand to his
shirt collar, and swallows hard. His face becomes suddenly damp. The image of
damp silk and pink soap has hit him to his very core).
SINCLAIR
(Inner
Monologue, breathing raggedly, rubbing his temples in desperation) Liquid…
pink? What is this smell of flowers and damp skin that just flooded the room?
My God, did she say it or am I fabricating it in my head? My garments… her
undergarments… brief, soaked in that foamy substance… I can see her through the
cracks in the wood, undressing under the stream of water, scrubbing the silk
against her firm thighs… I'm going crazy! My chest tightens, my air escapes,
the linen is squeezing my groin… I cannot hide this fever, if I stand up she
will notice this damn poison deforming my belly… Concentrate, Sinclair, speak
of the weather, of numbers, speak of ANY THING that isn't part of her body!
GOD!
(The
light shrinks sharply and isolates Zenobia in her corner again, ignoring his
silent collapse).
ZENOBIA
(Inner
Monologue, indignant, stamping her foot on the wooden floor) But how
stupid… “I use liquid soap, soft, pink” … Ah, surely he has already awakened
insane images of my naked, voluptuous body! I, who have always been discreet
and keep my intimacies in the deepest part of my… being. He better not dare
think of my undergarments, let it not even cross his mind to see me almost
naked, wearing only perfumed, clean, brief attire, cruelly submitted to his
sick whims! That will never happen. Who does this insolent foreigner think he
is!
(General
lighting abruptly returns. The hum of the fans mixes with a distant
thunderclap).
SINCLAIR
(With a
notably hoarser, altered voice, locking his eyes on her cleavage) Ah… and
then, when the real hurricanes arrive… They wipe out everything in their path.
Hurricanes, my dear Zenobia, are governed by no one.
ZENOBIA
Of
course not. Hurricanes tear off roofs, destroy groves, drag ships. They are so
powerful that in a few hours their presence dramatically changes tranquility
and normal life… They are the masters, or the ones who command, when they are
women they own the stage.
(Sinclair
closes his eyes, squeezing them tight, breathing raggedly. The light focuses
again on his damp face).
Scene 3:
The Batá Drum and the Red Earth
(Action
restarts. The light snaps on. Sinclair and Zenobia are standing, very close to
one another, breathing raggedly. The air is dense, almost solid. Zenithal
lights close in on them, isolating their faces from the rest of the parlor).
SINCLAIR
(Inner
Monologue, sweating profusely) Again, the damn metaphor. She is
challenging me. Does she want me to be the master, the owner of the room, to be
as potent as a category maximum hurricane? Is she demanding that I step over
her refined manners and drag her without asking for mercy? Could she be one of
those women who despises romance and demands the most bestial, absolute carnal
treatment? Could she be one of those women who wants to break the paradigm?
Swap the roles? Change the rules of the game? Oh, my God, frankly I don't just
like that… it drives me crazy! I hope so! Let her take me, let her be my owner,
let her strangle me with those Amazon hands, let us destroy each other, she my
owner, I her master, both of us in the eye of the hurricane; and let her drag
me to the interior of the continent and turn me into savage rain that floods
the earth and can only be stopped by the high mountains!
(An
intense, general light returns. A muffled, guttural, animal moan escapes
Zenobia, loaded with a pleasure she cannot contain. Both freeze, stunned,
staring at each other).
ZENOBIA
(Fanning
herself violently, trying to breathe) Oh! Forgive me… it was nothing. I
couldn't help it. It's just that I remembered… There was a storm… Once...
SINCLAIR
(Leaning
toward her, courteous, generous, breaking the distance of etiquette, his voice
hoarse with desire) I heard absolutely nothing. But, to tell the truth, I
like your boldness. And your grand, passionate performance… without
inhibitions.
(Suddenly,
Sinclair reacts with terror and covers his mouth with his hand. A spotlight for
an aside falls on him).
SINCLAIR
(Inner
Monologue, alarmed) Sinclair, what are you saying? Bite your tongue,
Sinclair!
(General
lighting returns).
ZENOBIA
(With
feigned haughtiness, sweeping him with her gaze) I don't know what you are
referring to, Sinclair. Speak clearly. What performance?
(The
light shifts to a violet and reddish atmosphere over both. They speak with
their eyes fixed on the void, as if listening solely to the echo of their own
demons).
SINCLAIR
(In his
mind, devouring her with his gaze) She wants me to possess her without
asking permission, wants me to kiss her neck, to take her head with sweetness
and tangle my fingers in her hair passionately. She wants me to take her little
by little, wants to see me as a god contemplating her from the heights while
she stares at me in ecstasy, while she takes my vibrating being between her
hands and forces me to empty all this contained fire, forcing me to succumb, to
spill over, until nothing is left but the thunder of the flesh.
ZENOBIA
(In her
mind, opening her silk neckline slightly, breathing very heavily) His
heart is the drum of an Indian chief, it's the drumroll of an infantry soldier
in full combat! He is my lord, I am his servant! We arrive together at the
heights of heaven… No one governs here, we are the masters.
(General
lighting returns. The dialogues return to "normality", but it is a
broken normality, where they can barely hold each other's gaze. A deep,
prolonged thunderclap is heard in the distance. Both startle).
SINCLAIR
It is
the pressure of the sky. The atmosphere... There are storms that wipe out
everything in their path.
ZENOBIA
(With a
smile that insinuates the beginning of a sweet surrender) We are safe,
dear Sinclair. One beside the other.
(The
word "dear" hangs in the air like a slap. Obsessive zenithal light on
Sinclair).
SINCLAIR
(In his
mind, letting himself be dragged by that shared surrender) She called me
"dear"… My white linen suit is finally vulnerable. All this poison I
have in my belly and her blood of a fire-woman can be tamed; we can think this
is going to work. The storms they announce won't touch us. Everything is
running smoothly.
(General
lighting returns abruptly. The silence is peaceful; the looks, welcoming and
loaded with great promises. However, new thunderclaps preceded by lightning
flashes mark the arrival of difficult times. On the mahogany table rests a
bottle of pure cane aguardiente and two small empty glasses sweating from the
heat).
ZENOBIA
Let us
toast to good times.
SINCLAIR
(Surrendered,
but with a shadow of doubt from nature's omens) To the bottom.
(QUICK
LIGHT CUT. BLACKOUT ON STAGE).
Scene 4:
The Duel of Fortunes and the Wind
(Action
restarts. The light turns on abruptly. In this scene, the physical distance is
broken from the very first second. Sinclair and Zenobia are sitting on the same
wicker sofa, rigid but close enough to hear each other's breathing. There are
no drinks on the table: only the naked swelter of the parlor).
SINCLAIR
Is
something the matter, my dear…?
ZENOBIA
With me?
No.
SINCLAIR
I... I
notice you're distant. After our toast a moment ago I thought...
ZENOBIA
I just
don't understand how, at this stage of civilization, arranged marriages still
exist. Tell me, if in the end it turns out we are not compatible in this damned
paradise, what then?
SINCLAIR
That is
a grand question... What if we are not compatible?
ZENOBIA
We
always have the luxury of saying NO.
SINCLAIR
(Inner
Monologue, devouring her with his gaze) That is what she believes... But
the attraction is there, stuck to the skin like sweat. We are like those two
legendary lovers destined to consume each other. Not through adversity, nor
through death. (General lighting returns) Until death do us part.
ZENOBIA
What did
you say?
SINCLAIR
Ah… it
is what they say at weddings. The priest says it. My father is extremely
interested in merging these two great fortunes. My mother as well. And your
father, and your mother… you know, there are always investors sniffing behind
our surnames.
ZENOBIA
Ah… and
is that what I am to you? An investment? A customs business?
SINCLAIR
I did
not mean that, please... I am not looking for a fortune, Zenobia. My family
is... let's say, more than solvent.
ZENOBIA
Really?
Do you also have commercial ships in the port?
SINCLAIR
Luxury
yachts. And cargo ships.
ZENOBIA
And do
you have properties in Abyssinia? Do you have many islands? Like how many?
Because this island where you are standing, know that it is not yours. Do you
have gold, do you have diamonds? Do you have thousand-year-old palaces? Do your
libraries hold five-thousand-year-old sacred books?
SINCLAIR
(Uncomfortable,
tugging at the collar of his jacket) Books that are five thousand years
old? What an exaggeration... No, we have more... practical things. Casinos in
the desert, a little Capitol of white marble, an obelisk that scratches the
sky, millions of dollars in secure vaults... and an English grandfather with
two thousand years of heritage.
ZENOBIA
(With a
contemptuous, fierce laugh) Please! Your English grandfather doesn't even
speak to you anymore. And your sterling pounds smell rancid, like the loss of
old colonies, like fallen empires.
SINCLAIR
(Offended,
losing his posture) Ah, make no mistake. We have colonies... many islands.
In fact, the neighboring island is ours, we bought it last year. And other
paradisiacal islands. We have modern cruise ships crossing the entire
Caribbean. Frankly, your island, as beautiful and savage as it is, is not yet
the tourist destination we wish to design...
ZENOBIA
(Standing
up abruptly, majestic) And it never will be! You cannot buy our history,
Sinclair. You are a country of barbarians without culture, a handful of
upstarts without a past.
SINCLAIR
(Standing
up as well, confronting her) We own the future! My family possesses
hundreds of rivers, thousands of mountain ranges... We will own the moon if we
set our minds to it! Once we sent a rocket and claimed it, planted our flag.
Money buys everything, Zenobia, even this soil you walk on.
(The
zenithal light turns a violent red. The argument has ignited them physically.
They look at each other panting, with a mixture of colonial hatred and
unbridled sexual desire making them tremble).
ZENOBIA
(With
her voice broken by pride and attraction) Pure lies... Pure boasting from
a bloodless Yankee.
SINCLAIR
(Stepping
close to her, breathing the vapor off her neck) Bloodless? I am so sorry
our parents force us into this... because I swear, if it weren't an obligation,
I would take you right now just to prove to you who runs this paradise.
ZENOBIA
(Holding
his gaze, defiant yet surrendered) This house... is already included in my
father's wedding gifts. It is ours. Let's go to the bedroom, Sinclair... Let's
see who the barbarian really is.
Scene 5:
The Nameless Storm (The Direct Link)
(No
light cut. The instant Sinclair reaches to take her hand to go to the hallway,
a colossal crash, purely sonic, strikes the fiction of the terrace. The light
flickers furiously, turning into a violent gloom).
(The wind roars from the speakers with devastating force. The lighting design
simulates dizzying gusts sweeping the stage. The aristocratic refinement
vanishes entirely. Sinclair and Zenobia are physically shoved by the invisible
force of the wind. They struggle with their own bodies, clinging, without
overacting, to the sofa and the imaginary mahogany wall in desperation to avoid
falling).
SINCLAIR
(Screaming
to overcome the roar of the sonic storm) What is this? The radio said
nothing! They only spoke of a mild storm!
ZENOBIA
(Clinging
to his white linen, pantomiming being drenched and dragged by the
wind) The news always arrives late to the islands! This is a hurricane,
Sinclair!
SINCLAIR
We're
going to die! Look at me, we're going to die! Until death do us part!
ZENOBIA
Don't
say stupid things! We must find shelter! Let's go to the bathroom in the hall,
it has solid walls and no windows!
SINCLAIR
(Dragging
her, shielding her with his body as they advance with extreme
difficulty) It's massive! It must be a woman's name, because it's powerful
and shows up completely unexpected! The hurricane!
ZENOBIA
(Screaming
as they practically crawl) No! The last one that wiped out the port had a
man's name! It must be a man, because it's violent, brutish, and irrational!
(The
sound design crescendos, indicating the eye of the storm is approaching.
However, Sinclair stops dead in the middle of the stage, planting his feet,
ignoring the fatal urgency).
SINCLAIR
(Looking
into her eyes with pure panic, completely halting their escape) Zenobia!
But do you love me?!
ZENOBIA
(Startled
by the absurd question amidst the chaos, fighting the invisible wind) What
are you saying?! The roof is tearing off! Move!
SINCLAIR
Answer
me! If this is our end, I refuse to die classified as a damn customs
transaction! Tell me!
ZENOBIA
You're
insane, Sinclair! The house is sinking! This is no time for existential crises!
SINCLAIR
(He
clings to her and the floor, refusing to take a single step) I'm not
moving from here until you tell me! I want to know if all this natural disaster
is worth it! Tell me!
ZENOBIA
(Exasperated,
trying to pull his dead weight) How stubborn you are, white man! Maybe I
do love you! Yes! Maybe!
SINCLAIR
"Maybe"
is not enough for the merger of two empires! I love you, Zenobia! I love you
with an irrational fury, like this damn nameless hurricane!
ZENOBIA
(Stopping
as well, giving in to the same romantic madness while the world collapses
around them) You love me?! Me, a savage, a pagan deity who despises your
banks?!
SINCLAIR
To hell
with the banks! To hell with the shipping lines! I want your endless
vegetation, I want your rituals, I want you!
ZENOBIA
Well, I
love you too, damn it! I love your arrogance and your tenacity, you
insufferable Gringo!
SINCLAIR
(With
illuminated eyes, as if the storm ceased to exist) Truly?! Oh, Zenobia,
this changes everything! We can sign contracts, do business, we can...!
(CRACK!
A massive sound effect, as if a colossal beam crashed a meter away from them,
jolts them out of their ecstasy).
ZENOBIA
(Pulling
him by the arms with renewed terror) We'll be crushed to death if you
don't shut up and walk! To the hallway! NOW!
(A
blinding flash of lightning floods the stage. The wind noise becomes dizzying
as they both manage to cross the imaginary threshold. The violent slam of a
heavy wooden door closing behind them is heard. The roar of the hurricane drops
drastically, muffled by the stone walls, leaving only the echo of their ragged
breathing in the dark).
SINCLAIR
I just
wanted to…
ZENOBIA
NOW!
(ABSOLUTE,
IMMEDIATE BLACKOUT).
END OF PLAY
