Autography

The set is minimalist: a small table, a single chair, a stack of books. The Author enters to great applause. He carries a small glass bottle filled with red ink and a feathered quill. The picture of refinement, of class. A sly smile (to indicate humility). The Author winks at the absurdity of his elevated stature. He is everything the audience has expected, everything the audience has dreamed.

(Are there Clockfire festivals yet? The play is well suited to open or to close such festivals.)

The Author sits. The audience rises, and falls into line. Warm, gracious, he signs books. Shakes hands. Smiles. He remembers names, spells them with precision. Makes small talk while crafting deep and witty messages. He signs another copy for your mother. He answers all your questions with aplomb.

He dips his quill into the bottle, splashes red across another page. A blot upon his printed name. The signature in quick but measured strokes. The play continues until the Author has run out of blood.