the devil is a bunch of small things that live inside you.
‘the devil is a bunch of small things that live inside you.’, by Indigo Chong
I
I. Psalm of Letters.
Listen to me
if I were to write a letter
and send it to the moon
on a rocket made of lice
in a body made of blood
and flesh
and bone
I would tell the man on the moon
to jump to Mars
the blood-rust red planet
maybe then
he’d catch a fish in a sea of dust
and feast.
My body is made to move in ungodly ways.
My body is made to move in ungodly ways.
My body is made to move in ungodly ways.
If I were to write a poem
My mouth would spit it out
into a sea of syllables.
A worm in the blood is worth two rats in the gullet.
Are you listening?
This is the story of a letter I wish I wrote
to the man on the moon.
And if I scream it loud enough
I hope he might hear my cries.
II. Psalm of Frogs and Women.
The stage is on fire. A pillar of salt stands in the middle, untouched.
Gomorrah too
burned that day
that it rained frogs and fire on the city of women.
I was a traveller.
I came from another city.
In search of the city of women.
But all I found was fire.
And frogs.
I was a traveller.
So I stopped at the pillar of salt.
And waited for water to spill forth.
Because every traveller knows.
That when it rains fire.
And frogs.
Pillars of salt cry pure tears to wash the land clean.
I was a traveller.
I heard there was a house.
Where I could become a woman.
But holy fire.
Left nothing but ashes.
And frogs.
Nothing but ashes and frogs are left to the traveller.
Thus is the justice of the Lord.
Water begins to pour from the pillar.
I was a traveller.
And I broke my fists.
Pounding the earth.
Hoping.
Praying.
That anyone had survived the onslaught.
To no avail.
III. Psalm of Blood.
A worm lays in the centre of a stage that is a man that is a body.
My world is blood-rust red.
My world is blood-rust red.
My world is blood-rust red.
My world is blood-rust red.
And if a worm
a worm!
If a worm were to find itself in
the heart of a man
that is first a body
the man may protest
a worm!
My world is blood-rust red.
My world is blood-rust red.
My world is blood-rust red.
But the worm
would not notice him
how could it
he is not in its world.
My world is blood-rust red.
My world is blood-rust red.
My world is blood-rust red.
My world is blood-rust red.
My world is blood-rust red.
The man would wretch
he would ache
he would scream
a worm!
But the worm would not hear him
it would simply writhe
as is right for a worm
a worm!
My world is blood-rust red.
To be a worm is to be a body
that is not a man
to be a man is to be a body
that is not a worm
and is not not a worm
for to be a man is to be
a body
and to be a body is to be
a worm
a worm!
IV. Psalm of the Astronaut.
An astronaut floats in the middle of the stage. Her breathing is laboured.
In and
out and
in
and out
and out
and out
and out
If you breathe out enough you vanish, you just up and disappear. I was twelve when I first vanished. I breathed out and out and out until I turned to breath and sent myself out into the wind. Into the world. Into the world become wind become breath. I was a traveller then, I had heard there was a city of women, with a house that could turn you into one of them but when I got there, I was met with only smoke and ashes.
Thus is the justice of the Lord.
So I breathed out and out and out and out and I vanished. I was always one for vanishing, I always waited and wished to disappear, I always faded and I liked to fade. I would pray to the man in the moon that if he was fishing he could pull me up by my dreams and take me to space. I was twelve when I vanished again, not three years later, I breathed out and out and out and I vanished because I liked to fade and I wished it would go by quicker.
Now I am fading and I am scared.
I am scared that I breathed out too much and too fast, that I turned myself to breath before I was ready, that I travelled before I was grown that I saw fire and frogs at the gate of great Gomorrah before God was finished. I am scared because the man in the moon never answered the letter I failed to send. I told myself I would mail it to him by next Christmas but when his hook lowered to the ground I chickened out. I was twelve then, it had been six years since I last vanished. I was a good girl. I clothed myself in the wreckage of the city and I was a good girl for a moment and I was proud of who I had become and I thought I didn’t need to vanish anymore. But whenever I breathed out I could feel myself fade. Even when I held my breath tight inside like a little balloon there was a leak eventually. There’s always a leak eventually, and I continued to fade, slowly but surely.
I am almost gone and I am so scared. I was twelve when they shot me into space. I was small enough that I could fit in the gut of the spaceship without worry, without upsetting its stomach. I worked my way up, until I sat like a worm in its heart, my world a blood-rust red. I was no longer breathing out, I was holding my breath but then—
Take-off.
The force took the air out of my lungs. I started to vanish because that was all I knew how to do, and I was good at it and we do the things we are good at. I faded until I slipped out of the heart of the spaceship and into the void. And stars. I looked around for the man in the moon with his great fish-hook but he was no-where to be found. So I tried to get back to the spaceship but it had left me far behind, on its mission, and I was here all alone floating in the void. And stars. I can feel myself breathe, in and out, but my lungs are not what they once were, I was a smoker for twelve years and my lungs have all but withered away.
But I am still here.
And I am still breathing.
Scared. But breathing.
V. Psalm of Anguish.
The stage is covered in water, blood-rust red. Two women stand, mopping it up furiously.
A WOMAN
We’ve got to hurry.
ANOTHER WOMAN
We need to make haste.
A WOMAN
We must speed up.
ANOTHER WOMAN
The both of us need to expedite things.
A WOMAN
We’ve got to hurry.
ANOTHER WOMAN
We need to make haste.
A WOMAN
We must speed up.
ANOTHER WOMAN
The both of us need to expedite things.
A WOMAN
We’ve got to hurry.
ANOTHER WOMAN
We need to make haste.
A WOMAN
We must speed up.
ANOTHER WOMAN
The both of us need to expedite things.
They continue this until the stage is clean. The women drop to the ground, exhausted. A single drop of water, blood-rust red falls from the sky to the middle of the stage. They wail.
VI. Psalm of Deliverance.
A fish-hook is naked without a worm.
I am naked without my pretences.
I am a man when I love a man
and a woman when I love a woman.
I am an empty pit in the bottom of my own stomach.
I ache for them to fill me up.
Up up up, till I can’t take it anymore, and I burst.
Exhale.
And vanish into the air, into breath.
Up to the moon.
All heaven for the fallen angels.
All heaven for the fallen angels.
All heaven for the fallen angels.
End of Act I.
II
I. Psalm of Grief.
The astronaut has died and the man in the moon has vanished.
The astronaut has died and the man in the moon has vanished.
The astronaut has died and the man in the moon has vanished.
The astronaut has died and the man in the moon has vanished.
The astronaut has died and the man in the moon has vanished.
The astronaut has died and the man in the moon has vanished.
The astronaut has died and the man in the moon has vanished.
The astronaut has died and the man in the moon has vanished.
The astronaut has died and the man in the moon has vanished.
The astronaut has died and the man in the moon has vanished.
The astronaut has died and the man in the moon has vanished.
The stars begin to weep.
The astronaut has died and the man in the moon has vanished.
The astronaut has died and the man in the moon has vanished.
The astronaut has died and the man in the moon has vanished.
The astronaut has died and the man in the moon has vanished.
The astronaut has died and the man in the moon has vanished.
I know this now.
II. Psalm of Worship.
I never searched for Sodom.
Is that bad?
I felt I couldn’t.
No words wasted on Gomorrah.
I’m sorry.
I knew I couldn’t.
No words
wasted on Gomorrah.
NO
WORDS
WASTED
ON
Gomorrah, the sister city.
I longed for her air in my lungs, I ached for
a taste of her breath.
No
words
wasted on Gomorrah.
No words wasted
on Gomorrah.
No
no
no
no
I wished I could breathe out for a thousand years.
I wished I could slay the setting sun I
wished I could stop the turning of gears I wished
I could write a word that would last forever I wished I
could sing a song to an angel I wished I could
I wished I could.
No words wasted on
Gomorrah.
III. Psalm of Dying.
Two fishmongers sit, smoking.
A FISHMONGER
I heard she burst to pieces. Like a balloon.
ANOTHER FISHMONGER
No, that’s not right, she melted into the void. An ice cube.
A FISHMONGER
How about that.
ANOTHER FISHMONGER
I saw her too, you know.
A FISHMONGER
She was too far away to see, liar.
ANOTHER FISHMONGER
Nope, saw her go, clear as day.
A FISHMONGER
Bullshit.
ANOTHER FISHMONGER
Way up there, in the sky.
A FISHMONGER
I heard the man in the moon tried to save her.
ANOTHER FISHMONGER
Didn’t budge.
A FISHMONGER
An inch?
ANOTHER FISHMONGER
Not an inch.
A FISHMONGER
How about that.
ANOTHER FISHMONGER
At least I’ll remember her.
A FISHMONGER
For a day.
ANOTHER FISHMONGER
Better than we’ll get.
A FISHMONGER
How about that.
They put out their cigarettes and exit. A star goes out.
IV. Psalm of Healing.
Break a vase and feel it shatter in your palm.
Gouge out your eyes and let them see the back of your head.
There is infinity out there.
Beyond our words.
Maybe she’s out there.
Maybe she’s reappeared.
A traveller on the road to Gomorrah.
To become a woman.
A worm in the heart.
Writhing as is her wont.
An astronaut among the stars.
A child.
Vanishing in the cold.
Clothed in the ashes of the fallen city.
She writes her letter.
To the man in the moon.
And stuffs it in a garbage can.
He looks down and he cries.
A single blood-rust red tear.
V. Psalm of Ending.
Two women stand centre stage, mops in hand. They clean the performance space. The stars go out.
End of Play.
Indigo Chong (they/she) is a scholar and playwright currently based out of Hawaii. Her work focuses on Postdramatic theatre, Critical Black Studies, and French feminist philosophy. Shoot her an email at chongindigo@gmail.com, or read her Substack, antiauthentic.substack.com.
