Lana's Poetry Book

theres a level of tragedy that follows her, much like elektra. they're both forced to watch as their family is torn apart but only one of them makes a move to change that. chrysothemis' fear is the only thing thats holding her back and she even tries to convince elektra to give up her shenanigans because she believes that giving up is peace, that's your happy ending and if you're not happy with that then you have to learn to be.

elektra wakes up drenched in sweat multiple nights a week, with no memory of her dreams. if someone confronted her about it long enough for her to get angry, she might yell that she knows they probably feature iphigenia, and her father.

chrysothemis usually dreams about other worlds, where everyone is alive, but there is almost always something wrong. people start speaking in languages she cannot understand, faces get blurry, everyone wears someone else’s body, her body is rotting and falling apart.

if you asked, klytemnestra would say she does not dream. sometimes it is the truth. she used to dream of agamemnon every night when he was away. embracing him, fucking him, strangling him. since his death, her dreams have stopped being so repetitive. every other week she wakes up with her hands closing around an emptiness in her bed and feels iphigenia’s hair slipping away from her as her dream fades.

aegisthus does not dream if he drinks enough wine before bed, which is a nice trick. it still fails him sometimes, and he might dream of pleasure and flesh, before seeing the face of his mother and feeling the coldness of his father’s sword in his hand.

after iphigenia died, agamemnon wondered if he would dream of her blood on his hands, but he did not. most nights, when he did not dream of battle, he would see his wife and his three children, and they would be happy and everything would be well. he usually woke up the second he realised something was wrong. other nights, his mind conjured up memories of iphigenia as a child, her eyes that of a deer. but she was never dead.

kassandra, when her dreams are not filled with the future, dreams of nothingness. she is blind and bound, and she never attempts to talk because she knows her vocal cords have vanished. sometimes, it is silent. sometimes, there is music. she does not know the future and cannot remember the past. even after years of it, when she wakes, she still is not sure whether the darkness is suffocating or comforting.

pylades only ever dreams about orestes, but everyone knows that.

Hamlet and Antigone

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We have to bury our brother. Et tu, Ismene?

The king has a sword at our necks.

He doesn’t deserve this wandering.

The king has a sword at our necks.

He doesn’t deserve this disrespect.

Antigone, listen. The king has a sword at our necks.

So wrench it from his hands and stab him. We have to bury our brother.

He’d kill me before my hands touched the hilt.

We are not weak. We are the daughters of a bloody tragedy given legs, we are not weak.

I’m scared, Antigone.

You think I’m not? The burial rites must be done anyways.

He wouldn’t want you to die for him.

We both know that’s a lie.

Well, I don’t want you to die for him. Can’t that be enough?

I don’t want our uncle to control us. Here we are. We don’t deserve this, Ismene. We don’t deserve the life Uncle has cornered us into.

And we deserve death?

Just because we are not evil doesn’t mean we are good. 

We don’t have to repent for our father’s sins.

Is that what you think this is? I am repenting for nothing, sister. I am saving a brother who doesn’t deserve to wander forever. 

You talk like you wish to die.

Oh, not you too! Start your tale, sister- Oh, crazy Antigone, suicidal Antigone, she needs to be locked up, doesn’t she? For her own good!

Please don’t lecture me for caring, sister.

You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s only that- that’s how they shut us up, you know? Tell a few busy bodies we’re insane, stick us in an institution, and let us become someone else’s problem. Your words hold no weight anymore, when people call you crazy. I’m nothing without my words, sister.

That’s not true. You have your hands.

And you don’t?

I’m no revolutionary, dear. No wordsmith, not like you. You might be nothing without your hands and words, but I already am nothing at all.

It’s my job to be macabre, not yours. It doesn’t suit you.

Blood of my blood, and all that.

Speaking of.

Oh, dear.

We have to bury him.

You don’t have to do anything, dearest.

I do. You know I do. I have to do this right. I am holding the Gods over the king.

And holding your own life under a corpse.

Ismene, I don’t want to die alone.

Oh, sister. My sister. This is a key difference between you and I- you don’t want to die alone, I just don’t want to die.

He doesn’t deserve this.

Neither do we.

Liar.

(ISMENE turns to face the audience.) This is how the scene ends. Ismene, alone. Her father is her brother, and he is dead. That might be a good thing. She’s not sure yet. Her brothers, twin dying stars, flashy eyes, are dead. Her sister is marching to the gallows with a song in her heart and dirt under her nails. Ismene should follow. Ismene does not follow. This is the problem with Ismene- she is not nearly stubborn enough for her family’s name. (ISMENE turns back toward her sister.)

You’re a coward, Ismene.

I love you, too.

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Mnemonic Device

female IRA soldiers