Tag Archives: quick scenes

Early-Man Ennui, ep. 2


Some time ago, I wrote a scene with a depressed caveman in it.

The style of it was fun, and I’ve been wanting to write more scenes, so — here’s another chapter. Please to enjoy!

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Ext: a rock wall at the entrance to a cave. BLOOG, a young, hip, cavewoman stands at the wall, chiseling away with a rock and another sharper rock. She seems to be etching a likeness of a person in something like a seductive pose, though it’s hard to tell, as she is not an artist.

GRAAT, a more reserved cavewoman, enters.

Graat: Hi, Bloog. How you doing?

Bloog: Oh, Graat. Good to see you. Been a few weeks, hasn’t it?

Graat: Yes, it has. (Pause.) What are you doing there?

Bloog: Oh, this? Just putting the finishing touches on.

Graat: And what is it?

Bloog: Why, it’s me.

Graat: Well, okay, I see that, but what I meant was: why are you doing it?

Bloog: This is my InstaCave.

Graat: Your what?

Bloog: My InstaCave. It’s the latest.

Graat: You’ve done a cave painting, I see that. A couple, actually, we’ve been seeing them all about the village, even though we haven’t really got a village, us being hunter-gatherers and all. But, dear, don’t you think it belongs a bit further down in the cave?

Bloog: What do you mean?

Graat: Well, it’s just, they’re called cave paintings for a reason, aren’t they?

Bloog: It’s on a cave.

Graat: Yes, true enough, but we usually put the art down, you know, in the interior of the cave.

Bloog: Nobody could see it in there.

Graat: Well, people might not see it from just walking by, but it won’t last out here. Inside the cave, it’s protected from the elements, you know? The wind and the rain? Wash it right away, wouldn’t they?

Bloog: Who cares if it washes away?

Graat: That’s why we do art, Bloog, dear. For future generations. To tell our story.

Bloog: Future generations can piss off, Graat, I’m in it for the likes. I’m getting monetized, soon.

Graat: But what about posterity?

Bloog: Posterity? What do I care about posterity for? We’re cavemen. If we’re lucky, we’ll kick off before we’re thirty.

Graat: Cave women.

Bloog: Oh, yes, big women’s right movement we are, what with the loincloths and getting dragged about by the hair, and all. Why, next, we’ll all have the right to vote?

Graat: What’s a vote?

Bloog: Never mind. It’s a social statement, Graat. You wouldn’t understand. I’m an influencer.

Graat: A what?

Bloog: An influencer. I set trends. I influence the social discourse.

Graat: By chiseling a tart with her tits out?

Bloog: Well, it gets people talking, doesn’t it?

Graat: Talking about your tits, Bloog!

Bloog: Better they talk about my tits than whatever pedestrian nonsense they’d be talking about otherwise. Oh, did Dag sod up the hunt again today? Did Klod whack his toe with his stupid oversized club? Sure, that’s worth our time. Besides, people like this.

Graat: Nobody likes this! It’s obscene!

(At that moment, a pair of cavewomen — ARK and PROOT — wander past. They see Bloog’s artwork as Graat and Bloog stand aside nervously.)

Ark: Did you do that?

Bloog: Yeah, what do you think?

Proot: (After some consideration) Brilliant, I think. Progressive, even. Real women’s lib stuff. Good job.

Ark: It’s a sight more interesting than Klod stubbing his toe again, that’s for sure.

Proot: Yeah, well done. You’ve seized your femininity and demonstrated that you won’t be a stooge for the patriarchy.

Ark: Right. Totally bitchin’.

(They make to move on.)

Bloog: (to Graat) See? They like it. (Bloog goes after them.) Excuse me? Could you just come back for a minute? See, I’ve got this “like” pebble right here. I wonder, could you just put your mark there? Just there. On that “like” pebble. Just smash it.

(Proot points at Bloog’s chisel-rock questioningly. Bloog nods. She takes the chisel, adds a little mark to the wall. Ark does the same. They nod and grin at each other while Bloog claps delightedly. During all this, Graat rolls her eyes more and more dramatically.)

Bloog: Cheers! Make sure to subscribe! New cave paintings every full moon!

(They leave. As they go, another pair of cavemen — KLOD and DAG — saunters past, glances at the artwork, and immediately — almost automatically — mark the “like” pebble.)

Graat: Excuse me. What was that for? You hardly even looked at the painting.

Dag: (shrugs) Her tits are out.

Graat: Oh, piss off.


Early-Man Ennui


In my writing this morning, I found myself musing: I wonder if cavemen got depressed?

So… this happened.

(For some reason I imagined the cavemen with British accents. Probably all the Good Omens and Ricky Gervais comedy specials I’ve been watching.)

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Int. a dingy, shallow cave. A few unwashed loincloths litter the floor. DAG sits staring into the ashes of a fire that burned out several hours ago at the very least. THOP enters, his shadow stretching long across DAG, who either fails to notice or fails to care.

Thop: Dag?

Dag: Hmm? Oh. Thop. Morning.

Thop: I should say so, Dag. The sun’s been up for 15 minutes. What are you doing?

Dag: What do you mean?

Thop: Are you serious?

Dag: About what?

Thop: Dag. It’s Monday morning. Hunting day. The antelope are waiting.

Dag: Are they?

Thop: What?

Dag: The antelope. Just standing around thinking, gee, it’d sure be great if we got chased, hunted, and eaten today, are they?

Thop: Don’t be ridiculous. It’s a figure of speech.

Dag: Ah.

Thop: It’s time to go hunt, Dag.

Dag: I don’t know, Thop. I’m just not sure I’m feeling like it today.

Thop: Not feeling like it? What are you talking about? We’re hunter-gatherers. Hunting is one of two things we do in life. You don’t feel like it?

Dag: I just feel sort of lost. Kind of … I don’t know. Spiritually icky. You know?

Thop: No, I don’t. If you don’t come on the hunt, you won’t eat. That’s a promise, Dag. The others won’t stand for it and neither will I. So get your loincloth on and let’s go.

Dag: Oh. Well, all right then, I guess maybe I’ll just starve. Waste away. Wouldn’t take very long, we’re all half-dead just waling around here, aren’t we?

THOP sighs in exasperation and heads for the exit. DAG stops him.

Dag: Remember me, okay? Or don’t. It doesn’t matter anyway, in the scheme of things, does it? Nobody will remember any of us after we’re gone. Hunt the antelope, don’t hunt the antelope — what does it matter? This life is meaningless. The hunt is meaningless.

Thop: The hunt is meaningless? Fine, Dag. I’ll just go tell that to Erk and Pog and the rest, then, we’ll hang it up, shall we?

Dag: What’s the point? We bag an antelope, it delays our deaths by a few weeks. But that’s a few weeks more we’ll be suffering, isn’t it?

Thop: Bugger all this, mate.

THOP makes for the exit once more, but DAG isn’t done.

Dag: You remember Egg? Had a tooth rotted so badly he couldn’t eat. Moaned about it for days. Finally he got fed up with it and hurled himself off the cliffs by the river. Remember him?

Thop: Of course I remember Egg. He was our best hunter; we gave him a hero’s sendoff.

Dag: I envy him.

Thop: What, you want an effigy of twigs and antelope dung burned in your honor?

Dag: No, I envy him his end down there on the rocks. He had it right, you know. Took an instant of pain before his sun went down rather than weeks and weeks of the agony of slow starvation. The agony that the rest of us still have to endure, day after day after day. Not such a bad trade, when you think about it, is it?

Thop: (After a long pause.) Dag.

Dag: Yes, Thop?

Thop: Get your prehistoric ass up off that rock, get a loincloth on, and come hunt antelope with us. I’ve had it.

Dag stares morosely into what used to be the fire for a long moment.

Dag: Oh, all right.

Together, DAG and THOP and the rest of the clan would indeed go out to hunt antelope and bring back a feast.

But Dag’s heart wasn’t really in it.

######

And, just because it’s never really exited my consciousness, here’s a blast from the past that may or may not have had a subliminal influence, as well.


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