LISA
Bedtime
No one remembered when she’d stopped talking except her. It was easy to remember your ninth birthday. She’d got by silently since then with a series of mimes and a whiteboard she took everywhere with her.
She’d been prodded and poked by Doctors all over the country but they found no physical reason why. One had shouted ‘This needs to stop NOW’.
She didn’t eat much but had just started to feel a hunger. A waking need within. As her Dad sat on her bed to say goodnight she decided tomorrow would be the day that she actually told someone.
RICHARD
Mimes
I really don’t like them.
Ambushing you in the street, with their silly white faces, striped shirts and gloves, thinking they’re oh, so clever.
It starts with the old, stuck in a glass box illusion: Feeling their way around imaginary, invisible walls. Then we’re treated to the invisible tug of war, the non-existent bunch of balloons threatening to drag them off into the heavens, and then – if you’re really, really lucky – the impossibly heavy bag illusion.
And unbelievably, they have the temerity to rattle a collection box under your nose.
So, I always mime dropping a coin into the box!
LIZZIE
The Drunk Monk Tavern didn’t have a nice brew or even acceptable food but had the best mime contests. Mimes came from miles away to take a chance at winning the big prize. And what was the big prize? Lily. Lily was the daughter of a monk, according to her mother. And Lily desperately wanted to get away from her dishonorable past . The only problem was that she couldn’t stand men yapping on and on. She wanted a mime. Her mother agreed especially because they were running out of room in the backyard and the local authorities were getting suspicious.
SERENDIPIDY
She mimes that she’s hungry – she has to: The room is soundproofed and you can’t hear anything through the plate glass.
I’ve kept her prisoner in that room for nearly ten years now, and she’s become quite adept at communicating with me by miming. It’s probably just as well: I’d have been perfectly happy to leave her to starve to death and rot, but I figured if she’s going to make an effort, so should I.
Considering her condition, it’s surprising how elegant and eloquent her communication can be, almost beautiful.
She’s proof that art is the product of suffering.
NORVAL JOE
Before either Billbert or Linoliamanda could say more, their history teacher stood up. “Okay, class. Let’s have some silence as I take role.”
The two attempted to mime their questions and answers to one another, but mostly made the universal sign for, ‘I don’t understand’.
Billbert struggled to pay attention in the 45 minute class until he could voice his questions.
As they headed back out into the hallway, Billbert pointed to his friend and said, “Sabrina. This is a friend from my old junior high, Linoliamanda.”
Linoliamanda smiled vacantly and said, “You’re a witch, aren’t you. I can tell.”
PLANET Z
As much as people hate mimes, the truth is, they don’t hate all mimes.
Sports mascots with the big cartoon heads and don’t speak are actually a form of mime.
And, yes, they’re mimes. They’re not clowns.
The ones without big cartoon heads and are actual people, okay, they’re a mix of clown and cheerleader.
But the rubberheads, they’re mimes.
Mimes may use invisible props while mascots use actual props, but neither speak, and both express themselves with gestures.
So, yeah, people love some mimes.
But that creepy Burger King mascot?
Jesus, that guy is fucking creepy. No way, man.