Silence Too Is Punctuation – A One-Act Play
Makari | The Notebooks: Process and Drafts — Practicing Out Loud — One Scene, Three Ways
This is Post 3 of a 4-part series. All posts in this practice are tagged “Form Speaks Back.”
To start from the beginning → Read Post 1.
CAST
UNCLE JOE – In his 60s–70s, reflective, sharp-tongued, wry.
SAM – 16 years old, confident, questioning, intellectually agile.
ME – Off-stage voice; a parent, warm and observant.
FAMILY – Non-speaking roles; they enter at the end.
SETTING
An open-plan space with a cozy sitting room and an adjacent kitchen. Two chairs are angled toward each other, with a small table between them and an unopened bottle of wine resting on top. From the kitchen come the distant clink of cutlery and the smell of dinner in progress. The kitchen and sitting room share an open line of sight, allowing sound and glances to pass easily between them. Warm late-afternoon light filters through a window, casting soft shadows. A quiet current of history and tension runs beneath it all.
SCENE
(UNCLE JOE sits in one of the chairs, relaxed. SAM lounges across from him. The mood is casual, but words carry weight.)
UNCLE JOE
You know, when I was a boy—long before your generation decided punctuation was optional—every pause had meaning.
We didn’t just speak our minds; we composed ourselves.
A sentence was an act of civility.
And silence?
Silence was punctuation too.
SAM
Uncle Joe, your generation didn’t have much to say.
You needed punctuation and silence.
UNCLE JOE
(chuckles, leans back)
Maybe.
But we earned the silence, kid. We sat with it. Let it ferment.
You lot? You fill every space like you're afraid of being alone in your own echo.
Words come cheap now—fast, loud, and half-finished.
It’s not that you don’t have anything to say.
It’s that you haven’t learned how to listen yet.
SAM
First, your generation was just as afraid of being alone—if not more.
We do listen. And we speak.
You call it noise.
I call it contribution.
UNCLE JOE
(pauses, eyes narrowing—not angry, just weighing it)
"Contribution"—that’s a noble word.
But noise wears the same coat if you never take time to tailor it.
I’m not knocking passion—God knows the world needs more of it.
But passion without aim?
That’s fire with no hearth.
SAM
Maybe we’re not looking for your hearth.
Maybe we’re lighting something else.
You all built the room, sure—but now you want to lock the door behind you.
We’re not just speaking—we’re undoing walls with our words.
UNCLE JOE
(quiet, voice low)
Walls hold up roofs too, you know.
Take them all down, and the sky doesn’t always feel like freedom.
Sometimes it just rains.
SAM
Then we’ll learn how to dance wet.
You taught us silence.
Now let us teach you sound.
(A brief silence. It hums with respect—not agreement, but something like it.)
ME
(offstage, calling from the kitchen, voice warm but firm)
Come on, kids—it’s time for dinner.
Sam, grab the wine Uncle Joe brought us, will you?
I’ve been looking forward to sharing it.
(A beat. SAM and UNCLE JOE glance at each other—neither victorious, both a little altered.)
UNCLE JOE
Just don’t open it like you open conversations—fast, loud, and half-finished.
SAM
(grabs the bottle with a wink)
Don’t worry. I’m composing myself.
(Footsteps. SAM crosses toward the kitchen. UNCLE JOE follows—slower, but not grudging. The sound of clinking plates, chairs moving. Laughter from beyond the doorway. The soft pop of a cork.)
(ME enters briefly from upstage, glances back as SAM and UNCLE JOE share a quiet look—half smile, half ceasefire.)
ME
(softly, almost to themself)
They’ve got each other.
Keeps the edges sharp... and the hearts soft.
(Lights warm. Fade out.)
END
The Notebooks unfold in the archive. This one wandered out to greet you. If you’d like more, come find us inside. ✍️
See all posts in the series: Form Speaks Back
Explore more:
See the Other Posts in this Series | Home | Archive | About this Publication | FAQs | Copyright & Usage Notice | From Her Journal | Process and Drafts | All Posts in The Notebooks
