Hello! Chad Yang here!
I'm reposting Moments of Mr. Penn because I didn't get much C&C last 
time. This is a fanfiction, and I hold no ownership over parts of other 
anime or manga used. They belong to whoever they belong to. Mr. Penn is, 
however, mine, and if you want to use him, E-Mail me first. Please 
E-Mail me! Please!
Oh yeah, by the way, see if you can identify the anime used in each part 
(yes there's an anime hiding in every one of the parts).

Chad Yang
chadyang@hotmail.com
chadjill@ms3.hinet.net
http://www.geocities.com/Tokyo/Palace/9886/

Moment Five: The city becomes still.
A very short play
Actually a Choral piece with some Choreography

by Chad Yang

Cast
A Choir of 32 People:
(32 preferable, but 16 possible, in which case choral sections should 
have four people each.)
Eight Bases
Eight Tenors
Eight Altos
Eight Sopranos

One Speaker, a member of the Choir

Stage
The City:
Foreground in front of Background.
The foreground set: Black silhouettes of various buildings. The set 
shall stretch the length of the whole stage. The set shall be lit in the 
by a dim light behind the foreground set.
The background set: A white backing stretching the length of the whole 
stage. 
Props optional. Dress casually.

There shall be eight groups. Each one shall improvise chatter until the 
spotlight assigned to them is turned off. When the lights turn off, they 
shall sing or hum the note assigned to their section, listed as follows.

Do for Bases
Mi for Tenors
So for Altos
Ti for Sopranos

The groups shall be separated as stated below.

Group I is Bases
Group II is Sopranos
Group III is Tenors
Group IV is Altos
Group V is Bases
Group VI is Sopranos
Group VII is Tenors
Group VIII is Altos

The groups shall be scattered so that none of the groups are adjacent to 
another group of the same section. Once a group starts singing, they 
will continue singing until the last group has sung for two minutes, 
making a very gradual crescendo, then a decrescendo until only a hiss 
remains. Lights will turn off by order of group.


The play will last for fifteen minutes, longer depending on the detail 
and length of the improvisation.
The Speaker shall be male, dressed in a black trench-coat and long, 
formal, black pants, wearing a derby hat. At the end of the singing, he 
shall step out from the choir to the middle of the stage and start his 
paragraph.

Speaker: 
�It was another world, shadowy, white, and above all, silent. The city�s 
silence however, was only the solidification of all its countless 
sounds, fused by mass and distance. Against a background of viscous 
blue, towers rose like bone. Volumes of unheard sound lifted from among 
them and floated up, channeled and directed to a place unknown, where it 
would be received as a dense static, a hissing, a white noise, like 
surf. The light, too, would compress upon a distant shore. As steadily 
as a machine, the city signaled its existence in a spectrum of low 
thunder, with arms outstretched to the future, and memories of what lay 
ahead pulling it in omnipotent traction."
						�page 268 of Winter�s Tale, by Mark Helprin.

(Note)
I love this paragraph. This �play" was my attempt to show its power.



Moment Six: Dawn

The sun was setting upon the waters of the Strait as I approached. The 
old man looked up. I sat down next to him.
�Sorry that I�m late. How long have you been here?"
�A long, long time."
�Sorry."
�No, you shouldn�t be. I like it here."
�You�re here often?"
�Yes."
�Why here? To look at the sea?"
�To meet old friends."
�Your friends come here too?"
�You can put it that way."
". . . Well, it�s like this . . ."
He stops me.
�Before you ask me any questions, answer this one."
He pulled an old, stained, black-and-white photograph out of an equally 
ancient album and showed it to me. Three young men were standing on a 
beach at sunset, a beach bearing a close semblance with that which we 
faced from the ledge our bench was on. This struck me as strange. Why 
didn�t the camera have any problems with the exposure? It was a sunset 
this picture was of, and the picture itself must have been taken more 
than fifty years ago! I couldn�t imagine how much skill was involved in 
it�s creation!
�When I was young, I wanted to become a photographer. Bad choice of 
profession, I have to admit, but I was young then and had no way of 
knowing. No, I wasn�t involved in the war. I�ve been a �civilian' all my 
life. I came to Taiwan at twenty to start a business with three of my 
friends, and I�ve been here ever since. I took that photograph for 
them."
�Are they the friends you referred to earlier?"
�Yes. But we never really got that business started, and we were 
stranded here without money. Eventually, we split up, went our own ways. 
I lost track of where they�d gotten to by the third year we had 
separated. They�d probably returned home, but I didn�t think so." He 
pauses for a moment, then says, �Never mind about all that now. This is 
my question: where do you think this photograph was taken?"
I thought for a moment.
". . . Did you take it here?"
�No. I took it on the east coast. Tricked you, didn�t I?"
I examined the photograph again. He must�ve taken this at dawn!
�On the east coast?" 
�Yes."
 As I began to look away, the watch on my left wrist caught my 
attention. It was five-thirty, and I decided to hurry up. I began to 
speak.
�Okay, now I can start . . ."
�Don�t bother," he said, interrupting me.
He appeared a bit tired, a bit older, and his words were slower than 
they had been before.
�Excuse me?"
�Don�t bother interviewing me."
�Why?"
�My life story isn�t worth telling. It�s just like anybody else�s; long, 
boring, and pointless. Today, I�ve told you all that�s happened to me 
that�s worth telling; everything that I�ve learned."
�Huh?"
�Do you know why I asked you that question, the one about the 
photograph?"
�No. Why?"
�So that you would think of the sunset."
�What?"
�The point is this: every end is just the beginning of something else. 
It was this knowledge that drove me on through that despair I 
experienced when my friends' fruit store failed. It was this that made 
me feel happy when I�d lost track of them. Why? Because I was sure they 
had gone through the sadness of loss and come out on the other side, 
just as I had. I was right."
�You met them again?"
�Yes, and what a surprise! We met at a meeting, all four of us eminent 
representatives of our companies. Amazing coincidence, but it does go to 
prove that nothing ever truly ends. No �end' can ever be truly 
recognized as an end at the moment it happens, just like in that 
photograph. A moment frozen still by the camera, containing a sun on the 
horizon does not necessarily have to be a sunset. We just perceive it 
that way. It might even be a picture of dawn, for all we know. You 
should never perceive things as they are in a single moment. You have to 
perceive them as they will be in times to come."
He replaces the photograph and closes the album. He stands up and looks 
at me, throwing his business suit across his shoulder.
�Sorry if you didn�t get the interview you wanted. You�re not going to 
write all that down are you? Trust me. It won�t be interesting."
". . . Maybe . . ."
He paused and looked at me for a moment, and then he smiled. 
�Good luck."
�Thanks."
He left me at the bench, leaving me to look at the sunset. I looked. 
Perhaps it was dawn.



Moment Seven: Preacher

Grandfather sat in the second bed, waiting. And I was waiting as well. 
The nurses had asked us to keep the lights on during the day, but we 
hadn�t bothered. The walls were bleached, and with the lights on, 
staying in the room would be blindingly painful. The disinfectant was 
bad enough. We didn�t need to turn on the lights. More correctly, we 
weren�t in the mood to turn on the lights.
Silently, the door opened. A man in a trench-coat entered. He walked 
over to the bedside table, pulled the small stool from under it, and sat 
down. He took off his hat and laid it on his lap, alongside the umbrella 
he�d been carrying.
�Are you the preacher?" asked my grandfather.
�You can call me that."
�You look like a good man." My grandfather smiled.
�I hope not."
It was a joke, but there was no laughter in the man�s voice. My 
grandfather looked down, the smile still on his face, overshadowed by 
his head. A tear dropped on to the sheets, leaving a small wet spot.
�I am not," said my grandfather.
�How do you know?"
�A good man does not fear death. He does not question destiny. He does 
not question the fate of his soul. He need not worry about burning in 
the depths of hell, for even if that is where he will go, the flames 
will never burn him. Yet I fear. I question. I worry. That is proof 
enough."
". . . Do you really believe that?"
�Yes."
�I fear as well."
My grandfather looked at him.
�What did you say?"
�I said, �I fear as well.��
�Why?"
�The difference between the good man and the bad man is slight. Both 
will take just as many blows delivered to them; both will burn in hell, 
but only the bad man will do anything about it."
�Why? Won�t a good man do the same?"
�No, for the good man does not question his destiny; he does not worry 
about what will become of him. The bad man will, for he does not want to 
be stepped on, insulted."
�You mean that anyone who does anything is bad?"
�Yes. According to your definition."
�But . . . how can that be?"
�It is not."
�What do you mean?"
�Your definition is wrong."
�Wrong?"
�Yes. Let me ask you a question. What is the meaning of life?"
�To live on? I don�t know."
�To do what you want to do as well as you can do it. To leave a mark. 
You are right. The good man is one who does not need to worry about what 
will happen to his soul. What you�ve forgotten is the fact that there is 
a reason why the good man can do that. I�ll tell you the reason. The 
reason is that, no matter what happens to your soul after you have died, 
you will be remembered in the hearts of those who can appreciate the 
mark you have left. If you believe that what you have done is righteous, 
then you need not worry, for you will not die. It is the memories of 
others that make one immortal."
�But why then do you fear?"
�All beings fear. If ever a creature upon this earth stopped fearing, it 
would be no different than its construct of molecules. It is fear that 
makes the living alive. "
The man turned to look at the clock on the wall.
�I must be leaving now," he said.
He got up to leave the room.
�Wait," called my grandfather.
�What is it?"
�You�re not really a preacher, are you?"
�No I am not."
�You are Death."
�You can call me that." The man smiled, then left us.
Grandfather, his eyes closed, was smiling as well. Only now he wasn�t 
breathing.



Moment Eight: The Forest

Amidst the trees of another age, 
another place, another time,
there blows a breeze, 
a breeze that cools the soul 
like a wind off the sea. 
In the moments before dawn, 
a wind blows upon my face,
Here, 
you can let it blow into your face 
without feeling the discomfort of watchers. 
Here, 
you can let it rinse your spirit clean
and never shall any question of your conduct.
and I, in the lonely darkness, 
remember the trees to be young.
Stillness dominates the corridors of wood, 
in the gaps and the paths of this forest, 
and no matter where you go, 
all you�ll hear is your own breath. 
Dawn breaks, and brings a sparkle of life.
In the stillness, I breathe and smile again.
Perhaps you�ve been here before, 
known the forest and walked its walks,
perhaps not, 
but I�ll tell you of it. 
I�ve been here before, I know what comes.
Mustn�t be fooled, for come another dawn,
It is the forest of the past, 
the forest that continually ceases to exist. 
This too shall be but a memory,
never to return, a distant dream.
Shadows and their steeds 
dance in forgotten groves here, 
in slow, perpetual motions 
that hold the darkness spellbound 
by its own essence. 
The shadows of the past dance away.
I seek to forget, but how?
The trees listen as the breeze, 
almost a wind now, breaks in tides, 
and they hear as it sweeps 
invisible leaves 
through the gaps between the trees.
I know not, and nor do the trees.
They stand there, listening to the wind,
This is the forest.
awaiting the coming of a new age,
not to be eroded by the sands of time. 
The forest that lives on in the hearts of men, 
where nothing will ever touch it.
There are no rights here.
No wrongs. No lies.
The truth that all men hope will never change
and, as long as they hope so, will never.
Only a truth that I know not.
Do you?



Moment Nine: Death Sentence

A grassy hill. The light is bright. You see only silhouettes. That of a 
man; he is thin, very slight, a young man. A figure beside him; shorter, 
hunchbacked. You cannot tell if it is a man or a woman. The figure limps 
along slowly, the man helping. Behind them, the sky is orange, fading to 
a dark red as you look up. The clouds are glowing, brighter than the sky 
itself. 
There is another silhouette. A larger man; tall, muscular. He is walking 
briskly, his face down. He bumps into the shorter figure as he passes 
them. He stops, turns about, and points to the short figure, now lying 
upon the ground. He says something. The younger man says something. The 
larger man punches him in the face. He falls back. The larger man takes 
out something . . . a pistol. He points it to the short figure. Pulls 
the trigger. 
There is a crack. Blood stains the grass.

"What is your name?"
"That's none of your business."
". . ."
". . ."
"You know you'll have to do time if you don't."
"So what if I do?"
"If you do, there is a chance of us being able to rescue you from that."
"A chance? I'll take a chance then."
"Please! We're trying to help you!"
". . ."
"Are you aware that there's a death penalty in this province?"
"Yes."
"Don't you even regret what you've done?"
". . . No."
". . . You are guilty of two murders, one of your mother. What are you 
going to do?"
". . . Nothing. Nothing at all."
". . . I cannot help you if you do not cooperate."
". . ."
". . ."
". . . Comrade? Have you ever looked at the sky?"
The "Comrade" in the derby hat sighed. He signed for the guard to come.

You are seeing the silhouette again. The younger man is kneeling upon 
the ground, looking at the shorter figure. His shoulders are slack, as 
if everything he had was now lost. The tall man threw the pistol down 
and walked away. 
The younger man sat still for a while, then slowly got up. He picked up 
the dropped pistol. Pointed it at the man. Pulled. The first shot 
missed. Pulled again. His body jerks back.
The tall man falls to the ground.
The younger man's arms fall. He lets them hang at his side. The pistol 
slips from his fingers. A sparkle falls from his face. A tear wets the 
ground beside him.
"Waaaaaaah!"
The sky above him is dark red.

"Do you have any last words?"
"Yes."
"Say them. They will be recorded."
"Mother used to tell me that when good people die, they go up into the 
heavens. I am sorry for her, because I will never accomplish that. I 
hope that whereever she is, she will not be lonely. She is with father 
now. I hope that is enough. I will never be there to accompany her."
Silence.
"Are you finished?"
"Yes."

You are looking at the younger man's face. It is no longer a silhouette. 
His face is bright in the sunlight. He is smiling.
Look into his eyes. They are strong; hard as diamond, soft as cotton. 
The rifles crack.


File Subject: 	23076
Charge: 		Assasination of Provincial Military Police, Sergeant Pingh.
			Murder of subject's mother
Plead:		Guilty
Sentence:		Death

"Who was he?"
"A prisoner."
"What was he in for?"
"Killing his mother and an MP officer."
"I see."
"Can you believe it? His last words were for his mother."
"Some people are so shameless."

Moment Ten: Dance in Delirium

"Elder sister. Sister? Where are we going? Who was that man? Why is he 
chasing us? Why? . . . Please! My hand hurts, sister. Please don't pull 
so hard! . . . Sister! Please don't run! Mommy! Daddy! They're still 
there! In the house! Why are we leaving Mommy behind? Why did we have to 
leave by the back door? What do the men want with us? Why did they point 
to us with the metal rods? . . . Sister! . . . What was that sound? 
Thunder! It must be thunder! But . . . but . . . but the sky . . . there 
are no clouds! . . . Please sister! Let go! I want Mommy! She'll make it 
better! Sister! Let's go back to Mommy! Maybe Mommy knows why! Maybe the 
men have gone away! . . . Sister! No! Mommy told us never to go out of 
the village alone! There are bad people out there! Mommy says that there 
are monsters! Please sister! . . . Let us go back! Please! . . . The 
man! The man is there behind us! Sister, he's still following us! Why is 
he following us! Have we done something wrong? Is that why he's chasing 
us? But . . . What have we done wrong? Did we do something to those men? 
Is that why they're chasing us? Is it? . . . Sister. Sister! Please 
answer me! . . . Ow! Please sister! Don't pull so hard! It hurts really 
bad! . . . Ow! Sister! Sister! Please don't leave me behind! My knee! My 
knee is bleeding! Sister! Sister!"

My younger sister has fallen. The man is coming. I have to hurry.
We were running to fast, and now she is a distance away. The man is 
nearing her. 
My heart! My heart is going to stop. It's pounding so loud. Why?
As I run back to my sister, I can hear nothing but the sound of my 
heartbeat. I lose my balance and fall next to my sister. 
The man he is running too. He's coming nearer and nearer. I close my 
eyes.
Pound. Pound. Pound. 
Is it my heart? 
Pound. Pound. Pound.
Or is it his footsteps?
Pound. Pound. Pound.
It cannot be my heart. My heart should be faster. 
Pound. Pound. Pound. 
No one could be that slow in step.
I feel my cold sweat.
Pound. Pound. Pound.
What is it? I don't know.
The pounding stops.
I wait, my eyes squeezed shut.
Nothing happens. And still nothing. I open my eyes.
The soldier is standing above me. I see his form against the bright of 
the sky, the bright of the son. I do not see his face. Only that he 
doesn't have a gun. He is reaching out, ready to pull me up. 

Moment Eleven: Rainy Day

It was raining. Hard. I had made up my mind that since I could not 
possibly get home with a single dry spot on me, I would get as wet as 
possible. It wasn't as if it mattered.
Before me the street was blurry. Rain drops made a white mist, only I 
could feel it; liquid mist. The stores were closed today, and there 
wasn't a single person on the street. It was as if I were wandering 
about a deserted city in a dream. I didn' t know where I was. I had come 
out this morning with the single goal of getting somewhere, and I think 
I'd succeeded. What in? Getting myself lost. 
I trudged on, the weight of the rain in my soaked pants making each one 
of my steps slow and heavy. My shoes were soaked through, and I had the 
distinct feeling that the skin on the bottom of my feet were melting, 
coming off in the acid rain. Maybe not, but it is a good exercise of 
imagination. Whatever the truth, it did annoy me a bit. The rain seemed 
to go in and not come back out again. It got warmed by the warmth of my 
feet, and it was the warmth that annoyed me. I had wanted to get 
completely wet. This was not for the sake of being wet; rather, it was 
to embrace the coolness of the rain. Perhaps embrace is not the right 
word. You cannot embrace rain. It would fall straight between your arms. 
No, I was not embracing rain. I was swimming in it. The cold of the rain 
cooled my soul, washed me free of any nagging thought. That was why the 
warm water at my feet annoyed me. I was not completely washed. I kept on 
having to step into puddles to refill my shoes with cold water. Thank 
goodness the streets in Saigon were so bumpy.
I do not know the reason, but I was feeling light hearted. Very happy. I 
cannot say that I had ever felt happier in my entire life. The little 
bubbly sounds that my shoes made with every new step did not in the 
least way effect my state. All I thought was, "Ah, so it's not my skin 
floating around in my shoe, it's the bubbles!" This silenced any 
argument I could possibly have with myself. Sometimes when I remember 
this, I cannot help but wonder if I have a trace of madness in my blood 
as well. It runs in my family, you know. My uncle, he went mad during 
the war. He went out when the bomb shells were being dropped. We never 
saw him again. Rain bombarded me. I believe there are similarities. I 
broke into mad, maniacal laughter, like drunk downstairs does sometimes. 
The laughing is hard, by extremely light. It was as if a man was trying 
to laugh like a child. The harder I laughed, the better I felt, and I 
laughed harder and harder.
My mother taught me to read. She has a library of really bad romance 
novels, with no other purpose but to satisfy the thirsts of extremely 
bored people. She taught me to read by teaching me all the words on each 
page, one by one until I could read them all. In these novels, you 
always get a scene where a man's lost his lover, and he goes out on to 
the rainy street and cries. I really don't think that ever happens in 
life. Or I would have done it three times now. No, I do not cry. I was 
running down the street in the rain, the weight of the water blunting my 
actions. I did not know where I was going. Only that it just felt right 
right then. It felt right to be running in the rain, exposing myself to 
as much rain as possible. Laughing; yelling; singing at the top of my 
lungs. I ran and ran and ran, not stopping, not bothering to look 
around. I couldn't see a thing, for my vision was blurred by the rain in 
my eyes. 
It is acid rain. For my eyes hurted. Warm liquid flowed down the side of 
my cheek. Tears? Rain? It didn't matter. For at least somebody, somebody 
was mourning for my sister. The sky was crying for her.
I hated myself. I hated that I cannot drop a in a time like this. Three 
months previous, I turned her out because I found out because I found 
out where she got her money. The day before, I had to beg in order to 
see her body. And I was now running in rain laughing. I should be 
ashamed.





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