Paradise Lost

Erin Shields

• Publisher: Playwrights Canada Press
• Year: 2018
• Print ISBN: 9781770919334
• eBook ISBN: 9781770919358
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Canadian Drama
• Index: Literature

"The biggest mistake any of us could make would be to underestimate Satan."

The seventeenth century and present day are seamlessly intertwined as Satan vents to an audience about her frustration at being cast out of Heaven and her thoughts on oppression. When she finds out that God has created delicate new creatures called "humans, " she crafts a plan for revenge and betrayal on the Almighty.

Erin Shields turns Heaven and Hell upside down in this witty, modern, feminist retelling of John Milton's epic poem about the first battle between good and evil. Shields's wickedly smart and funny script questions the reasons of the universe, the slow process of evolution and the freedom of knowledge. The debate over right and wrong has never been so satisfying.

Act 1

Scene 1 — I Woke Up

Darkness.

Falling.

Screams of pain and horror.

A single light illuminates satan.

Silence in the void.

satan: I woke up on a lake of fire.

Darkness visible was all I could see

as I writhed with the pain of inexhaustible torment,

and breathed in the stench of burning sulfur,

charred flesh, singed hair, and melted wings.

My immortal form,

which had once reflected the radiance of Heaven,

now convulsed with the strain of regeneration,

oily burns bubbling up to the surface of my angelic skin.

My cries joined a chorus of agony

bellowed by a choir of my fallen compatriots,

and I stared back up through the endless tunnel

down which we’d been hurled,

cursing the Almighty for sentencing us to Hell.

I mean . . . wouldn’t you?

Oh, I know it’s been a long time

since you were driven through the gates of Paradise

by a malicious, unforgiving God,

but somewhere, deep inside,

you do remember.

Of course, I realize these are secular times,

and some of you trace your roots to other gardens,

but Original Sin’s gotta ring a bell?

The serpent, maybe?

The apple?

Ah, yes.

You should be thanking me, really.

I liberated you from the banality of bliss.

I released you from the beigeness of contentment.

I freed you from blind obedience

to a psychopathic dictator,

to a deranged monarch,

to a bloodthirsty general,

a bully,

a thug:

you’re welcome.

So where is my parade?

Don’t you celebrate leaders who unshackle themselves

from the gross hand of oppression;

humans who overcome adversity

and stand up to manipulative tyrants?

I am a freedom fighter,

a champion of the underdog,

liberator of the persecuted.

I am Moses, Gandhi, Mandela, Malala;

why I’m a regular Doctor King.

If I’d won the War in Heaven,

if I’d had the chance to write a goddamned book,

you’d be celebrating me:

statues, churches, holidays.

You’d name your towns after me,

your rivers, your babies,

and you could ask me infinite questions

about my divine plan.

I’d applaud your curiosity,

your skepticism, your doubt,

not kick you out of your homes

and sentence you to an eternity of suffering

and sulk on a cloud because no one makes burnt offerings anymore.

But instead, I took the fall.

Just like you took the fall.

I was the one who was blamed,

like you are the ones who’ve been blamed

for the miserable state we’re now in.

You know what I mean.

Every time you scroll through the news

there’s another swarm of hurricanes,

another surge of terrorism,

another man who’s exploited his power

so it’s no wonder you’re building walls,

burning trade agreements,

exporting foreign nationals

and stocking up on water.

There really hasn’t been a better time

for us to get our revenge —

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

You need to see how your misery really began.

Shall we start in a pit of endless torture

f...

Table of contents

• Title Page
• Freedom And The Fall by Paul Stevens
• Repopulating the Canon by Erin Shields
• Production History
• Characters
• On Casting
• Setting
• Epigraph
• Act 1
• Act 2
• Act 3
• Act 4
• Act 5
• Acknowledgements
• About the Author