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In the year 2081, the United States of America finally achieved equality. Not the kind where people feel respected or valued, but the kind where no one can sing too well, think too sharply, or look too lovely without being dragged back down into the mud with the rest. The government handed out shackles as though they were party favors, and the people wore them with pride. After all, being ordinary was patriotic.
The story you’re about to see begins, as all such stories do, with a disruption. A boy named Harrison decided he didn’t much like being smothered. He broke free, danced like a god, and died like a fool on national television. Officially, he never existed. The Handicapper General said so. But memory has a bad habit of sneaking past guards. People dream. People whisper. And whispers, if left unchecked, can grow into something louder.
This play isn’t about heroes winning. It’s about what happens when they lose—and whether losing is really the end.
(This performance begins with a familiar tale and unfolds into newly imagined acts, offering an original continuation inspired by its themes.)
Scene 1 — The Broadcast (2081)
Form: A cross-cut stage play that moves between a government TV studio and the modest living room of George and Hazel Bergeron. The action should feel simultaneous; the television is both a window and a mirror.
Setting (split stage):
Stage Left (Living Room): A thin, sagging sofa; a low table; a large government television inset in the “wall.” On a side chair sits a canvas bag full of lead shot weights; a handicap radio device blinks at the ear of George. Hazel has soft features and wears no handicaps.
Stage Right (TV Studio): A sterile, gleaming set with a painted cityscape backdrop. A line of ballerinas stand in masks that blur their beauty, with weights at wrists and ankles. Above them: a lattice for lights and rigging. A desk with a stuttering ANNOUNCER; a red ON AIR sign.
Lights: Cold white on the studio; a tired amber in the living room. When the television “cuts,” lighting follows: the studio floods with color; the living room dims, and vice versa.
Sound: A metronomic government tone; the occasional sharp buzz from George’s handicap radio; canned television applause; later, sirens and static.
(At rise: both spaces are lit. The ballerinas perform a halting routine; their ankle weights thud with each landing. The ANNOUNCER forces air through a defective microphone and a worse stammer.)
ANNOUNCER
Good—good—good evening, citizens. We welcome you to Everyone Is Wonderful, your hearth-friendly hour of adequate art.
(Polite canned applause. Living Room: GEORGE sits erect, a weight harness crossing his chest beneath his shirt; HE watches. HAZEL knits with a bright, earnest smile.)
HAZEL
They’re doing fine, aren’t they?
GEORGE
(half-distracted)
Sure.
(GEORGE winces as his ear radio emits a steel-on-rail screech. He grips the arm of the sofa; the moment passes.)
HAZEL
You all right, dear?
GEORGE
Just another… reminder.
(Studio: The BALLET MASTER claps. The dancers freeze mid-pose, breath loud, masked faces expressionless.)
ANNOUNCER
Aaand… perfect. Remember, beauty is a team sport.
(Canned laughter. The ON AIR sign flickers; a security buzzer sounds. The ANNOUNCER shuffles papers, sweating.)
ANNOUNCER (cont.)
We interrupt our… adequate program for a bulletin from the United States Handicap Authority.
(A government seal fills the studio projection wall. On the living room TV, it takes over the screen. Sirens murmur underneath.)
ANNOUNCER
Warning to all citizens: a dangerous noncompliant individual has escaped federal custody. He is considered highly unequal. Maintain calm. Do not attempt independent thought. If you suspect you remember his name, you are mistaken.
(HAZEL frowns, already trying not to remember anything in particular.)
HAZEL
Goodness.
GEORGE
(sharpening—then his ear radio detonates a blare of foghorns; he flinches)
Ngh—what were we—?
HAZEL
I forget. It probably wasn’t important, if the television said so.
(Studio: The projection wall glitches to snow. Then a BOOM offstage; the studio doors slam open so hard the flats shudder. A towering TEENAGE FIGURE, bristling with restraints and padlocks, storms in—HARRISON.)
Stage direction: HARRISON wears a grotesque aggregate of handicaps—chain-draped birdshot sacks, straps at muscles, clownish rubber nose, thick glasses; his spine bulges against the harness that tries to compress him.
HARRISON
(turning his face to the lights as if to an enemy)
Attention.
(A guard tries to move; HARRISON shrugs him aside with terrible ease. The ballerinas recoil. The ANNOUNCER slaps the OFF switch; it does nothing. The ON AIR sign burns hotter.)
HARRISON
I am not your equal. I don’t belong to your weights. Watch closely while I return what’s been taken.
(He seizes one lock with both hands. Metal groans, splits; chains fall like shed skin. He tears off the absurd nose, the glasses, the extra weights. Each rip is a breath for the audience; each clang is a bell.)
(Living Room: HAZEL gasps, hand to throat.)
HAZEL
Oh! He’s a handsome boy underneath all that junk.
GEORGE
(stirring; then a jackhammer explodes in his ear radio; he hisses and clamps his eyes shut)
Ah!
HAZEL
Don’t think too hard, love.
(Studio: The ballerinas sway between fascination and fear. HARRISON looks along the line. He gestures to them; they quake. He speaks gently now, the voice of a storm turned to rain.)
HARRISON
One of you steps forward. Not the most masked. The most alive.
(A BALERINA—slight, luminous even in her chains—takes a trembling step. HARRISON nods, and with ritual care, removes her mask, then unhooks the shot from her ankles, rubs the raw skin where the straps bit.)
HARRISON (softly)
Your face belongs to your bones, not to the Bureau.
(He offers his hand; she takes it. A TRUST falls across them like light.)
(Studio: The house band, unsure, begins to play. A state-approved melody. HARRISON smiles without humor.)
HARRISON
No. Music that breathes.
(He waves, and the band falls silent. For a beat—silence. Then HARRISON begins to clap a new rhythm, living and irregular. The ballerina hears it, and answers with a count under her breath. They move.)
Choreography note: What happens should look like freedom waking up inside a body. They move slowly at first—each lift a refusal, each turn a subtraction of weight. Then angling to the rafters, they leap. The studio seems too small for them. As they rise, lights soften, gravity loosens.*
(Living Room: HAZEL weeps, surprised at her tears.)
HAZEL
Isn’t that… isn’t that something?
GEORGE
(eyes bright—for a moment he is a younger man, spine straightening; then his radio detonates a screech of feedback, and he doubles over, breath knocked out of his thought)
I… can’t… hold it…
(He grips the sofa; the vision slips. HAZEL pats his hand.)
HAZEL
Don’t try, dear. You know they punish for strain.
(Studio: The dance crests. HARRISON and the ballerina seem for a second to hang in the light, the world paused (rigging may assist), and the line between floor and ceiling becomes meaningless. Then—)
A great door slam offstage. The corridor fills with boots.
VOICE OFF
Stand down!
(Enter DIANA MOON GLAMPERS, the Handicapper General—impeccable suit, calm eyes, a shotgun held with the ease of routine. Behind her: two agents with state insignia.)
GLAMPERS
This broadcast is out of compliance.
(The dance continues a heartbeat beyond where it should; HARRISON touches down, between breaths, turning to face her. He stands unweighted, magnificent and very young.)
HARRISON
You can’t pull the sky down. People saw.
GLAMPERS
They won’t remember.
(She does not raise her voice. She raises the shotgun. One agent flips a kill-switch on a board; the studio audio cuts to silence—no music, only the humming lights. The ON AIR sign swells.)
(Living Room: On the television, the image stutters. HAZEL grips GEORGE’s hand. He is rigid, braced against what’s coming and the next noise.)
GLAMPERS (to camera)
Remain calm. Equality has been restored.
(She fires twice. White flashes. The dancers fall as if strings are cut; the sound is a mute thunder that lives behind the ribs. A third shot stops anyone from moving. The ballerinas shrink into statues. The ANNOUNCER hides under his desk.)
(Living Room: The screen pops to a test pattern for a beat, then the seal returns.)
ANNOUNCER (V.O., shaky)
We apologize for that brief irregularity. Now—back to our regularly scheduled equality.
(Canned applause rolls like a wave into a drained room. The ballet resumes—masking, weights, halting music—as though the interruption never happened.)
(HAZEL sobs, confused by the shape of her own grief.)
HAZEL
I… I think something sad just now—
GEORGE
(soft, aching)
Maybe. Don’t strain.
(His radio lets loose a metal bat on steel strike. He flinches; the thought detonates and is gone. He rubs his temples.)
GEORGE (cont.)
What were we saying?
HAZEL
I’ve lost it. Probably nothing. They’ll repeat it if it matters.
(He nods. They stare at the screen, where the ballerinas lumber and the band plays too loudly to be music. In the studio, GLAMPERS surveys the scene, then steps out of frame without once looking at the bodies.)
Stage direction: The rest of the scene happens in two rhythms: the television peddles calm while the room cannot quite absorb it.
(Studio: A crew rushes to drag cables, roll in a curtain. A Stagehand sprays a dark stain on the floor with a neutralizing foam; a second lays fresh gaffer tape over the spot. The test pattern blinks; the ON AIR light dims, then brightens, as if the studio itself flushed and put its face back on.)
(Living Room: HAZEL adjusts herself on the sofa, forces a smile.)
HAZEL
You know what would be nice? If the ballerinas didn’t have to wear all that heavy stuff. I bet they’d dance lighter.
GEORGE
(very quietly)
Yes.
(A harsh siren detonates in his ear; he jolts.)
HAZEL
But then you’d have people feeling less equal. They have to be fair.
GEORGE
That’s what they say.
HAZEL
You’re a good citizen, George.
GEORGE
I try. It’s easier not to think about it.
(The television suddenly runs a public service spot: smiling workers with weights, gorgeous people laughing behind masks, slogans: “FAIR IS SAFE,” “SAFE IS FAIR.” A jingle hums a tune engineered to be forgotten.)
HAZEL
Catchy.
GEORGE
(eyes glazing; a buzzer scrambles a rising thought)
Mm.
(Studio: A PRODUCER gives the band a thumb’s up. The ballerinas, re-masked and re-weighted, restart the compliant routine. Two places in their formation stand empty. A camera angle avoids the emptiness with professional efficiency.)
(GLAMPERS reenters, checks the frame with a technician’s eye. She lifts the mic at the desk; the ANNOUNCER crawls out and stands beside her, pale.)
GLAMPERS
(to camera, cordial)
Citizens: a reminder that unscheduled excellence is a public hazard. If you experience elevated heart rate due to unusual art, report yourself. Care is available.
(She smiles efficiently; steps back. The band swells. The ON AIR sign gleams.)
(Living Room: HAZEL leans her head on GEORGE’s shoulder.)
HAZEL
Sometimes I feel like I almost had… you know… something. But then it goes.
GEORGE
It’s probably for the best.
HAZEL
Yes. It keeps things even.
(They look at the screen. The studio dance trundles on, dutiful and dull. The living room clock ticks in an underfed way.)
(GEORGE’s radio emits one last savage clatter; he squeezes his eyes shut and breathes it away. When he opens them, he smiles at Hazel—soft, apologetic, perfectly average.)
GEORGE
Want some tea?
HAZEL
I’d like that.
(He rises, lifting the bag of weights along with himself; the movement is a quiet labor. He exits to the kitchenette. HAZEL watches the television. On screen, a ballerina stumbles under her shackles; the audience laughs in a pleasant, approved way.)
Stage direction: In the studio, a pair of orderlies quietly wheel a black-draped gurney past a camera that never looks down. The red ON AIR light is steady as a heartbeat.
(GEORGE returns with two mismatched mugs. They drink. The television hums. They sit like millions of others, equal in their forgetting.)
Lights: The studio drains to grayscale; the living room warms by a fraction and then cools again, as if a memory tried to be born and wasn’t permitted.
A final image: A single feather from the ballerina’s broken headpiece drifts in the studio air, catches a light, and vanishes into the rafters.
Blackout.
Scene 2 — The Day After
Setting: The Bergeron living room, the next morning. Curtains half-drawn, a pale light filters in but does little to soften the heaviness of the space. The television plays continuously, brighter and louder than before, as though compensating for something it wants erased.
Lights: Cold daylight seeping through curtains, mingled with the artificial glow of the television.
Sound: A low hum from the handicap radio in George’s ear; cheerful music from the television, interrupted by occasional state jingles: “Fair is Safe, Safe is Fair.”
On stage: Hazel knits, her yarn slipping now and then. George sits beside her, his harness sagging with lead weights. Both stare toward the screen. A pause stretches until Hazel finally speaks.
Hazel
It feels quieter today. Doesn’t it?
George
Yeah.
(He rubs his temple. The handicap radio bursts a shriek of chains snapping. He jolts, sighs, and sinks back.)
Hazel
I thought I dreamed something last night. Something big. It made me cry.
George
What was it?
Hazel
I don’t remember. Just… sadness.
The TELEVISION cuts suddenly to a NEWS BULLETIN. A young announcer appears, posture stiff, voice precise.
Announcer
Good morning, citizens. Yesterday, a false broadcast was circulated by agitators. What you saw was not real. There is no danger.
(Static flickers—the faint outline of Harrison leaping appears for a heartbeat, then vanishes. The announcer does not acknowledge it.)
Announcer (cont.)
Remain calm. Equality has been preserved.
The screen shifts to an image of a smiling family, masked and weighted, gathered around breakfast. Slogan: “Sameness Is Strength.” A cheery jingle follows.
Back in the living room, Hazel nods to herself.
Hazel
Well, that explains it. Just a trick.
George
Maybe.
(He leans forward, troubled. The radio explodes with a blast of hammer on steel. He doubles over; by the time he looks up, the thought is gone.)
Hazel
You look tired, George.
George
Maybe I was… thinking too hard.
There’s a faint knock at the window. Two SHADOWY FIGURES in uniforms pass by, clipboards in hand. They pause, listening. Hazel hums a tune nervously, louder than before. The inspectors move on. Silence falls again.
Hazel
See? All safe.
(George stares at her, uncertain. For a moment, his lips part as if he might speak Harrison’s name. The radio detonates a gunshot crack in his ear; he flinches violently. When the ringing fades, he can’t remember what he was about to say.)
George
Yeah. Safe.
The TELEVISION plays a new jingle: “Forgetfulness Is Freedom.” Hazel smiles faintly, but her hands shake on the knitting needles. George closes his eyes. The faintest whisper—Harrison’s voice—threads through the static, unheard by them but heard by the audience:
Harrison’s voice (offstage, distant, haunting)
Remember me.
Blackout.
Scene 3 — Underground Murmurs (Years Later)
Setting: The Bergeron living room again, but time has passed. The furniture is worn, the walls sag under faded state posters: “Equality Is Freedom” and “Difference Is Dangerous.” A larger, louder TELEVISION dominates the room, blaring state-approved programming.
Lights: A dull, fluorescent wash, the kind that flattens everything. Shadows linger unnaturally long in the corners.
Sound: The constant hum of the TELEVISION; bursts from George’s handicap radio. Offstage, the muffled footsteps and coughs of neighbors moving in quiet routines.
On stage: George sits, heavier and older, his harness straining with new bags of lead. Hazel knits beside him, her hair silver now, her smile unchanged. Nancy, now grown into a young woman, sits upright, adjusting her mask. Dave, lanky and restless, taps his foot against the floorboards.
Hazel
Isn’t it nice, all of us together? Makes me feel safe.
Nancy
Safe from what?
(A pause. George lifts his head, a flicker of memory in his eyes. The radio detonates a blast of metal grinding; he jerks, thought obliterated.)
Dave
(low, muttered)
Safe from ourselves, maybe.
The TELEVISION blares a ballet performance. Weighted dancers stumble in rhythm, masks hiding their faces. The music drones. For a split second, the screen glitches: Harrison’s body mid-leap, radiant, weightless. Then it vanishes.
Nancy
(whispering)
Did you see that?
Hazel
See what, dear?
Nancy
Someone flying.
Hazel
Static. They said once agitators faked that. Long ago.
George
(quietly, almost to himself)
Or maybe not.
(The radio screeches with a jackhammer blast. George clutches his temple. Nancy watches him, eyes full of questions.)
Later. Evening. The family drifts to sleep, but Nancy lingers by the window. A soft knock. A NEIGHBOR’s face, half-hidden, peers in.
Neighbor
You remember him, don’t you?
Nancy
Who?
Neighbor
The boy they said was a hoax. Harrison.
(Nancy’s breath catches. She nods.)
Neighbor
Others remember too. We meet after dark. No weights, no radios. We practice thinking. Moving. Free. Even if it’s only minutes.
Nancy
They’ll kill you.
Neighbor
Maybe. But once you’ve seen him… you can’t unsee.
(The NEIGHBOR slips away. Nancy closes the window, pressing her forehead to the glass. Her reflection trembles. Behind her, George stirs in half-sleep, murmuring.)
George
He flew…
(The radio explodes with a thunderclap. He jolts awake, memory gone. Nancy watches him, clutching her mask as if it were strangling her.)
*The TELEVISION flickers on the stumbling dancers. A slogan scrolls beneath: “Memory Is Treason.”
Blackout.
Scene 4 — The Rebellion Rekindled (A Decade Later)
Setting: A public square, carefully staged for broadcast. Banners flutter with slogans: “Equality Is Safety” and “Sameness Is Strength.” A pedestal stands at center, holding a ceremonial black box containing slips of paper. A TELEVISION CAMERA and lights dominate the space, ensuring the performance reaches every home.
Lights: Bright, sterile floodlights; no shadow is permitted.
Sound: Loudspeakers blare cheerful state music; the buzz of handicap radios in the crowd. Beneath it all, the uneasy murmurs of citizens.
On stage: A CROWD of villagers gathers. George and Hazel, older now, shuffle in with Nancy and Dave, both in their twenties. Their faces are tight with dread. Mr. Summers, the master of ceremonies, stands at the pedestal. Old Man Warner is near him, stick in hand, muttering. On the far edge, Nancy exchanges subtle glances with several NEIGHBORS—the underground rebels.
Mr. Summers
Welcome, citizens, to the Festival of Equality! Today, as every year, we celebrate the harmony of sameness.
(Scattered applause. Hazel claps dutifully, eyes blank. George tries, but the sound is heavy, hollow. A shriek from his radio nearly topples him.)
Old Man Warner
(nodding fiercely)
This keeps us safe. Always has, always will.
From the crowd, Nancy steps forward. Her voice shakes but carries.
Nancy
Safe? You call this safe? Chained minds and broken backs? Harrison showed us what it means to live!
(Gasps ripple. Some cover their ears; others look hungry for more. George stares at his daughter, pride flickering before the radio blasts a gunshot crack, bending him double.)
Mr. Summers
Control yourselves! These are dangerous words.
Suddenly, the LOUDSPEAKERS sputter. A REBEL hidden at the soundboard pulls a switch. The handicap radios in the crowd fall silent. For the first time, people hear their own thoughts, their own breathing. The silence is deafening—and liberating.
The CROWD shifts, stunned. Some weep. A child removes his mask. A woman tears weights from her arms. Nancy raises her voice.
Nancy
See? You can feel it! For once, no noise! No chains!
The people surge with a sudden energy. For a moment, the square is alive with freedom, raw and frightening. Then—
Enter Diana Moon Glampers, calm and efficient, flanked by ARMED GUARDS. She surveys the crowd, raises a weapon. Her voice cuts like steel.
Glampers
Return your handicaps. Or equality will be enforced.
The crowd freezes. Hope flickers, then falters. The silence begins to fracture under fear. A REBEL tries to shout—but Glampers fires. The REBEL falls. The others scatter back. Radios crackle to life again, reimposing static.
On the pedestal, the black box rattles faintly, as if alive. Papers flutter, one marked with a faint dark X. Nancy sees it, trembling. George meets her eyes—something unspoken, something remembered—but then his radio shrieks, and the moment is gone.
The CROWD sinks back into silence, broken and small. The banners flutter above like blind eyes.
Blackout.
End of Scene 4.
Scene 5 — The Final Twist (Many Years Later)
Setting: The same public square, decades later. The banners are tattered, the pedestal cracked. The black box remains, bound by wires, leaking slips of paper like dust. Few citizens gather now; the village feels hollowed, drained of life. A massive TELEVISION SCREEN dominates the space, broadcasting state propaganda.
Lights: Dim, gray daylight mixed with flickering artificial glow from the screen. The air feels tired, as though history itself is worn thin.
Sound: The drone of an old generator; faint static hum. Every so often, Harrison’s laugh or leap echoes faintly through the audio—glitches in the system.
On stage: George and Hazel, frail with age, sit together. Their grandson, Eli, a bright-eyed boy of twelve, clutches a small notebook. He stares at the black box with curiosity.
Eli
Grandpa… why do we keep that old thing?
George
Because they say we must.
(He coughs, shifts under his lead bags. His handicap radio gives a weak sputter, half-dead. For once, the noise doesn’t erase his thought—it lingers.)
Hazel
It keeps us safe. Doesn’t it, George?
(George hesitates. His eyes search the box. For a moment, Harrison’s leap flashes in memory. He almost speaks, but swallows it.)
The TELEVISION SCREEN flickers violently. The state broadcast dissolves into static. For the first time in years, the square is filled with something unexpected: archival footage. Harrison, breaking his chains. Harrison, lifting the ballerina. Harrison, soaring. The crowd gasps; some fall to their knees.
Nancy (older now, voice shaking but strong)
He’s back. We kept him alive.
(The footage repeats, unstoppable. The government cannot censor fast enough. The image burns itself into every watching eye.)
From the pedestal, the black box cracks open, spilling slips across the square. One lands at Eli’s feet, marked with a dark X. He picks it up, trembling, but does not drop it. He looks at his grandfather.
Eli
Is this… me?
(George meets his gaze, eyes wet. The handicap radio sputters once, then dies. His voice is weak but clear.)
George
No, son. It’s all of us.
The slips scatter like snow. The TELEVISION burns with Harrison’s dance, repeating again and again. The CROWD rises—not in violence, but in awakening. For the first time, they do not forget.
Blackout.
Final Thoughts
The trouble with equality is that nobody really wants it. What people want is superiority disguised as fairness, and that’s a trick no government can resist. Hand out a few radios, slap on some weights, and call it justice. People will nod and go back to their knitting.
But the thing about Harrison is this: he refused. And when someone refuses loudly enough, the echo sticks around. You can kill a man in an instant, but you can’t kill the idea that maybe life could be bigger, freer, lighter. That seed keeps showing up in the cracks, no matter how often you stamp it down.
So here’s the bad news: societies will keep trying to hammer people flat. Here’s the good news: somebody, somewhere, will keep standing up, even if they get shot for the trouble. And then somebody else will remember.
And that, dear audience, is how stories survive longer than governments.
Short Bios:
Kurt Vonnegut (1922–2007)
American novelist and satirist, known for blending science fiction with biting social commentary. His short story Harrison Bergeron (1961) imagines a future where equality is enforced through handicaps, exposing the absurdity of sacrificing individuality for conformity.
Harrison Bergeron (Fictional Character)
Fourteen years old, impossibly strong, intelligent, and defiant. Shackled by the government for his gifts, he bursts onto live television to declare himself Emperor, only to be killed by the Handicapper General. In death, he becomes a legend that outlives the system.
George Bergeron (Fictional Character)
Harrison’s father, burdened by heavy weights and a mental handicap radio that blasts noises whenever he thinks too deeply. He represents the obedient citizen, aware something is wrong but unable to hold onto the thought.
Hazel Bergeron (Fictional Character)
Harrison’s mother, average in every way and unhandicapped. She accepts the world as it is, forgetting sadness almost as soon as she feels it. Her simplicity mirrors the public’s complacency.
Nancy Bergeron (Fictional Character, Reimagined)
Harrison’s sister, who grows up questioning the system. Her glimpses of rebellion make her a bridge between Harrison’s brief defiance and the underground movements that follow.
Eli (Fictional Character, Reimagined)
George and Hazel’s grandson. Innocent but curious, he inherits Harrison’s legend through memory and story. In the final act, he becomes the vessel for hope—that rebellion may one day succeed.
Diana Moon Glampers (Fictional Character)
The Handicapper General, calm, efficient, and merciless. She embodies the state’s authority, extinguishing rebellion with bullets and bureaucracy. Her control represents the tyranny of enforced equality.
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