NOTE: I regret to inform you that a bit of poetic license was taken with dates. Aristophanes, for example, did not actually write The Frogs until three years before Sophocles' death. My apologies also to Robert Fagles, whose translation of Antigone I have taken certain lines from.

The stage is bare, with the exception of an appropriately Greek-looking writing desk, covered in papers. The backdrop is of doric columns, but there are no other set pieces onstage. SOPHOCLES is seated at the desk, facing the audience. He is an Artist of the sort that should be capitalised, or at least thinks himself one, and appears to have been in the theatre business for a long time. He has been trying to write, but clearly is suffering from writer's block. As the curtain opens, he crumples up a piece of paper and throws it off right.

SOPHOCLES: Gods, gods, gods! What the Hades is wrong with me?!

He bangs his head with his pen, causing ink to fly everywhere – in particular, on the papers that contain what he actually has written. He makes a bizarre, strangled sound of frustration.

SOPHOCLES: Yeergghhhh!!!

Angrily pulling out some clean paper from under the heaps of sheets covered in doodles and isolated lines of text, he ferociously scribbles out the lines that ink blotches have now rendered illegible.

SOPHOCLES: Dear Athena, Melpomene and Apollo! The play is supposed to open tonight! And I haven't even written the damned thing!

He repeats the bizarre, strangled sound. Finding that he is hyperventilating, he struggles to catch his breath.

SOPHOCLES: Right, Sophocles, get a grip. Deep breaths. In, out, in, out. Remember what old Aeschylus told you when you came into the business: when in doubt, bring in the Chorus.

He sighs, collects himself, and begins to write.

SOPHOCLES: Hmmm... Danaë, Danaë – even she endured a fate like yours.... erm... The yoke tamed him too, young Lycurgus flaming in anger... Yes! Yes! the savage Ares thrilled to watch a king's new queen, a Fury rearing in rage against his two royal sons – her bloody hands, her dagger-shuttle stabbing out their eyes – cursed, blinding wounds – their eyes blind sockets screaming for revenge! Hahahaha!!!

SOPHOCLES appears a little crazed now: he has a strange glint in his eyes, and is displaying all the typical symptoms of the mania of a serial killer. He laughs a very stereotypical evil genius laugh, but is cut short as a BOY enters from stage right.

BOY: Erm, Master Sophocles, are you all right?

SOPHOCLES starts coughing as he tries to disguise the evil laugh.

SOPHOCLES: Oh, yes, yes, nothing wrong, no, nothing at all, no, just had a bit of a frog in my throat... reading that new thing by Aristophanes, you see, er, haha.

The BOY gives SOPHOCLES a weird look, as if to suggest that the playwright is completely insane, but SOPHOCLES doesn't notice.

BOY: Are you almost finished with the play? Everyone says that the priests will consider it an insult to Dionysus if it's not done in time.

SOPHOCLES: No, no, not to worry, I'm just writing one of the Chorus's odes. Here, you can read what I've got so far, if you like.

He hands over a sheaf of papers. The top sheet says, "Antigone, by Sophocles", but not in any language that we would recognise today.

BOY (very confused): I can't read this, sir. It's all Hittite to me!

SOPHOCLES: My dear boy, that's not Hittite, it's Babylonian. The fellow playing Creon can't read Greek, but for some reason he's fluent in Babylonian. Has something to do with his mother, but I didn't quite get the whole story. Now leave me, for I would be alone – at least, if you ever want this play finished!

SOPHOCLES shoves the BOY off right, and, once he's certain that he's alone, sits back down to the desk. He's at an impasse again, as he's finished the Chorus's speech and still hasn't thought of a good idea. He is sitting, idly chewing on the end of his pen and drumming his fingertips on the table, when there is a knock at the door (offstage).

SOPHOCLES (irritably): Come in.

EURIPIDES enters stage right. He is a very upbeat sort of man, which is vaguely amusing due to the sort of plays that he has become famous for.

EURIPIDES: Sophocles! My old buddy! Hey man, how's it going?

He gives SOPHOCLES a huge pat on the back, which makes him start choking again.

SOPHOCLES (recovering): Not well, I'm afraid, my dear Euripides. I must put this play up tonight and the actors are awaiting their lines. I just can't seem to write a damned thing!

EURIPIDES: Remember what old Aeschylus said: (singsong voice, as if repeating a lesson) when in doubt, bring in the Chorus.

SOPHOCLES: I did that. And I still can't think of anything.

EURIPIDES: Even the old Chorus line didn't help? Man, that's serious!

SOPHOCLES: Serious indeed. (beat) My dear Euripides, you're a best-selling playwright. Have you any ideas?

EURIPIDES: Well, what have you got so far?

SOPHOCLES: It's called Antigone, and it's about a young woman called Antigone.

EURIPIDES: I'd never have guessed.

SOPHOCLES: I know, I know, big points for originality. In any case, this Antigone lives in Thebes and has a sister called Ismene and two brothers, except one is a traitor and so the king of Thebes, Creon, has declared that the traitor brother isn't allowed to be buried inside the city. But Antigone wants to bury her brother and so she sneaks out to do so. When Creon finds out he gets incredibly angry and sentences Antigone to be buried alive. But there's a catch.

EURIPIDES: I love catches! Don't tell me: the chick escapes, right?

SOPHOCLES: This is a tragedy, Euripides. They can't work that way - if they did, I wouldn't have a problem. Creon's son, Haemon, is in love with Antigone and has pleaded for her life. But Creon still orders her to be led away. And then I brought in the Chorus, and now I'm up against a wall, I'm afraid.

EURIPIDES: Sounds like you've got a problem, dude.

SOPHOCLES nods in agreement, and they both fall silent for what seems like a long time, though in fact it's less than a minute. Suddenly, EURIPIDES jumps up triumphantly.

EURIPIDES: Eureka!

SOPHOCLES: What? What?

EURIPIDES: It's ridiculously simple. Tiresias.

SOPHOCLES: Tiresias? Who's that?

EURIPIDES: You know, the blind prophet dude.

SOPHOCLES: Aha! Like in Homer!

EURIPIDES: Yeah, sure. So this Tiresias guy comes in, and he prophesies doom. He goes into Creon's palace just after he's condemned Antigone, and says something like, you are poised, once more, on the razor-edge of fate.

SOPHOCLES: Deep. Very deep.

EURIPIDES: But Creon refuses to acknowledge him, right? He says, You and the whole breed of seers are made for money! He calls him a bloody charlatan!

SOPHOCLES (sarcastically): Oh, that's right, kill the messenger.

EURIPIDES (growing unusually eloquent in the face of an idea): Exactly! See, Creon has been corrupted by power! His house is cursed; his downfall is assured! The king cannot avoid his fate. No matter what he tries to do, it's still going to come crashing down upon him! He can try to get rid of Tiresias, but the prophet has a prophecy to make. The whole point of fate is that it's unavoidable – as Creon will find out to his ruin.

SOPHOCLES: I don't know, isn't all this thematic stuff going to be a bit much for the average Greek audience?

EURIPIDES: Maybe so, but it's for a worthy cause in any case. Many years down the road, students are going to need something to write papers on.

SOPHOCLES (dismissively): Fine. But give me more. What does Tiresias do next?

EURIPIDES: So the king hasn't exactly been supportive of Tiresias, right? But Tiresias has a job to do. He's going to give this prophecy, whether Creon likes it or not.

SOPHOCLES is getting quite excited now. He's scribbling madly, writing down everything that EURIPIDES says.

SOPHOCLES: I've got it! Then Tiresias lets loose his vision of doom!

SOPHOCLES is beginning to get that crazy look in his eyes again, and EURIPIDES backs away nervously.

SOPHOCLES: Then know this too, learn this by heart! The chariot of the sun will not race through so many circuits more, before you have surrendered one born of your own loins, your own flesh and blood, a corpse for corpses given in return, since you have thrust to the world below a child sprung for the world above, ruthlessly lodged a living soul within the grave – then you've robbed the gods below the earth, keeping a dead body here in the bright air, unburied, unsung, unhallowed by the rites.

EURIPIDES: Sophocles, man, calm down! It's okay, it's only a play!

SOPHOCLES: Hear this: Antigone's going to hang herself in the crypt, and Haemon will find her dead and kill himself too, plunging his dagger into his chest as he realises, with remorse, that his love is no more!

SOPHOCLES has been writing all this time, but he jabs down his pen to put the final period on the final stage direction. As he does so, ink flies all over the place again. The script is still legible, but the ink blotches have marred the beauty of the perfect pages. For a minute, he looks as if he's about to scream, but he takes a deep breath, puts down his pen and grasps EURIPIDES' shoulder in a fraternal sort of way.

SOPHOCLES: Come, Euripides, let me buy you a drink. We have a play to celebrate!

EURIPIDES: But the show opens tonight! Shouldn't you give the actors their lines?

SOPHOCLES: Oh, please. This is the feast of Dionysus, after all.

SOPHOCLES runs off right, presumably in the direction of the pub, leaving EURIPIDES alone with the desk and the piles of paper.

EURIPIDES: Hey, Sophocles, what about your script?

But SOPHOCLES is long gone and does not respond.

EURIPIDES (exasperated): You can't trust that idiot to do anything.

He responsibly gathers up the papers and walks offstage, whistling.