POETRY: LATE ENTRY

Roses are red

Violets are blue

I was busy this morning

How about you

*     *     *

Sorry for the late (and somewhat unimaginative) post today. I had some film meetings to attend and in the rush of it all I failed to write and post.

SHORT STORY: THE PLAYER Script

          INT. FUNERAL CHAPEL - DAY

          All sounds of the Funeral (sermon, eulogy, etc.) are muted
          or muffled.

          Moving down the isle, pews filled with mourners.

          A young man in the front row.

          Track around to a CLOSE UP of his face. Crying slightly.

                                                     MATCH CUT TO

          CLOSE on the young man, eyes still closed.

          EXT. CEMETERY - EVENING

          PULL BACK to reveal the grave site and the people leaving.

          He takes in a breath and puts in earbuds and begins walking
          as the music rushes in.

          He strides through the cemetery, out of it/disconnected, to
          his car and gets in.

          He goes to shut the door and the iPod gets crushed in the
          door.

          It's just one more drop in the ocean for him and everything
          else he's been through recently.

          He looks down at the broken iPod, sighs, and closes his
          door.

          He drives off.

          INT. HOUSE - SAME

          As the scene progresses, the walls close in on him slowly,
          from time to time. Expressed mainly through top views.

          He enters his apartment and sets his things down in a pile
          on the floor.

          He drops himself onto his couch and rubs his face, wiping
          away tears and any traces of distress before taking a couple
          of sleeping pills.

          He swivels his playdeck, sitting on a stack of books by
          Plato/Aristotle, on the end table to face him, and stops
          when he remembers his broken iPod.

                              MAN
                    Right.

          He grabs a book and begins to read. Time Lapse and more
          books are stacked on the end table as he shifts restlessly
          on the couch.

          He takes another couple of pills.

          There's a TAPPING at his door, faint, he ignores it.

          TAPPING again. He ignores it, but obviously noticed it this
          time.

          TAPPING a third time. He gets up and opens the door.

                              MAN
                    What?

          There's nothing there.

          He stares for a moment, trying to pierce the darkness.

          Close on his mouth as he speaks.

                              MAN
                         (whispered)
                    Lenore?

          He waits a moment longer and then returns to his couch. He
          looks at the bottle of pills, moves to take another, then
          stops himself.

          A loud RAPPING sounds as something strikes his window.

          He sits up and throws it open, looking around as the wind
          gusts. A black iPod, hanging by its earphones, dangles from
          a tree branch outside. The wind blowing it around, it comes
          free of the earphones and flies onto the end table next to
          the playdeck.

          He picks up the black iPod and examines it. The emblem of a
          RAVEN is clearly visible, along with the words RAVEN beneath
          on a sticker.

          He sets it onto the playdeck and grabs the remote before
          lying back down on the couch. He begins fiddling with the
          buttons.

                              MAN
                    Someone'll be looking for you.

          The iPod screen lights up, and plays a brief piece of
          ALTERNATIVE MUSIC.

                              IPOD
                    Nevermore.

          The man lies still, staring. The iPod is quiet and dark once
          more, having played for only a moment. He continues to
          fiddle with buttons.

                              MAN
                    People get things caught in that
                    tree all the time.

          He looks down at the bottle of pills, relents and takes one
          more, downing it with a gulp of water.

                              MAN (CONT.)
                    Someone'll be by for you tomorrow
                    and then you'll be gone.

          The iPod lights up again, and plays another brief clip of
          ALTERNATIVE MUSIC. Each time the iPod plays, it lights up
          and the music gets darker and heavier.

                              IPOD
                    Nevermore.

          The iPod goes dark once more and the man shifts, more amused
          than bothered, and sits up.

                              MAN
                    Memory must be corrupted if that's
                    all you can play.

          He continues to stare at the iPod on the playdeck.

          POV, looking at the playdeck, shift focus to behind where a
          photo of him and his wife.

          PUSH IN to the photo, keeping the iPod in view but out of
          focus.

          A WOMAN'S VOICE, indistinct but audible speaks and laughs as
          her image, larger than the photo, dances in his view.

          Time passes in the night.

                              MAN O.S.
                         (crying)
                    Oh God, let me forget her if only
                    so I don't feel the pain.

                              IPOD
                    Nevermore.

          On the man, shocked, angry. He cries out against the iPod.

                              MAN
                    The devil take you!

                              IPOD
                    Nevermore.

          He struggles to ignore the iPod, fluffing cushions on the
          couch and turning his back to the iPod. He tosses and turns,
          stifling a few cries before giving up. He sits back up,
          grabs a couple more pills.

          He's out of water so he chews the pills instead.

                              MAN
                    So, tell me then, is there, as the
                    Bible says, balm in Gilead?

                              IPOD
                    Nevermore.

          His cries grow stronger but he fights to hold them back. He
          cradles his head in his hands.

                              MAN
                    Oh God, give her back to me. Let me
                    hold her again.

                              IPOD
                    Nevermore.

          He grabs the remote to the playdeck and tries to shut it
          off.

                              MAN
                    Throw you back out where you
                    belong.

                              IPOD
                    Nevermore.

          He tries to pull it free from the playdeck but it's stuck

                              MAN
                    Get out of my playdeck.

                              IPOD
                    Nevermore.

          The man hurles it across the room.

                              MAN
                    Leave me alone.

          The iPod plays a long this time, holding out the word as
          though it were the finale of the song.

                              IPOD
                    Nevermore.

          The man, crying, goes for the bottle of pills, it's empty.

          He looks back to the iPod, it's screen glowing, and he rests
          his head back on the couch.

          Lights begin to fade and his BREATHING gradually becomes the
          only sound, slowing to a stop as the scene reaches full
          black.

                                                            BLACK

*     *     *

I've been having fun with scripts lately, so I hope you enjoy this one. It's based off of Edgar Allan Poe's The Raven, in case you hadn't already guessed that. What do you think? Too literal/direct of a translation? Does the adaptation work for you?

IMMOLATION: CHAPTER 41

Books adorned the shelves in the small shop but gaps pocked the once crammed shelves. Where it had once resembled a maze it now had more in common with a picked at meal. A television set was on in the back and the muffled voice of a news reporter played through the otherwise silent store. Mike and Melanie lounged behind the counter listening to the news as they suffered through the summer heat in a dull mood.

Chimes sounded and the front door opened. An elderly woman stood in the entryway, a sad expression on her face and an empty handbag clutched to her chest.

“Oh, not you too,” She bemoaned with her wispy voice.

“Afternoon Mrs. Pence,” Mike replied with a forced smile.

“I've been to all my favorite book shops today looking for a collection of Shakespeare's sonnets,” Mrs Pence complained, “They all look like this and not a one of them has a decent Shakespeare section.”

“I'm hurt, Mrs. Pence,” Mike said, to which Mrs. Pence withdrew a step.

“Why I didn't mean to speak ill of your shelves,” Mrs. Pence replied while she caressed the nearest shelf with a wrinkled, leathery hand.

“It's not that,” Mike said and he waved for Mrs. Pence to come properly into the store.

“Then what is it, dear?” She asked when she'd reached the counter.

“It's the fact that you've admitted to going to other book stores before mine,” Mike stated and he lifted a copy of Shakespeare's sonnets from off the desk behind him, “When I am clearly the best of the lot. Last copy,” He added as he laid the book down on the counter.

“You are a deary,” Mrs. Pence grinned, showing off her lack of teeth before shifting her gaze to Melanie. “You're lucky to have him.”

Melanie patted Mike on the back. “Yup,” She said, “I always insist on my man having a copy of Shakespeare's sonnets on hand.”

“Well that's rather fickle of you,” Mrs. Pence chided kindly, “From the looks of it, your man only has a few moments left before he fails in that category.”

The three of them laughed and Mrs. Pence paid for her book.

“Have a nice day, you two,” Mrs. Pence called over her shoulder before she left, “And hang in there.”

The door shut.

“...highs in the upper nineties for the next few days,” The weatherman on the television was saying as the oppression of the empty book store reasserted itself.

“Well,” Melanie said with as much cheer as she could manage, “At least we're not alone.”

“Somehow I find the TV weatherman to be poor company,” Mike said.

“I was talking about the other book stores,” Melanie corrected him. “It's just nice to know we're not the only ones having a hard time right now.”

Mike stroked his desk, tracing with his finger the sun bleached patch of wood that outlined where Shakespeare's sonnets use to lay.

“I think it's just depressing,” he said.

Mike slumped back into his chair with a sigh and he shut his eyes. A heavy weariness Melanie had never seen in him before seemed to settle onto him. Melanie, unwilling to watch him give up, climbed out of her chair and into Mike's lap. She curled up and around him, taking his arms and making him hold her while she in turn held him. Mike sighed again, but this time the weight and the sorrow were gone.

“We'll make it through,” Melanie said.

“It costs money to ship more books,” Mike said, “And I need to sell more books to make that money, but people only want what's popular or collectable and as long as shipping costs are as high as they are I can't afford to get those books.”

“It'll pass,” Melanie said and she ran her fingers through Mikes hair, bringing a smile to his face. “And we'll make it through.”

“Well—

“We bring you this breaking news,” The news anchor interrupted, “As reports have begun to pour in about attacks on oil refineries the world over.”

Mike sat up ridged and nearly toppled Melanie right out of his lap.

“In just a matter of minutes,” The news anchor continued, “Over a hundred refineries have been attacked. Each one was stormed by groups of armed men who, within moments, overran security and began blowing up sections of the refineries with what appear to be homemade explosives.”

A fresh sheet of paper was handed to the reporter who quickly scanned its contents.

“As it stands at this moment,” The reporter stated, “One hundred sixty eight refineries have been destroyed, fifty three damaged, and a further eighteen are still under attack. The president will be issuing a statement on these recent events in a moment where we anticipate to hear of plans to finally release the nations oil reserves after months of already record high fuel prices.”

Melanie and Mike shared a look and then stared out across the shop and its gaps on the shelves.

“My fellow Americans,” The president's voice began without any introduction, “Today is a grave day for us and for that of the world. As these nameless people have waged their war against our very way of life. We believe that today's actions are connected to those of the nuclear power plant disasters that we saw earlier this year. And just like those events, we will face today's challenges with courage and determination. We will not bow to the will those who would use fear and murder to push their agenda.

“I know that there are many of you who are suffering at this time, who have been suffering, because of these recent events. And I wish with all my heart that there was more that could be done. As it is, our nation has fuel reserves sufficient that if we were to release them in full today they would restore full capacity to our people.

“Yes!” Mike shouted and punched his fist into the air.

“For a time,” The president went on. “But that time would not last, and we would run ourselves dry long before the damage done this day could be healed.”

Mike sank back into his chair as he braced for the bad news.

“It has therefore been decided that the reserves will be rationed out, hopefully preventing the costs of fuel from rising much more than they already have. This, I believe, though not an easy course, is the best course for us as a people and as a nation.

“To those of you who are at this time suffering because of these difficult times, you are in my thoughts, you are not forgotten, and we will all rise from today's attacks.”

Mike pointed the remote toward the back and turned the television off. Melanie held even tighter to Mike and together they listened to the silence that pervaded in the once bustling shop.

*     *     *

And so more trouble comes. So what do you think of the state of the book store? Does it make sense, all of Mike's troubles? Thoughts on Mrs. Pence?

POETRY: HALLOWEEN HAIKU'S

Run to the next door

Joy in each sweetened handful

Lovely mad world

*

Two year old delight

He squeals, his feet pinwheel

Bag heavy leaden

*

My knee and hip ache

Pains from yesteryear return

My son sleeps, I smile

*     *     *

  Wednesday was the first time my son actually knew/understood what was going on with Halloween and we had a blast going Trick-Or-Treating. So much fun, trying to keep up with him as he dashed too and fro. At the end of it all my legs were hurting and he was passed out in my arms...totally worth it.

  So what are some of your favorite Halloween memories? Do you have any worst Halloween memories?

SHORT STORY: SCREAM FOR THE WHISPERER Script

Some of you may recall the short story by the same name that I posted a while back...well this is a screenplay based off of it in honor of Halloween.

*     *     *

          EXT. DINER - NIGHT

          MELISSA, a young twenty something, shut the doors to the
          diner behind her after a long days work.

                              MELISSA
                    Admit no one until seven o'clock
                    tomorrow morning.

          The air around the door quivered and the door LOCKED.

          EXT. CITY SIDEWALK - LATER THAT NIGHT

          Melissa walked down the street. As it was so late, her steps
          fell in rapid succession to get her home faster.

          A foot SCUFFED on the ground behind her.

          Melissa turned and looked but no one was there.

          POV from the alley: Melissa looked around one last time
          before resuming her walk back home. The hidden person
          followed close behind her. Right before the person could
          reach her, HEAVY BREATHING alerted Melissa to the person's
          presence.

          Melissa turned but again, no one was there.

                              MELISSA
                    Show yourself.

          The air SHUDDERED around Melissa but before her magic could
          take effect-

                              WHISPERER
                         (whispered)
                    no

          Melissa's spell faltered and the air reverberated back on
          her. Melissa stumbled and turned in panic.

                              MELISSA
                    What do you want?

          The Whisperer, still unseen by Melissa, leaned over her
          shoulder and whispered into her ear.

                              WHISPERER
                         (whispered)
                    a scream

          Melissa gave out a short CRY of surprise as she jumped and
          turned to look where the man had been moments before.

          She stood alone on the sidewalk.

                              MELISSA
                    Leave me a-

                              WHISPERER
                         (whispered)
                    shhh

          Before Melissa could finish her commanded, the Whisperer cut
          her off and the air around her mouth wavered and she could
          no longer speak.

          Melissa's POV: Turning every direction and running in short
          bursts, she tried to get away. At last she turned down an
          alley. Out of the shadows stepped a dark figure.

          The man spread his arms out in mock greeting as Melissa
          backed away. His eyes were missing, only black holes.

          The man flew forward with superhuman speed and grabbed
          Melissa, spinning her around and holding her back to his
          chest.

                              WHISPERER (CONT.)
                    scream for me, the whisperer

          Melissa screamed. She screamed so loud and so hard that
          blood began to sputter out from her tearing throat.

                              WHISPERER (CONT.)
                    thank you...now die

          CLOSE ON Melissa's face as her shriek reached its peak and
          her voice choked out on her own GURGLING BLOOD.

                                                            BLACK

*     *     *

IMMOLATION: CHAPTER 40

Cold. Why was everything always so cold? The walls, the floor, the chair, the bed...Everything around her burned and yet Joan stood there, shivering in the night. Before Melanie left, she'd asked again if she could see Joan's room and Joan had to turned her down once more. It had been weeks since she'd been allowed back inside her room, and while the enclosure was roomier, it was also open to the sky. Glass had originally made up the roof but her flame melted it and they hadn't found a suitable replacement for it yet. Joan focused her fire onto the ground surrounding her bed, heating it until it to glow red hot just as the rest of her fire burned off. Velvety blackness reasserted itself at once with only the glow from the superheated ground around her bed for light; moon and stars above were obscured by clouds.

Joan crawled onto her bed, a cold steel slab, and opened the bottom compartment that housed her bedding. So far, the compartment had been sufficient to protect the blankets, pillow, and bed roll from being burned. She spread out the bedding, tucked in the sides of the blankets and fluffed the pillow.

“Why do you do that?” A voice asked over the intercom.

“Do what?” Joan muttered, smoothing some wrinkles out of the blankets.

“You're just going to be sleeping in it,” The voice said, “So why make the bed?”

“Not sure,” Joan shrugged and she climbed into bed, snuggling beneath the blankets.

Radiant heat from the still glowing ground warmed her bed and she drifted off to sleep almost immediately.

Joan walked through an empty field. She couldn't remember how she'd gotten there, but it seemed like it should have been important. Signs of civilization poked out intermittently above the tall grass: street signs, lamp posts, remnants of fallen down buildings. Nothing else stirred in her sight.

Step and after step she climbed the sloping hill before her, drawn onward by vague hints of the memory she couldn't quite grasp. As she rose higher there came into sight two bare trees standing side by side on the hill's crest. Their withered form bespoke of stunted growth and a diseased end. Skeletal branches twisted about one another and at the tops of their canopy, barely higher than Joan's head, they wove together in a bowed cage.

Wind rustled through the grass as Joan crested the hill and with it came the scents of age and decay. So powerful was the scent that for a moment joan was unaware of what she saw, and then she began to scream. Fire burst from every pore of her body, incinerating the grass, the rubble, everything...except for the two trees. As the fire burned, pulsing ever outward, Joan felt herself growing weak and had to lean on the trees for support. Her fire continued to spread outward and eventually reached out of sight so that everything within her vision was aflame. From somewhere inside her mind she knew her fire would continue to spread until the world was consumed, if only she had the strength to maintain it.

Joan continued to scream but her voice became distorted and grew into a whine, and eventually into the buzz of an alarm.

“Wake up!” The voice of the intercom shouted.

Joan's eyes shot open and at first she thought she was still dreaming because of the fire surrounding her. Then the wall to her left collapsed.

“What's going on?” Joan shouted.

No response.

She shouldn't be burning, she had exhausted herself before going to bed like usual, and yet she was. What was more, she was burning much hotter than she had ever done before; the pool of molten steel around her that was once her bed proved that.

With a strain that threatened to tear her apart, Joan reigned in her fire and sat panting from the exertion of maintaining such heat for even the short amount of time that she'd been burning.

A sudden sharpness struck her in the chest and she looked down in time to see the end of a dart sticking out from her. As the world faded away she thought she heard her voice speaking of its own accord.

“The world is burning,” Her voice said, “Burning...burning...burning with me.”

Blissful nothingness spread wide its arms and Joan fell willingly into them.

Unfortunately, it wasn't to last and Joan blinked her eyes back open. Sunlight flared into being and stung her eyes. Her mouth felt and tasted like she'd been chewing on cotton all night and her head was pounding. Joan tried to get to her feet but she stumbled and her head struck something solid and she crumpled back to the ground, cradling her bruised forehead. The world faded in and out of focus and the oscillation threatened to make her sick to her stomach. Joan shut her eyes.

“Hello?” She called out.

“Joan,” A voice replied, “How are you feeling?”

“Who are you?” Joan called back, figuring that her state of being should be fairly obvious.

“This is Judge Pederson,” said the voice again, “How are you doing?”

Joan's head settled back down and she ventured another peek from behind her eyelids. Her vision was still somewhat blurred but this time she could make out the heavy brick walls that formed a five foot square around her.

“Where am I?” Joan shrieked and she began frantically searching for a way out. The walls began to fall in towards her. “NO!” Joan cried and she fell once more to the ground, throwing up her hands to protect her against the falling masonry.

“Joan!” Judge Pederson cried back, “Are you alright?”

Judge Pederson waited for a response.

Silence.

“Go check—

Fire burst from the kiln they'd built around Joan and he and the guards were forced back from the heat. Powerful fans switched on and the fire was channeled up and out through the ruined ceiling. Sprinklers kicked on a moment later to cool the outside of the kiln as Joan's fire continued to grow hotter.

“We should go, Your Honor,” one of the guards stated.

Judge Pederson nodded and allowed himself to be lead back out of the enclosure, or what was left of it. Workers surrounded the perimeter as they endeavored to improve the structure in addition to repairing the damage already done to them. Most of the larger pieces of concrete had already been removed but a few exceptionally large chunks still marred the ground. Melted segments of re-bar jutting out of them.

“If only we could just dump her off on one of the dozen countries causing us problems and let them deal with her,” The guard escorting Judge Pederson said wistfully.

“They'd just put a bullet to her,” Judge Pederson chided back.

The guard held his tongue but the look in his eye betrayed him. Such a thing wasn't sounding so bad to him now that Joan's fire was getting so uncontrollable.

 *     *     *    

I may have come on a bit too strong with the dream, what do you think? Too much? Not enough? Also, how's the balance between dialogue and action (not just this chapter)?

POETRY: AUTUMN DAWN

Grey morn dawns upon the land,

All is still without,

Where have they gone those noisome birds,

Such preening calls their clout

Yestermorn brought loud and clear,

The calls of nature 'round,

Has the autumn come so swift,

That naught there be for sound

Oh, return my feathered friends,

Natures wake up call,

For now, without your preening cries,

My sleep, an alarm, must stall

*   *   *

I've fallen into the habit of waking up with the sounds of wildlife outside my window, but this week, all of a sudden, they were gone. No tapering off, no gradual loss. One morning they were there, the next I woke up late. Now I have to go back to using an alarm to get up on time and I'm not too fond of that idea.

So what about you? Have you ever relied on anything other than a standard alarm to wake you up? Has it ever failed? Are you like my brother who can simply tell himself what time he wants to wake up and he does, no alarm needed?