How I write stories for movie scripts. -a one sheet-
Good luck and happy story telling!
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Beyond infinity: Art / Twenty to One / Quire to Ream / Words and Images
8 is the longest letterform
Arranged and Rearranged
Tuesday, June 11, 2019
Storytelling for people in a hurry.
The following is based on something I use to teach storytelling at my movie camps. More info about the summer movie camp program can be found here.
Sunday, May 26, 2019
Entertaining
Five varieties of heirloom zucchini were used in the preparation of what the chef refrained from referring to as a variant of peasant ratatouille. The guests were advised by courier that no one was permitted to speak during the meal and to arrive on time and leave as soon as they were finished eating. The journalist who had been invited to document the very rare appearance of the host in what might guardedly be called public society kept quiet only by keeping leafy greens in the mouth at all times. Every guest was seated by a personal waiter in an adjustable-height wing-backed armchair so that even the view of the other guests in the dimly lit dining hall was made difficult. This was a relief to the journalist who liked to eat with gusto even at the risk of offending the host with poor table manners. The journalist ate heartily and washed every mouthful down with wine from a glass that was perpetually replenished so unobtrusively by a personal waiter that after the fifth portion the journalist began to imagine the glass was in fact a cornucopia of wine and its operation was entirely the result of highly sophisticated magic.
Due to this indulgence and other factors, the host had already thanked all the other guests when the journalist staggered to a standing stop.
"That was delicious."
"Thank you. I used to have these dinner parties more often but talk was more interesting then."
"We weren't allowed to speak, how do you know we'd have been boring?"
The journalist could imbibe any quantity and still sound sober and yet, the question was entirely the product of drunk reasoning. There was no possible way any conversation tonight could have been interesting. The entire table had been made up of personages too august to ever let someone into their unguarded, hence interesting, thoughts. The journalist had been at dinner parties elsewhere with this entourage. All they had discussed were topical issues of the present state of the world, the lost biodiversity and the heated climate. Serious topics worthy of serious action, hence boring to the extreme. No, there would not have been better than that tonight. All those reputations who'd sat at this table had persona's to conjure and maintain in glamorous glittering brittle affected perfection. The journalist knew the truth of course, not that any editor would publish the truth. The truth was that none of the people who ate the ratatouille tonight were still living their lives. They had long ago surrendered to a public performance of living.
All except the host.
"I knew the talk would have been boring because I have been bored by talk for a long time. No one has said anything in my presence with any real effort behind the words. There is a word in french, do you know it? Gaspiller. It means to waste although it doesn't really capture the ache of the sentiment. I often find the word on my lips. Still, I wanted a dinner party, I wanted the world to remember me but at the same time I wanted the world to leave me alone."
"So you forbade talking."
"Only during the meal."
"We were told to leave as soon as we finished."
"You were."
"I didn't."
"I am never bored you see? Alone, I am never bored, I like the company of others but they make me tired and when I am tired I am irritable and when they talk they make me tired faster. I wish it were otherwise but I can't help myself."
"Why tell me? I was just leaving."
"I cannot burden my family with my troubles. You are a nobody."
"I'm a journalist."
"I deny everything. What I said was for your ears alone."
"Are you so weary of life?"
"Not in the least, I personally prepared your meal tonight."
The journalist's eyes widen reflexively.
"I don't believe you."
"Neither will anyone believe you."
"I am surely not the best person to unload your weariness on."
"Why did I take the trouble to arrange this dinner after so long out of the public eye?"
"Why take the trouble to cook the meal yourself?"
"I needed to care and I needed you to care."
"To be honest, I don't."
"I know."
"The meal was delicious and the wine and the service..." the journalist trailed off.
"superlative, yes. I did it all for myself. I am in the curious position of being the writer, producer, director, distributor and audience of my own micro-cultural content. Entertainment one-to-one."
"I think that's a sad way to go through life."
"My life is rich and full beyond words, I have everything."
"So why are you so unhappy?"
"Am I?"
"Happy people are banal, they don't do things like full-service silent dinner parties in purpose-built settings."
"The chairs? I wanted everyone to be exactly the same height."
"Yet in lighting so dim at a table so wide with wings on the chairs that we were literally isolated?"
"When you've tried everything within reason, the only options remaining are unreasonable."
The journalist turned without a further word and walked to the hall where a porter handed over a coat.
"A car is waiting to take you home," said a porter.
The journalist was too full, too drunk, too tired, to refuse the car. There was no backward glance. The host was clearly on a track too personal to make any sense of.
The night had certainly been entertaining.
Due to this indulgence and other factors, the host had already thanked all the other guests when the journalist staggered to a standing stop.
"That was delicious."
"Thank you. I used to have these dinner parties more often but talk was more interesting then."
"We weren't allowed to speak, how do you know we'd have been boring?"
The journalist could imbibe any quantity and still sound sober and yet, the question was entirely the product of drunk reasoning. There was no possible way any conversation tonight could have been interesting. The entire table had been made up of personages too august to ever let someone into their unguarded, hence interesting, thoughts. The journalist had been at dinner parties elsewhere with this entourage. All they had discussed were topical issues of the present state of the world, the lost biodiversity and the heated climate. Serious topics worthy of serious action, hence boring to the extreme. No, there would not have been better than that tonight. All those reputations who'd sat at this table had persona's to conjure and maintain in glamorous glittering brittle affected perfection. The journalist knew the truth of course, not that any editor would publish the truth. The truth was that none of the people who ate the ratatouille tonight were still living their lives. They had long ago surrendered to a public performance of living.
All except the host.
"I knew the talk would have been boring because I have been bored by talk for a long time. No one has said anything in my presence with any real effort behind the words. There is a word in french, do you know it? Gaspiller. It means to waste although it doesn't really capture the ache of the sentiment. I often find the word on my lips. Still, I wanted a dinner party, I wanted the world to remember me but at the same time I wanted the world to leave me alone."
"So you forbade talking."
"Only during the meal."
"We were told to leave as soon as we finished."
"You were."
"I didn't."
"I am never bored you see? Alone, I am never bored, I like the company of others but they make me tired and when I am tired I am irritable and when they talk they make me tired faster. I wish it were otherwise but I can't help myself."
"Why tell me? I was just leaving."
"I cannot burden my family with my troubles. You are a nobody."
"I'm a journalist."
"I deny everything. What I said was for your ears alone."
"Are you so weary of life?"
"Not in the least, I personally prepared your meal tonight."
The journalist's eyes widen reflexively.
"I don't believe you."
"Neither will anyone believe you."
"I am surely not the best person to unload your weariness on."
"Why did I take the trouble to arrange this dinner after so long out of the public eye?"
"Why take the trouble to cook the meal yourself?"
"I needed to care and I needed you to care."
"To be honest, I don't."
"I know."
"The meal was delicious and the wine and the service..." the journalist trailed off.
"superlative, yes. I did it all for myself. I am in the curious position of being the writer, producer, director, distributor and audience of my own micro-cultural content. Entertainment one-to-one."
"I think that's a sad way to go through life."
"My life is rich and full beyond words, I have everything."
"So why are you so unhappy?"
"Am I?"
"Happy people are banal, they don't do things like full-service silent dinner parties in purpose-built settings."
"The chairs? I wanted everyone to be exactly the same height."
"Yet in lighting so dim at a table so wide with wings on the chairs that we were literally isolated?"
"When you've tried everything within reason, the only options remaining are unreasonable."
The journalist turned without a further word and walked to the hall where a porter handed over a coat.
"A car is waiting to take you home," said a porter.
The journalist was too full, too drunk, too tired, to refuse the car. There was no backward glance. The host was clearly on a track too personal to make any sense of.
The night had certainly been entertaining.
Thursday, May 23, 2019
Suspects
"Why are you here?"
"I had to come."
"After so long?"
"I didn't want to but since I'm here, I thought I'd look you up."
"I wish you didn't"
"You're right, I should go."
"Wait, since you've come we might try and have a talk."
"Thank you."
"So, how have you been?"
"Good, and you?"
"You don't know?"
"I wish we'd done this sooner."
"Maybe this was a mistake."
"No, please, let's just sit here across from each other for a while."
"Alright."
"I wanted to tell you I'm doing well and I wanted to be sure you are too."
"Still the same old same-old. What about what I wanted?"
"You wanted to be left alone."
"You're damn right."
"So we're strangers with familiar faces?"
"And?"
"I suspect that's all. What do you think?"
"I'm happy with how things are."
"I'm glad you say so. I don't think we'll admit anything else, you're right, we're too strange."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't, I guess it doesn't have to be said."
"Well, I've got to be running."
"For what it's worth coming from me, I'm proud of you and wish you every success."
"Thanks."
"I just wanted you to know that, I suppose."
"It's not true, what I said about being happy, but I am content, lots of satisfaction."
"You look happy."
"So do you."
"See you."
"Yes, sure."
THE END
"Wait, since you've come we might try and have a talk."
"Thank you."
"So, how have you been?"
"Good, and you?"
"You don't know?"
"I wish we'd done this sooner."
"Maybe this was a mistake."
"No, please, let's just sit here across from each other for a while."
"Alright."
"I wanted to tell you I'm doing well and I wanted to be sure you are too."
"Still the same old same-old. What about what I wanted?"
"You wanted to be left alone."
"You're damn right."
"So we're strangers with familiar faces?"
"And?"
"I suspect that's all. What do you think?"
"I'm happy with how things are."
"I'm glad you say so. I don't think we'll admit anything else, you're right, we're too strange."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't, I guess it doesn't have to be said."
"Well, I've got to be running."
"For what it's worth coming from me, I'm proud of you and wish you every success."
"Thanks."
"I just wanted you to know that, I suppose."
"It's not true, what I said about being happy, but I am content, lots of satisfaction."
"You look happy."
"So do you."
"See you."
"Yes, sure."
THE END
Monday, May 20, 2019
Lying in and about hotel beds alone in the dark.
Welcome, out of the cold. Our only guest. That's right, step right this way. Follow me closely please, our lights are low. Our guests are photosensitive. This suite here, thank you but no, we cannot accept gratuities. Enjoy staying with us.
The door closes with a reassuring click. The air pressure changes as the seal of a well mitred door frame with insulation cuts off all outside sound. The room is carpeted in a heavy shag so clean it seems a shame to walk on it in shoes.
Lying on top of the sheets in outdoor clothes in the dark.
Dreams come. A previously owned car. An underground parking garage with exhorbitant towing fees. A late night meal in the only open business. Light spilling from windows onto pavement. Familiar places well worn with memory and living.
No point going there. Nothing remains. The old ugly makes way for the new ugly.
Breaking glass. A long fall. A dream but not for some.
Wanting nights to last forever in silence and darkness and peace and absolute quiet.
Peeling off outdoor clothes and folding them neatly. A Hollywood shower. Full pajamas, a sleeping cap, night mask and security with sheets tucked under the feet and no extremities dangling over the edge.
A hot cheese sandwich would go right but it is too late to eat without risking very intense and vivid dreams that involve some terrible loss that cannot be consoled by living longer. This loss just leaches all the vitality and energy and pleasure away leaving remains that walk and talk and pay for hotel rooms.
Lying in the dark under the sheets with all devices on mute and the phone unplugged is the pleasure of anhedonia: being unreachable.
Not even talking to people who are not there but just spending time with them in silence. Old people sitting on benches and watching pigeons doing their mating dances in spring. Old people watching the pigeons and imagining the pigeons are people. Not random people but familiar and younger people. Some dead and some living. Total raunch if people did what pigeons do. Old men, usually men, watching.
Reading in bed until the pigeons fly away and take the invisible people with them. Filling the day in units and increments because ever moment is tolerable if you isolate it. Segment the moments into eternities where whatever is done is all that has ever been done. Lying there in the same position all night, maximally relaxed muscles, forehead and shoulders dropped. Teeth brushed and flossed and minty.
Neither awake nor asleep. Night.
The moon rises. Venus rises. They can be seen from the window appearing to cross from one block of flats to the other. They could be lovers leaping from one balcony to another except Venus is very small. A lady starving herself guiltless. The moon is fat. Indolent with redolence in splendiferousness.
Talking never works. Listening doesn't work either. There is always the asynchronicity and asymmetry between the two participants. Talking from B to A is not heard but talking from A to B is listened to. Meanwhile A doesn't know B is listening and B knows A is not.
So much for modern talking.
Friends are disappointing. Except when they are really smart or funny or dead or all three.
Family cannot be disappointing even when disappointment is what is called for. There are reasons for this but lying on the bed is more interesting than exploring the reasons beyond the idea that friends are themselves while family is closer than that.
Anxiety is boring, frustration is boring, tiredness, fatigue and exhaustion are boring. Especially when that exhaustion is mental and it's all mental. Even the physical debilitations that flesh is heir to. Like neurasthenia in the legs and arthritis in the thumb and heartburn from having eaten too late after all.
Even Shakespeare ended sentences with prepositions at least once. Meanwhile the sheets remain cool and the silence remains deep and the moon continues to rise and the hotel and the planet it rests on spins with an ever-so-slowly decelarating motion. No point in trying to arrive anywhere, just pass the time.
As the absence of bordom is surprise and age brings fewer surprises because of the commensurate knowledge that each experience grants and among those true novelties that do come, increasingly they are unwelcome as most of the pleasant ones have already been invoked, then the point seems to be that rather than trying to finish anything, trying to find a way to spend time in a way that has any completeness to it is the point to lying in and about hotel beds alone in the dark.
The door closes with a reassuring click. The air pressure changes as the seal of a well mitred door frame with insulation cuts off all outside sound. The room is carpeted in a heavy shag so clean it seems a shame to walk on it in shoes.
Lying on top of the sheets in outdoor clothes in the dark.
Dreams come. A previously owned car. An underground parking garage with exhorbitant towing fees. A late night meal in the only open business. Light spilling from windows onto pavement. Familiar places well worn with memory and living.
No point going there. Nothing remains. The old ugly makes way for the new ugly.
Breaking glass. A long fall. A dream but not for some.
Wanting nights to last forever in silence and darkness and peace and absolute quiet.
Peeling off outdoor clothes and folding them neatly. A Hollywood shower. Full pajamas, a sleeping cap, night mask and security with sheets tucked under the feet and no extremities dangling over the edge.
A hot cheese sandwich would go right but it is too late to eat without risking very intense and vivid dreams that involve some terrible loss that cannot be consoled by living longer. This loss just leaches all the vitality and energy and pleasure away leaving remains that walk and talk and pay for hotel rooms.
Lying in the dark under the sheets with all devices on mute and the phone unplugged is the pleasure of anhedonia: being unreachable.
Not even talking to people who are not there but just spending time with them in silence. Old people sitting on benches and watching pigeons doing their mating dances in spring. Old people watching the pigeons and imagining the pigeons are people. Not random people but familiar and younger people. Some dead and some living. Total raunch if people did what pigeons do. Old men, usually men, watching.
Reading in bed until the pigeons fly away and take the invisible people with them. Filling the day in units and increments because ever moment is tolerable if you isolate it. Segment the moments into eternities where whatever is done is all that has ever been done. Lying there in the same position all night, maximally relaxed muscles, forehead and shoulders dropped. Teeth brushed and flossed and minty.
Neither awake nor asleep. Night.
The moon rises. Venus rises. They can be seen from the window appearing to cross from one block of flats to the other. They could be lovers leaping from one balcony to another except Venus is very small. A lady starving herself guiltless. The moon is fat. Indolent with redolence in splendiferousness.
Talking never works. Listening doesn't work either. There is always the asynchronicity and asymmetry between the two participants. Talking from B to A is not heard but talking from A to B is listened to. Meanwhile A doesn't know B is listening and B knows A is not.
So much for modern talking.
Friends are disappointing. Except when they are really smart or funny or dead or all three.
Family cannot be disappointing even when disappointment is what is called for. There are reasons for this but lying on the bed is more interesting than exploring the reasons beyond the idea that friends are themselves while family is closer than that.
Anxiety is boring, frustration is boring, tiredness, fatigue and exhaustion are boring. Especially when that exhaustion is mental and it's all mental. Even the physical debilitations that flesh is heir to. Like neurasthenia in the legs and arthritis in the thumb and heartburn from having eaten too late after all.
Even Shakespeare ended sentences with prepositions at least once. Meanwhile the sheets remain cool and the silence remains deep and the moon continues to rise and the hotel and the planet it rests on spins with an ever-so-slowly decelarating motion. No point in trying to arrive anywhere, just pass the time.
As the absence of bordom is surprise and age brings fewer surprises because of the commensurate knowledge that each experience grants and among those true novelties that do come, increasingly they are unwelcome as most of the pleasant ones have already been invoked, then the point seems to be that rather than trying to finish anything, trying to find a way to spend time in a way that has any completeness to it is the point to lying in and about hotel beds alone in the dark.
Thursday, December 13, 2018
Why no posts?
As I have been busy writing for publication this year I have not been able to contribute to this blog. Blogging was a great way for me to develop the habit of writing and for some time, that habit has found other outlets.
When I return, I hope to explore new forms within this medium, perhaps long form episodic fiction.
Because there is no limit to the length of story I can publish online. Wouldn't it be nice to publish a book which cannot be bound?
What are my terms for success and failure here? That is what I need to decide before I can return.
I will return.
When I return, I hope to explore new forms within this medium, perhaps long form episodic fiction.
Because there is no limit to the length of story I can publish online. Wouldn't it be nice to publish a book which cannot be bound?
What are my terms for success and failure here? That is what I need to decide before I can return.
I will return.
Monday, April 17, 2017
Interview with the Author
"What did you like about writing when you were younger?"
"I didn't know how to care about the audience."
"That sounds terrible."
"I mean I wrote with too much description, it was fantasy world-building."
"So you read it today and what?"
"I see how impatient I was, how controlling."
"Of the audience?"
"Of everything. Myself, the story, the audience, I just didn't want to leave anything up to anyone."
"You didn't want it to be a collaboration."
"That's it exactly. I was also in a hurry which made for sloppy writing at times."
"What else?"
"I was more interested in moods than stories. I could write evocatively at times but the evocation never went anywhere. I didn't understand why I liked the stories I read. I didn't understand the writer's restraint was letting me imagine more for myself. When I tried to write my own stories I tried to have the same feeling and it was like looking down the wrong end of a telescope."
"You didn't find an audience?"
"I didn't find an audience"
"So you changed how you write?"
"I evolved it. I worked at restraining myself, being patient with the story, making sure everyone wants something in every scene."
"If this were a scene from one of your stories, would it go anywhere?"
"What do you want?"
"Excuse me?"
"If this were a scene from one of my stories, we would both want something."
"Oh, I see, but you know what I want, it's why we're here."
"Exactly, and I want to give it."
"So we would qualify?"
"As fictional characters?"
"As fictional characters."
"I'd say we would."
"Thank you for the interview."
The writer got off the couch and shook hands with the interviewer. The cameras switched off.
"I'm bored by stories about people with names who do things to become things."
"What's your next project about?"
"I don't know. Except that I'd like it to be heavy on dialogue and action with description limited to only relevant external sensory details."
"Like the leather of the couch and the cut of my suit?"
"No, those don't matter,"
"What does matter?"
"Unusual details that advance the story."
"No space for beautiful writing in your fiction?"
"Looks are not enough. I need to work on my stories."
"What would the Lord of the Rings be without beautiful writing?"
"I first read that when I was 13 years old. It's my bible."
"Would making it shorter make it better?"
"Tolkien gave us a new world. That new world warranted description."
"What about our world?"
"It warrants less."
"You talk like those slaves to reality."
"I'm not, but I do like speed."
"Description slows down the pace?"
"Absolutely,"
The crew had gone. The studio was empty except for the writer and the interviewer.
"We should go if we don't want to get locked in."
"Locked-in syndrome is one of my greatest fears."
"Most people would agree with you."
"I need a taxi."
"There's a stand right around the corner."
"Can I drop you someplace?" "
That's alright."
"Thank you again."
"I'm a fan."
"You didn't say so before."
"I didn't want to."
"Ha. You are a fan."
The interviewer smiles. The author does also. Then the author is out the door and going around the corner without looking back. The interviewer goes back inside the building.
A room is filled with books and keyboards. Pencils and pens. The author is lying in bed watching the interview on a pocket computer. There is no editing of content. Only changes of camera angle. There's coverage, close-ups and cutaways but no cuts.
A rumbling stomach sends the author to the fridge. There are leftover barbecue chicken wings. The author eats them cold.
Sleep brings dreams of industrial keyboards set into metal steps on wheels. In the dream one is ordered online
Morning breaks through the windows. It's not the right morning. Memories of dreams of waking in rooms filled with light. The distant crash of surf beyond dunes beyond windows.
The sun rises black on a green sky. A colour negative. The author knows what's happened and runs down to the cellar. Down behind boxes of old magazines he never plans to read again is a door. The author opens the door and gets inside. Locking the door behind.
The author wishes the interviewer could be there. In another universe, the author had invited the interviewer home to continue the discussion, maybe more. But that was in another universe. In this one. The author returned home alone.
"I didn't know how to care about the audience."
"That sounds terrible."
"I mean I wrote with too much description, it was fantasy world-building."
"So you read it today and what?"
"I see how impatient I was, how controlling."
"Of the audience?"
"Of everything. Myself, the story, the audience, I just didn't want to leave anything up to anyone."
"You didn't want it to be a collaboration."
"That's it exactly. I was also in a hurry which made for sloppy writing at times."
"What else?"
"I was more interested in moods than stories. I could write evocatively at times but the evocation never went anywhere. I didn't understand why I liked the stories I read. I didn't understand the writer's restraint was letting me imagine more for myself. When I tried to write my own stories I tried to have the same feeling and it was like looking down the wrong end of a telescope."
"You didn't find an audience?"
"I didn't find an audience"
"So you changed how you write?"
"I evolved it. I worked at restraining myself, being patient with the story, making sure everyone wants something in every scene."
"If this were a scene from one of your stories, would it go anywhere?"
"What do you want?"
"Excuse me?"
"If this were a scene from one of my stories, we would both want something."
"Oh, I see, but you know what I want, it's why we're here."
"Exactly, and I want to give it."
"So we would qualify?"
"As fictional characters?"
"As fictional characters."
"I'd say we would."
"Thank you for the interview."
The writer got off the couch and shook hands with the interviewer. The cameras switched off.
"I'm bored by stories about people with names who do things to become things."
"What's your next project about?"
"I don't know. Except that I'd like it to be heavy on dialogue and action with description limited to only relevant external sensory details."
"Like the leather of the couch and the cut of my suit?"
"No, those don't matter,"
"What does matter?"
"Unusual details that advance the story."
"No space for beautiful writing in your fiction?"
"Looks are not enough. I need to work on my stories."
"What would the Lord of the Rings be without beautiful writing?"
"I first read that when I was 13 years old. It's my bible."
"Would making it shorter make it better?"
"Tolkien gave us a new world. That new world warranted description."
"What about our world?"
"It warrants less."
"You talk like those slaves to reality."
"I'm not, but I do like speed."
"Description slows down the pace?"
"Absolutely,"
The crew had gone. The studio was empty except for the writer and the interviewer.
"We should go if we don't want to get locked in."
"Locked-in syndrome is one of my greatest fears."
"Most people would agree with you."
"I need a taxi."
"There's a stand right around the corner."
"Can I drop you someplace?" "
That's alright."
"Thank you again."
"I'm a fan."
"You didn't say so before."
"I didn't want to."
"Ha. You are a fan."
The interviewer smiles. The author does also. Then the author is out the door and going around the corner without looking back. The interviewer goes back inside the building.
A room is filled with books and keyboards. Pencils and pens. The author is lying in bed watching the interview on a pocket computer. There is no editing of content. Only changes of camera angle. There's coverage, close-ups and cutaways but no cuts.
A rumbling stomach sends the author to the fridge. There are leftover barbecue chicken wings. The author eats them cold.
Sleep brings dreams of industrial keyboards set into metal steps on wheels. In the dream one is ordered online
Morning breaks through the windows. It's not the right morning. Memories of dreams of waking in rooms filled with light. The distant crash of surf beyond dunes beyond windows.
The sun rises black on a green sky. A colour negative. The author knows what's happened and runs down to the cellar. Down behind boxes of old magazines he never plans to read again is a door. The author opens the door and gets inside. Locking the door behind.
The author wishes the interviewer could be there. In another universe, the author had invited the interviewer home to continue the discussion, maybe more. But that was in another universe. In this one. The author returned home alone.
Thursday, March 16, 2017
The Benevolence
Howling, the puppies were fed into the grinder one by one. Francis fed them whole, the paste that came out the other end had bits of fur and bone still recognizeable in among the blood and excrement. Francis put another puppy into the grinder. Its eyes wide in terror. Its nose overwhelmed by the reek of its ground up brothers and sisters. Francis didn't look as scrabbling legs slipped on the smooth lip of the feeder funnel. Francis didn't listen to its wailing as its tail and then its hind legs were caught by the the teeth of the grinder. Francis focused on making certain not a drop of precious offal spilled from the recepticle that was now nearly full. The last puppy was in the grinder now, the machine screamed alone where moments ago it had been accompanied by a hellish chorus. The puppy was all the way through the grinder. Francis shut off. The ensuing silence was deafening.
Time to clean the grinder. Francis wheeled the receptical aside. It was a large blue plastic water drum resting on an office dolly. He picked up the end of a garden hose and turned the water on with his free hand. When the jet struck the grinder there was a tinkle of metal. Washing down the machine was just the first part. When water alone had removed as much of the blood and bone as possible, Francis shut off the water and turned to the back of the grinder. There was a large electric cable plugged into the base. Francis pulled it out. Could never be too careful around an industrial meat grinder. Francis smiled. In over a decade of work he'd not yet had an accident on the job.
"Francis."
It was Hector, his foreman. Francis turned to look at him. Hector was a short man who walked around with a clipboard even if he didn't need one. He'd read somewhere that it made him look more managerial.
"Leave the rest of the cleaning for later, we need the material topside."
Hector never called them puppies. Francis bet he had a dog at home. Francis imagined putting Hectors imaginary dog into the grinder to see if Hector would still call it material when it was his own dog getting ground up into paste.
"Sure thing boss."
Hector smiled. Francis waited until he was taking the 'material' away before rolling his eyes. Hector was easy to flatter, all men who rise above their competence responded to flattery in Francis' experience. The less competent they were the easier it was to flatter them. Francis pushed the dolly to the elevator and pressed the button for the top floor. As he held the handle of the dolly he tried to catch the cameras mounted in the ceiling out of the corner of his eye.
The elevator door opened.
As Francis walked in there was a moment when the cameras couldn't see his fingers. Francis dipped one finger into the paste then brought it up to his mouth. Francis sucked the offal off his finger looking to all the world as if he was biting a hangnail. He felt the corruption flood his mouth. His head felt light with the thrill of forbidden delights chased by the fear of being caught out.
The elevator doors closed.
The elevator rose.
The elevator doors opened.
Francis blinked against the brightness of the sun. He pushed the dolly several steps out past the doors of the elevator to a second dolly. Laying beside it was an empty blue plastic drum. It was perfectly clean except where on the side that had been laying in the dust.
Not a living thing could be seen in any direction.
Francis righted the drum and put it back on its trolley then wheeled it back to the elevator. Once he was inside he pressed the button to down.
The doors closed quickly. Francis watched them shut through unblinking eyes.
The doors opened. He remembered to breathe.
Francis pushed the dolly with the empty drum into place under the meat grinder and walked to his bunk.
When he got there, someone was lying in it.
Francis reached for the panic button. Rough hands pulled him down. The last thing to go through his head was his teeth, they shot back out of his jaw all at once and perforated his brain. Like an electromagnet that only pulled teeth had been turned on behind his head. Francis stumbled back and collapsed rag-doll fashion in the doorway to his bunk.
The person on his bed got up and walked over to him. His arms and legs moved like the bones had been broken in several places and badly reset.
Francis blinked. The teeth crawled back across the floor and reinserted themselves in his bloodless mouth.
The person kneeled down and brushed a tuft of hair out of his eyes.
"I," Francis managed. Looking up, the face of the person was wrong. To Francis it looked like someone had drawn an upside down face and then built a face from the drawing.
The person began to drag Francis to the grinder even as the holes in his head were beginning to heal.
"Shhh," said the person. "Hector mustn't hear you."
Francis tried to scream but some of his teeth had perforated his throat. The vocal cords were growing back but not fast enough. How had it gotten in here? What had they missed?
Fingers with too many joints plugged the machine back on.
Francis tried to scream but could only gurgle.
Hector returned to see Francis hard at work filling another drum. With kittens.
"Getting a head start on tomorrow? Good man," said Hector.
"Shhh," said Francis.
"Francis?"
When it was over, the silence was deafening.
Time to clean the grinder. Francis wheeled the receptical aside. It was a large blue plastic water drum resting on an office dolly. He picked up the end of a garden hose and turned the water on with his free hand. When the jet struck the grinder there was a tinkle of metal. Washing down the machine was just the first part. When water alone had removed as much of the blood and bone as possible, Francis shut off the water and turned to the back of the grinder. There was a large electric cable plugged into the base. Francis pulled it out. Could never be too careful around an industrial meat grinder. Francis smiled. In over a decade of work he'd not yet had an accident on the job.
"Francis."
It was Hector, his foreman. Francis turned to look at him. Hector was a short man who walked around with a clipboard even if he didn't need one. He'd read somewhere that it made him look more managerial.
"Leave the rest of the cleaning for later, we need the material topside."
Hector never called them puppies. Francis bet he had a dog at home. Francis imagined putting Hectors imaginary dog into the grinder to see if Hector would still call it material when it was his own dog getting ground up into paste.
"Sure thing boss."
Hector smiled. Francis waited until he was taking the 'material' away before rolling his eyes. Hector was easy to flatter, all men who rise above their competence responded to flattery in Francis' experience. The less competent they were the easier it was to flatter them. Francis pushed the dolly to the elevator and pressed the button for the top floor. As he held the handle of the dolly he tried to catch the cameras mounted in the ceiling out of the corner of his eye.
The elevator door opened.
As Francis walked in there was a moment when the cameras couldn't see his fingers. Francis dipped one finger into the paste then brought it up to his mouth. Francis sucked the offal off his finger looking to all the world as if he was biting a hangnail. He felt the corruption flood his mouth. His head felt light with the thrill of forbidden delights chased by the fear of being caught out.
The elevator doors closed.
The elevator rose.
The elevator doors opened.
Francis blinked against the brightness of the sun. He pushed the dolly several steps out past the doors of the elevator to a second dolly. Laying beside it was an empty blue plastic drum. It was perfectly clean except where on the side that had been laying in the dust.
Not a living thing could be seen in any direction.
Francis righted the drum and put it back on its trolley then wheeled it back to the elevator. Once he was inside he pressed the button to down.
The doors closed quickly. Francis watched them shut through unblinking eyes.
The doors opened. He remembered to breathe.
Francis pushed the dolly with the empty drum into place under the meat grinder and walked to his bunk.
When he got there, someone was lying in it.
Francis reached for the panic button. Rough hands pulled him down. The last thing to go through his head was his teeth, they shot back out of his jaw all at once and perforated his brain. Like an electromagnet that only pulled teeth had been turned on behind his head. Francis stumbled back and collapsed rag-doll fashion in the doorway to his bunk.
The person on his bed got up and walked over to him. His arms and legs moved like the bones had been broken in several places and badly reset.
Francis blinked. The teeth crawled back across the floor and reinserted themselves in his bloodless mouth.
The person kneeled down and brushed a tuft of hair out of his eyes.
"I," Francis managed. Looking up, the face of the person was wrong. To Francis it looked like someone had drawn an upside down face and then built a face from the drawing.
The person began to drag Francis to the grinder even as the holes in his head were beginning to heal.
"Shhh," said the person. "Hector mustn't hear you."
Francis tried to scream but some of his teeth had perforated his throat. The vocal cords were growing back but not fast enough. How had it gotten in here? What had they missed?
Fingers with too many joints plugged the machine back on.
Francis tried to scream but could only gurgle.
Hector returned to see Francis hard at work filling another drum. With kittens.
"Getting a head start on tomorrow? Good man," said Hector.
"Shhh," said Francis.
"Francis?"
When it was over, the silence was deafening.
Wednesday, May 18, 2016
Sunday, April 24, 2016
Frank the Good Duck - A bedtime story for my son
Many times, there was a duck named Frank. Frank was a good duck, he did good things. His mother told him to watch his brothers and sisters when she went out looking for food. One day, his brothers and sisters decided to get into some trouble. They went out on their own, over the hills and far away. Frank couldn’t stop them. He decided to go with them to make sure they didn’t get into too much trouble. The first animal the little ducks met was a fox. The fox ate his brothers and sisters. Frank had to trick the fox. He painted some rocks to look like ducks and the silly fox ate those rocks too. This gave the fox a terrible ache and he puked all the ducks out. The ducks were smelly and itchy but they were happy to be alive and Frank took them back to his home pond and washed them off and got them into bed before his mother came home and found out what had happened.When his mother came back, they were all asleep, clean and warm and dry in their beds. Frank was asleep too. He was very tired. Taking care of little ducks that like to get into trouble is difficult work. Frank was good at it but now he had his reward, a good nights sleep. The End.
Wednesday, April 20, 2016
[wp] You have invented mind control. Write about some of the positive ways it might be used. by PatriarchalTaxi
The first thing I did when I invented mind control? The answer won't surprise you. My first machine was simple, a used cranial stimulator I bought at auction from a bankrupt medical wholesaler. It came with an odd lot of science stuff including a used air extractor and a bunch of other goodies. I fiddled around with it and after getting some donor parts our of an old gameboy I had my mind control machine. I called it X-1. X-1 worked sporadically and only when my human subject was wearing the device. It looked like a oolander with a chin strap and lots of cables coming out the holes. Not what you'd call fashion-friendly. I tried asking my wife to wear it but have you ever tried getting your wife to wear what looks like a cross between a kitchen accident and a cable monster on her head? I didn't try too hard, that's for sure.
Then it hit me.
\
I put it on myself and ran a simple program I'd complied just for X-1.
10 BUILD A BETTER MIND CONTROL MACHINE
20 GOTO 10 RUN
It's amazing what a super RISC language can do when married to a brain. Speaking of brains, mine is in a jar somewhere. You're listening to a sidelined backup. The last I heard from myself, I was very big and very far away while at the same time being very small and very close. As if I was everywhere in fact.
Sometime/place, at the core of what I still thought of as X-1 (but had as much in common with my kitchen collander as an amoeba with a sperm whale) letters made of fire spelled out words the size of galaxies.
RUNTIME ERROR, (A)BORT? (R)ETRY? (F)AIL?
As a sidelined brain, I strained to choose but before I could I heard a voice and it was not my own.
LET THERE BE LIGHT.
Then it hit me.
\
I put it on myself and ran a simple program I'd complied just for X-1.
10 BUILD A BETTER MIND CONTROL MACHINE
20 GOTO 10 RUN
It's amazing what a super RISC language can do when married to a brain. Speaking of brains, mine is in a jar somewhere. You're listening to a sidelined backup. The last I heard from myself, I was very big and very far away while at the same time being very small and very close. As if I was everywhere in fact.
Sometime/place, at the core of what I still thought of as X-1 (but had as much in common with my kitchen collander as an amoeba with a sperm whale) letters made of fire spelled out words the size of galaxies.
RUNTIME ERROR, (A)BORT? (R)ETRY? (F)AIL?
As a sidelined brain, I strained to choose but before I could I heard a voice and it was not my own.
LET THERE BE LIGHT.
Monday, March 21, 2016
[WP] A worldwide consensus is drawn that the world will end when you die. An effort is made to prolong your life, no matter the cost by [deleted]
ONE. 1989
Benoit didn't know the world would end when he died until he was 14 years old. He was hit by a van while cycling and his bike went right under the wheels. Benoit was knocked to the asphalt and the van shuddred to a sudden stop. Right on top of Benoit.
It was exactly 8:05 a.m. in the morning, May 25, 1989.
The panicked driver jumped out expecting all his worst fears to greet him. He'd run over a kid, it was his fault, the kid was dead, he was going to prison.
Except he wasn't. Benoit crawled out without a scratch, his bike a useless and bent collection of parts.
"Omigod omigod omigod, alright?, y-you're alright?"
Benoit nodded.
"Can I give you some cash for the bike?"
Benoit shook his head.
"Are, are you sure?" the driver couldn't believe his luck.
Benoit started walking away.
"Can I give you a lift or something?"
Benoit kept walking, his head ached, in his mind's eye, he was watching a gas pipe explosion fatally burn two people alive, and destroy eleven houses and 21 cars.
That night, watching the news from San Bernadino was like watching a badly taped rerun.
TWO. 1999
"Come on man, it's just a short flight."
"I don't fly."
"Benny, could you not be Benny just this once?"
"Nope, the plane might crash."
"So you're afraid you'll die in a plane crash?"
"I'll be fine, it's the rest of the world that I'm afraid for."
"Whatever Benny, I've had enough of your 'if I die, the world dies' crap, I'm going without you, I hope we can still be friends."
"Yeah, sure."
THREE. 2175
The door to his cabin opened slowly and smoothly. The men who entered were unarmed but their movement said weapons might grow out of their hands at any moment.
"Benoit Ryder."
It was not a question. He lay in bed, chest heavy with mucous.
"Please."
The men took vantage points at the small windows. Windows he'd cut himself half a century ago. A cluster of them at the door parted like two halves of an almond and white coated men rushed in.
Medical devices the size of a matchbox injected him with other medical devices the size of a match head which quickly dissolved into individual molecular robots.
"Please."
The machines drilled deep into his lungs, his lymphatic system, his pancreas, his spleen. They cut and spliced and pushed and pulled.
"Please, can't you just let me go?"
"Mr. Ryder, we're here to save your life."
"No you're not, you're here to save your own."
"Everything is going to be fine Mr. Ryder."
His eyes looked at Benoit the way boys looked at flies they wanted to swat.
"Yes, it is," said Benoit.
They lifted him off his bed.
Pressure plates do not click. They can also be set to close a circuit when pressure is released. Like a landmine.
Benoit knew the world would end with the explosion he'd rigged over 40 years ago, in case they found him.
"Sorry, what was that Mr. Ryder? Chet, get over here, he's whispering something."
"Negatory, sniffers twitching, E.M.P. NOW!!"
"Please, I want the en--."
Benoit didn't know the world would end when he died until he was 14 years old. He was hit by a van while cycling and his bike went right under the wheels. Benoit was knocked to the asphalt and the van shuddred to a sudden stop. Right on top of Benoit.
It was exactly 8:05 a.m. in the morning, May 25, 1989.
The panicked driver jumped out expecting all his worst fears to greet him. He'd run over a kid, it was his fault, the kid was dead, he was going to prison.
Except he wasn't. Benoit crawled out without a scratch, his bike a useless and bent collection of parts.
"Omigod omigod omigod, alright?, y-you're alright?"
Benoit nodded.
"Can I give you some cash for the bike?"
Benoit shook his head.
"Are, are you sure?" the driver couldn't believe his luck.
Benoit started walking away.
"Can I give you a lift or something?"
Benoit kept walking, his head ached, in his mind's eye, he was watching a gas pipe explosion fatally burn two people alive, and destroy eleven houses and 21 cars.
That night, watching the news from San Bernadino was like watching a badly taped rerun.
TWO. 1999
"Come on man, it's just a short flight."
"I don't fly."
"Benny, could you not be Benny just this once?"
"Nope, the plane might crash."
"So you're afraid you'll die in a plane crash?"
"I'll be fine, it's the rest of the world that I'm afraid for."
"Whatever Benny, I've had enough of your 'if I die, the world dies' crap, I'm going without you, I hope we can still be friends."
"Yeah, sure."
THREE. 2175
The door to his cabin opened slowly and smoothly. The men who entered were unarmed but their movement said weapons might grow out of their hands at any moment.
"Benoit Ryder."
It was not a question. He lay in bed, chest heavy with mucous.
"Please."
The men took vantage points at the small windows. Windows he'd cut himself half a century ago. A cluster of them at the door parted like two halves of an almond and white coated men rushed in.
Medical devices the size of a matchbox injected him with other medical devices the size of a match head which quickly dissolved into individual molecular robots.
"Please."
The machines drilled deep into his lungs, his lymphatic system, his pancreas, his spleen. They cut and spliced and pushed and pulled.
"Please, can't you just let me go?"
"Mr. Ryder, we're here to save your life."
"No you're not, you're here to save your own."
"Everything is going to be fine Mr. Ryder."
His eyes looked at Benoit the way boys looked at flies they wanted to swat.
"Yes, it is," said Benoit.
They lifted him off his bed.
Pressure plates do not click. They can also be set to close a circuit when pressure is released. Like a landmine.
Benoit knew the world would end with the explosion he'd rigged over 40 years ago, in case they found him.
"Sorry, what was that Mr. Ryder? Chet, get over here, he's whispering something."
"Negatory, sniffers twitching, E.M.P. NOW!!"
"Please, I want the en--."
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