|Posted on Friday, October 25, 2002 - 10:17 pm: |
EXT. INTERNATIONAL SPACE STATION - DAY
Well, technically itís day because itís not on the dark side of the earth right now; but in space, day and night are mostly artificial.
An airlock door opens and LIEUTENANT PETROFSKI leaves the space station. Unfortunately, sheís not wearing a space suit. She screams soundlessly and convulses violently before exploding into pink mist.
INT. SPACE STATION, AIRLOCK - CONTINUOUS
CAPTAIN TERRIL looks through the small view port in the inner airlock hatch. He looks in horror at the cloud that used to be Petrofski.
TERRIL: Oh, Anna...
He pulls back from the hatch and pauses briefly before hitting the switch to close the outer airlock hatch. He turns away from the airlock, takes a deep breath to calm himself, and heads for his quarters.
IN TERRILíS QUARTERS - CONTINUOUS
Terril heads straight for his closet. He pulls out his space suit and goes through the time consuming task of donning it. With helmet in hand he heads for the hatch...
But wait. He goes to his bunk. Beside it is a framed picture. Terril, his wife, and his two kids are smiling for the camera. He smashes the picture against the nightstand to break the glass so he can take the photo.
Thatís all he needs. He heads for the command center.
IN THE COMMAND CENTER - CONTINUOUS
Terril sits in the command chair. He pauses to gather his thoughts before flipping a switch.
TERRIL: Captainís log: final entry. Iím the last one on Alpha. Lieutenant Anastasia Petrofski chose to space herself this morning.
He pinches the space between his eyes.
TERRIL: I almost got there in time to stop her, but she probably would have just been pissed at me if I did. You have to admit she chose a unique method.
He looks at the photograph of his family then tucks it inside his helmet.
TERRIL: Lieutenant Harris hanging himself was mundane by comparison. Iíll take my chances with the X-38 and attempt to return to earth.
He stands, too anxious to stay seated.
TERRIL: No external communication for three months doesnít mean everyoneís dead down there, but Iíd rather die there than alone up here.
He flips the switch to close the log then heads for the escape pod.
IN THE ESCAPE POD - CONTINUOUS
Terril straps himself in and puts on his helmet. He energizes the control panels and checks the gauges.
TERRIL: I never thought I would be the first to test this thing.
He pushes the button labeled RELEASE.
EXT. SPACE STATION - CONTINUOUS
The X-38 is pushed away from the space station with a blast of compressed air and begins its long glide to earth.
FADE TO BLACK.
|Posted on Tuesday, September 24, 2002 - 2:41 am: |
"He got a pecker on him that Pangborn Stank. Its what got him in trouble. He suffers from restless penis syndrome."
Mrs. Stank, Pangborn's mom, with the grey moustache and sunflower print mumu, is once again spouting off about her son in front of a completely disinterested collection of Tupperware cultists. She's on a roll. (the camera jiggles and jags in the Dogme style). Right about the time that Mrs. Stank is revving up to share her
rabid opinions on Pangborn's drug problems, two big black dudes enter the room. The erect and proudly airtight Tupperware begins to wilt and emanate small blasts of fartlike air.
|Posted on Monday, September 23, 2002 - 2:22 pm: |
EXT. DESERT - NIGHT
It's the high desert of Southern California. A place that can be 120 degrees in summer and have snow on the cactus in winter.
A coyote howls in the distance; its mournful cry is picked up and echoed by others.
Overhead is nature's light show. Away from the artificial lights of the city, the moon and stars shine almost impossibly bright.
And as an added bonus, there's a meteor shower tonight. The trails glow across the sky for only a few seconds each, but they are memorable in their beauty.
A bit unusual...one of the flashes appears as a point instead of a trail. It's coming into the atmosphere instead of just across it.
A short time later, a red-hot meteorite creates a crater in the sand where it impacted.
The meteorite is small, maybe ten centimeters across. As it cools, it becomes highly reflective. Soon it looks like a small puddle of mercury sitting in the crater, then it's absorbed into the sand.
The moon continues its travels across the sky and eventually shines down on a small growth in the bottom of the crater. The growth is visibly increasing in size.
By morning it looks like a single ear of corn, growing upright, still in its husk, a spill of reddish-brown hair coming out at the top.
The strange part of it is the husk is a swirl of green and purple and brown.
Oh yeah...and it's six feet tall.
There is apparently some movement inside the husk and suddenly two hands appear out the top. They are smooth and delicate and it isn't long before the hands stretch up to their full reach, exposing matching forearms.
The arms spread apart which splits open the husk, and the hands start to pull the husk away. Bit by bit, these actions reveal a beautiful young lady inside the husk. Long reddish-brown hair falls below her shoulders.
Her feet are attached inside the bottom of the strange plant. She pulls them up one at a time, her toes appear more as torn-off roots than as toes.
Freed from her cocoon, she pulls some of the lining from the inside of the husk. It's silky and flowing and has the same green-purple-brown colors as the husk.
She wraps and ties this lining about her body to create simple clothing. Satisfied with the results, she walks off into the seemingly-endless desert, away from the rising sun.
FADE TO BLACK.
|Posted on Sunday, September 22, 2002 - 10:27 pm: |
Blood all down the front of his shirt, Pangborn Stank slowly makes his way across the deserted parking lot. In the background the red neon vacancy sign pulsates like an oozing wound. Stank is bleeding profusely. His eyes are bugging, his forehead glistening with sweat.
"motherfucking hell. Who the fuck? I'll kill em. I'll fucking kill em. Deader than dead. Motherfuckers."
The camera cuts to a woman sitting in the driver seat of a late model Mercedes. She's smoking a
cigarette. There's a box of Balkan Sobranies on the dashboard. Middle Eastern music plays quietly on the car's stereo. She exhales an extravagantly
large plume of blue/grey smoke. She smiles. A gold tooth. She rolls the down the car window.
" Stank, Stank. Get in the car. Get in the fucking car."
Stank turns. He recognizes the voice. He mumbles to himself.
"The cunt. Its the fucking gypsy cunt. I'm twice lucky tonight. I got a hole in my goddamned stomach. And now my heart's about to be ripped out of my fucking chest."
Stank lurches toward the car.
"Tanya, is that you? That you, baby?"
|Posted on Sunday, September 22, 2002 - 10:10 pm: |
EXT. PARK - DAY
It's a nice municipal park. Trees for shade, a pond for the ducks, swings and things for the kids. It's mid-week and mid-day, so the park isn't too crowded. GRAHAM EBERSOLE is sitting in the shade of a tree reading a book for one of his assignments. He's currently enrolled at the local community college. BERNICE TRACKER is walking slowly along one of the paths. She has to use her cane, but she will not let age get in the way of regular exercise. Ebersole notices Tracker out of the corner of his eye. At her present rate, it will take her a minute or so to get to where he is studying.
EBERSOLE (voice over): Dammit! Why does she have to come by here.
He doesn't put down the book. He keeps holding it like he's reading it, but his mind is only on Tracker.
EBERSOLE (v.o.): I can't stand that woman. Always meddling in other people's business. Why can't she just keep to herself?
He tries to get back to his book, but he's too wound up now.
EBERSOLE (v.o.): I guess I'm just going to have to study at the school from now on. Why does this happen to me?
Tracker is in conversational range now.
TRACKER: Hello, Graham. How are you today?
Ebersole looks up at her and answers in the politest voice he owns.
EBERSOLE: Fine, Mrs. Tracker. You look well today.
TRACKER: Thank you, Graham. It's a beautiful day to do your homework outside.
EBERSOLE: Yes, I like to study in the park. It's so relaxing.
He shifts topics slightly.
EBERSOLE: Is Mr. Tracker okay?
TRACKER: Oh, I'm sure he is. Fred said his hip was just a little stiff this morning and he doesn't want to overdo it.
EBERSOLE: Give him my best.
TRACKER: I certainly will.
She starts to move along.
TRACKER: Well, I better keep moving. Need my exercise. See you later, Graham.
EBERSOLE: Bye, Mrs. Tracker.
He continues to ignore the book in his lap as he watches her put some distance between them.
EBERSOLE (v.o.): Meddling bitch. Always has to stick her nose in everyone else's business. I'm surprised Fred hasn't killed her yet.
He finally returns to his book.
FADE TO BLACK.
|Posted on Sunday, September 22, 2002 - 10:08 pm: |
Lovecraft is always a good starting point...
|Posted on Sunday, September 22, 2002 - 9:21 pm: |
That was a fun one thanks Lanman.
|Posted on Sunday, September 22, 2002 - 10:55 am: |
EXT. SHOPPING MALL - DAY
It's a big, popular place. All the big anchors on the ends. Lots of interesting filler in between.
INT. SHOPPING MALL, FOOD COURT - DAY
It's lunchtime, so the place is packed. Everyone is searching out their favorite overly-processed meal to wolf down so they can get back to shopping. JASON GRIBLEY sits alone at a small table. He's sporting a few days worth of stubble and his clothes are rumpled, like he been in them for a while. He looks like he hasn't slept in a while. No one pays any attention to him. But then, HANS KRUPHAUS sits in the chair opposite Gribley. They don't look at each other.
KRUPHAUS: You have it?
KRUPHAUS: With you?
GRIBLEY: Uh huh. Let me see it
Kruphaus places an envelope on the table and quickly slides it toward Gribley. Gribley grabs the envelope into his lap. He opens it and briefly stares at the money, all of it hundreds. He closes the envelope and tucks it in his pocket. When he removes his hand, it's holding a small leather draw-string pouch. He places the pouch on the table. Kuphaus takes the pouch, opens it, and dumps the contents into the palm of one hand. It's a small rectangle of green jade.
CLOSE UP on the amulet. On it is a picture of a winged hound with an incredibly ferocious look on its face. The detail is amazing for something so small. Under the hound there are characters from an unknown language, and under that a skull.
BACK TO SCENE
KRUPHAUS: I can't believe it. It's incredible.
GRIBLEY: Good luck running.
Kruphaus looks up.
But Gribley is already up and on the move. Kruphaus watches him leave. He shrugs and looks at the amulet one more time before returning it to its pouch. He tucks the pouch in an inside pocket in his jacket, then looks around before leaving.
INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT
It's a small bedroom with old books and papers stacked here and there. Kruphaus is asleep. The leather pouch containing the amulet is on his night stand. Kruphaus is suddenly awakened by a loud howling noise. He sits up in bed, listening for all he's worth. He hears nothing, so he lies back in his bed. He looks over at the window where there are two glowing red eyes looking back at him. He lets out a terrific yell, which is matched by the howl of the beast on the other side of the glass.
CUT TO BLACK.
(Thanks to H.P. Lovecraft for his story The Hound.)
|Posted on Sunday, September 22, 2002 - 10:41 am: |
Pangborn, we hardly knew ye....
Bring him back, Marc!
|Posted on Sunday, September 22, 2002 - 9:16 am: |
A motel room. Seedy. A neon sign sputters outside the window. Pangborn Skank handrolls another cigarette. The tv drones a latenight infomercial. Water drips.
" I needed a drink. So what else was new? Booze and belly dancers - the story of my fucking life.
Turkish broads. Grinding hips and finger cymbals.
The smell of Balkan Sobranies and woman sweat."
Suddenly, a crash!
The door caves in.
(the camera stares down a gun barrel.)
(the camera starts to rotate, wobble, arch upward toward the ceiling, falls back. The screen goes black.)
" I like belly dancers. The way they move. Their hips. The center of my universe. Everything moving around a central axis. Everything moving..."
A quick flash of blinding whiteness.
A woman's face. Gypsy-like. Smiles. She has a perfect row of white teeth. One tooth is gold. Gleaming gold. It winks
a star-shaped glint of light.
The camera slowly moves out thru the window, ascends, floats above a neon sign that sputters
"vacancy, vacancy, vacancy", continues to ascend,
above a small town, empty streets, floats thru clouds, higher, over the moon, into the night.
Middle Eastern music on the soundtrack. The mad clacking and ringing of finger cymbals.
|Posted on Sunday, September 22, 2002 - 8:58 am: |
EXT. CITY STREET - NIGHT
It's late, but there are still a few people wandering here and there. PERRY MAJOR walks around the corner. He's in his late 30s, clean shaven and fit. He wears his hair in a 50s-style flat top. He's wearing a leather jacket and he has his hands buried in the pockets.
MAJOR (voice over): I only hunt them at night. That's the only time they come out.
He stops in front of a bar. He looks up and down the street before he ducks into the bar.
INT. BAR - CONTINUOUS
It's not crowded, but there're enough people to make the place lively. All of the pool tables arein use. Major sits at the bar and the BARTENDER drifts over to him.
BARTENDER: What'll it be?
MAJOR: Ginger ale. No ice.
The barteder fills a glass and sets it in front of Major. Major sets a five on the bar. The bartender takes the bill and returns with the change. Major grabs the glass and swivels around so he can watch the pool players as he drinks.
MAJOR (v.o.): Vampires are actually easy prey.
He takes another sip from his glass.
MAJOR (v.o.): They're easy 'cause they believe the legends...you know, crosses and holy water and such.
MAJOR (v.o.): If they didn't believe, it wouldn't work.
He watches as a MAN who was sitting alone at a table in the corner leaves the bar. Major sips some more ginger ale then sets the glass next to his change. He leaves the change on the bar and heads for the door.
EXT. BAR - CONTINUOUS
The door opens and Major walks out onto the sidewalk. He looks up the street and sees the man from the bar. He checks in his jacket where he's got a wooden stake, hammer, and cross in pockets sewn into the lining.
MAJOR (v.o.): Here goes...
He heads up the street after the man.
|Posted on Sunday, September 22, 2002 - 1:42 am: |
I like em young. I know it ain't PC to like em young. Its actually pretty fuckin' sick. But, whatever, I do like them young. I like them clean.
And the younger they are, generally the cleaner they are. I had one once that smelled bad. But, that was okay. She had some weird problem down there that made her like a fungus. But, I'm not proud. I like them young. I likey likey likey.
|Posted on Sunday, September 22, 2002 - 1:24 am: |
I was young, I was dumb.
I wanted everything.
(cut to a young nun removing her habit).
I wanted enlightenment. I had read Alexandra
David-Neel's THE SECRET TEACHINGS OF TIBETAN BUDDHISM. (cut to a young priest masturbating
in a toilet stall. stark as a confessional.)
I was still drawn to ritual. The seductiveness
of frankincense and silk. I wanted Jesus to be my opium. I settled for cocaine and cunt. My name:
PANGBORN SKANK: America has a new superhero!
Now more than ever!
|Posted on Saturday, September 21, 2002 - 4:08 pm: |
The scene is a pier four or five fishermen have their backs to the audience as they talk
Bob: "well, there's the reason I'm not catching anything(he's reeling in his line) I forgot to bait my hooks again"
Jim: "fishin' on credit again."
suddenly theres a disturbance to stage left as another fisherman pulls up a stingray on the pier
from both wings people, obvoiusly tourists, come running in to see the catch take pictures and generally create pandimouimn by crowding in on all the other fishermen.
Bob: I see Mark caught a ray, I hate rays."
Jim: "got any cut bait?"
|Posted on Wednesday, September 18, 2002 - 4:19 pm: |
Okay, I want to see some mini-screenplays in here.
The idea is to create a mini movie, from beginning to end, in under a 1000 words.
I call the forum TRAILER PARK because most movie trailers these days reveal all the vital plot points of a film within 3 minutes or less.
I'll post one later. Right now, I'm too sleepy. And I'm sipping a small glass of La Bleue to help me take a nap.
|Posted on Wednesday, September 18, 2002 - 11:20 am: |
there is a 50k file size limit. if you know how to load up the image in photoshop of whatever that other pc freebie image editor proggie is, just reduce the image size. if not, I will gladly help.
but you need to do the image uploading yerself. just go to "edit profile" on the sidebar. there will be a "browse" button under "picture", find your picture on your hardrive then click "upload"
if it doesn't work then the image is too large, again, I will help if'n you need.
|Posted on Wednesday, September 18, 2002 - 11:14 am: |
Cool. I hope you can help me with my request to post it in my profile. Or send it back to me in a jpg or gif, and I'll do it myself. I really don't know what to do with a doc image.
|Posted on Wednesday, September 18, 2002 - 10:41 am: |
indeed, the one with the shark?
I downloaded it and then dashed off to work, with only a quick glimpse. heh.
|Posted on Wednesday, September 18, 2002 - 9:45 am: |
Kallisti, did you get my email with the picture?
|Posted on Wednesday, September 18, 2002 - 9:40 am: |
ha! yes, everyone but Trolls. we've had our share, thankyouverymuch.
|Posted on Wednesday, September 18, 2002 - 9:28 am: |
Well, Joalco, Oilcan has. He's a troll on the NYT Forums who hasn't been recognized as such.
|Posted on Wednesday, September 18, 2002 - 9:11 am: |
*Everyone* is allowed to post here, unless they've violated one of the more important rules laid down by Kallisti.
Welcome to the punk rock stripper bar.
|Posted on Wednesday, September 18, 2002 - 9:06 am: |
I hope Oilcan is not allowed to post here at all!
|Posted on Wednesday, September 18, 2002 - 8:52 am: |
And Oilcan is not allowed to post Lebowski or Barton Fink excerpts here.
|Posted on Wednesday, September 18, 2002 - 6:22 am: |
Damn Marc, give me a min. will ya?
|Posted on Tuesday, September 17, 2002 - 7:23 pm: |
open for comment.
|Posted on Tuesday, September 17, 2002 - 2:53 pm: |
this thread is for folks who want to post their own short screenplays. I would suggest trying to limit them to 500 words or less. Think of it as
a form of bloated haiku.