At 12/3/14 10:31 AM, Teddiikun wrote: Hello there fellow Newgrounds user
How are you?
Dope
How is your day?
Also dope.
What have you been up to lately?
Getting coin.
What hobbies or activities have you been occupying yourself with?
Improv
What's good lately?
The seahawks
What's shitty?
Racial tension.
Tell me all about it!
Me? I'm stoned as usual
On what? Hoping lithium.
All together this half of the season has been pretty solid. My biggest complaint is Andrea. I just want her to die already. I seriously feel it's too late at this point for her to have a "Whoops, guess I was wrong!" moment, she's been far too dumb and fucked too many things up to deserve any reconciliation.
Also, hey everyone, it's been a while...
maybe if i give you more, i'll get more?
Their voices sounded muffled, removed even. Lorne was crying. He could feel the warmth streaming down his cheeks. He felt so weak, so very worthless. Suddenly, oxygen flooded into Lorne's lungs again. He began to suck in the air greedily. He wanted to stand up to them. He wanted to fill his now functioning respiratory system with the miasmic atmosphere surrounding him and spit the blood from his bitten tongue in their faces. He wanted to fling the awful, loathing words he had been bottling up at his tormentors and watch them rip the flesh from their bones. He wanted them to not only know he was strong, but that he was better than them. He wanted to make them fear him. But, he knew he wouldn't.
He would sit there quietly sniffling until they decided he'd had enough and left him alone. Then he would look back on these events while he lay in bed that night, and he would hate himself for being so pathetic. What could he do? He wasn't the confrontational type. He wasn't meant for these situations. Maybe if his parents had given him a better name, like Jackson's, things would be different. Maybe then sadists like Tyler wouldn't feel the need to torment him.
Lorne Welke was by all accounts an admirable man. He flew planes in a war, started his own roofing business and raised two daughters by himself. Lorne's mother was an endless supply of enamoring Grandpa Welke stories, each starring a man of unmatched resolve and character up until the day he died. Lorne had never met his namesake, but it was hard not to feel proud of him. It should have been an honor to be named for such an unequivocally great man. Unfortunately for Lorne Welke's grandson, it was a curse.
"Ben, you should apologize." Tyler reprimanded his friend with heavy straight faced disapproval. Ben deadpanned his contrition in return.
"I'm sorry I hurt you, Lauren."
This exchange sent their joke to a new level of hysteria. Ben and Tyler laughed hardy belly laughs that Greg backed with high pitch squealing. Lorne couldn't even look at them. He stared intensely at the ground, wishing they would leave. Eventually their ill-gotten elation died down.
"Come on, Lorne. I barely hit you. You don't have to lay there like you're dead." Lorne didn't respond; he was doing his best to separate himself from the situation. He was escaping internally, deep within his interior shell. He was almost gone.
It was unnerving watching Lorne. He rocked himself back and forth on his knee caps, humming steadily, thick mucus rich strands of saliva stretching from his lips to the school yard soil. His eyes were open but blank, a ghost town with the lanterns still burning.
Tyler was losing his comfort level with the situation. Unease crept from his stomach and into his throat. He corralled his friends, pushing them away from Lorne's fetal, pendulating body. Ben followed readily, but Greg resisted continuing to stare at the display with sick interest.
"Greg, come on. Let's go." Tyler's voice, still veiled in confidence, broke the fixation. Greg jogged to catch up with his friends, tossing a last glance at Lorne just before he met them. There may have even been an undertone of concern painted beneath the colors of his face. But if there was, it was fleeting. They disappeared into the woods behind the school, moving onto better things.
It was a few minutes before Lorne came back to reality. He slid through the darkness, as if in a tube slide, until he hit the cool brightness of the water beneath. Tranquility returned to the south of the school. Birds whistled and soft breezes rustled tree branches. Lorne wiped his sleeve across his face, drying his mouth. This was Jackson's fault.
If he didn't need to be the center of attention, none of this would have happened. Lorne wouldn't have had to wait for him. They would be half way home, and he never would have run into Tyler and the anguish he caused. Lorne stood and brushed the dirt, twigs and leaves from his clothes with infuriated flails. Squeezing the handle until his knuckles ached; he flung the south door open and marched into the school building.
Mrs. Walliams was locking her room as Lorne entered. Her classroom was closest to the building's entrance and she was startled by the child's sudden emerge. Her keys jangled melodiously as she collected herself and pushed them into her purse.
"Geez, Lorne. You scared me."
Mrs. Walliams was one of the younger teachers on staff; recently married to a husband no one on campus had ever seen. She had ample raven hair that she kept tied off in a pony tail, save one lock that fell from the center of her hairline and curled above her left eyebrow. Her skin was an easy brown shade, like coffee with a good portion of milk added. She had a friendly smile, and intelligent green eyes that tended to gloss over with boredom in her downtime at work. She ate healthily and maintained an enviable figure.
By most standards, she was a very attractive woman. Lorne's blossoming hormones made her almost intolerable to be around. Her direct eye contact threatened something inside him, speaking to her was a daunting labor. He grew shallow of breath and lost track of his focus. He stared at her with dense enamor.
"What is it, Lorne? I'm about to go home." She didn't speak rudely, just with the rushed air of a young lady with something more exciting awaiting her. It was Friday after all.
"Uh, did Jackson leave already?" Lorne felt like an inarticulate idiot awkwardly holding onto his opening filler for far too long. He was flustered and slightly confused.
"Who?" Mrs. Walliams furrowed her well trimmed eyebrows. "There's no one in there. School's been out for thirty minutes."
The conversation was not going as smoothly as Lorne needed it to and he wanted to evacuate it immediately. His eyes danced around the hall looking for his brother.
"So he left by himself?" Lorne asked the question more rhetorically than anything else, each word getting its own dramatic spacing.
"Lorne, are you okay?" Mrs. Walliams lowered herself so she could look Lorne directly in the face. Lorne could smell her breath, it was sweet and minty. She took notice of something that concerned her, and her eyes sparkled with compassion. "Have you been crying?"
"No, I'm fine. Have a good weekend, Mrs. Walliams." Lorne panicked. He retreated impetuously barely hearing her wish him his own good weekend. When he was outside the building, his pace quickened and he ran across the schoolyard toward his home. He was a sad boy. Mrs. Walliams was sure, even without any direct proof, that he was being bullied. But, he was also a sweet boy and she felt sorry for him. On Monday, she would talk to Lorne's teacher; see if she couldn't help make the boy's life a little easier. With that resolution, she bustled to her car.
Here is a couple paragraphs of a story idea I've started working on. As it is only the first couple paragraphs I am more curious as to whether it gains your attention. Whether you would want to read more.
`Lorne ran his finger along the mortar trenches connecting the bricks that formed the south exterior wall of Lewis Elementary School, pacing the wall's length as he did. He liked the way it felt, randomly textured against his fingertip like tiny hills and valleys. Occasionally, flecks of the material would break off and lose themselves in the dirt below as he followed the trails upward above his head and downward parallel to his knees. It was warm for a fall afternoon. The sun shone with subtle persistence through a light smattering of cloud and fell cozily on Lorne's face. Combined with the relative quiet of the school's southern region, the weather had a calm and relaxed effect. It was pleasant.
"Well, if it isn't Lauren."
All pleasantries evaporated as Tyler lilted the name. Ben and Greg chuckled mindlessly from behind his shoulders. The joke couldn't be funny anymore. It had been repeated relentlessly throughout the school days. The first couple times Lorne had even tried to correct them, repeated his name with its intended single syllable pronunciation. This just made them laugh more. Tyler shielded his face with his hand, and squinted the hazel from his eyes.
"What are you doing out here, Lauren? Cheerleading practice?" More involuntary snickering burst forth from Tyler's companions. Ben and Greg edged closer, standing side by side with Tyler.
"I'm waiting for my brother. He should be out soon." They were up to something; he could see it kindling in their eyes. Lorne stretched his head and peered into the glass window of the south door. Jackson's class had been dismissed; some of his classmates were wandering the hall. But, Jackson was nowhere to be seen. He was probably still in the classroom discussing his behavior with Mrs. Walliams. Jackson was far more comfortable than Lorne in front of his peers. He told jokes and stories, played games during recess and had friends. And occasionally, Jackson would talk himself into trouble. Something Lorne's reticent predisposition managed to avoid, from his teachers anyway.
"Oh, that's cute. Does he cheerlead too?" Tyler advanced on Lorne. He stood inches from him, chest to chest, smiling with faux friendliness. "Why don't you show us some of the cheers you've been working on?"
Lorne eased his left foot back a few inches before it abutted the brick resistance of the wall behind him. He wasn't a small kid; he was roughly the same size as Tyler and Ben and had a good twenty pounds on Greg. But, he was alone. His only real hope was that Jackson and his teacher would emerge before Tyler and his cronies continued with whatever they had planned.
"I don't know what you're talking about, Tyler. Just leave me alone." Lorne turned, he stepped toward the door. If he could make inside they would leave him alone. There would be witnesses, teachers would hear. They probably wouldn't even follow him in. Lorne felt Tyler's hand grab his shoulder. He felt his fingers sink underneath his collar bone and drag him back.
"Where are you going? You were going to give us a cheer." The blood behind Lorne's ears pulsed and burned away the edges of his vision. He was feeling desperate. He shifted his weight toward Tyler, put his hands under Tyler's right armpit and pushed. Almost immediately, there was a blunt pain in the gentle area beneath his ribcage. The air was pushed from his lungs in a strangled gasp. Lorne fell to his knees, his stomach seized and his mouth flopped ineffectively as his body tried to breathe again. Ben's sucker punch frenzied Lorne's instincts; sent them spinning into a blind survival mode. The world around him receded and he sat on his knees choking with no one.
"Oh, you made him cry, Ben."
Their voices sounded muffled, removed even. Lorne was crying. He could feel the warmth streaming down his cheeks.
CORRINE:
Because that's the way you are, Kenny. You're always willing to listen to me, and talk to me, and give me your advice, your terrible awful advice. And it doesn't matter that it's awful, because you're there. You're always there for me and I'm going to cherish every day you choose to live with me because it's another day I get to spend with my little brother.
CORRINE reaches KENNY and stands in front of him with open arms.
CORRINE:
You're my Spaghetti Kenny, and I love you.
CORRINE wraps her arms around KENNY and squeezes as tightly as she can. THE WARD comes running in after CORRINE and slaps KENNY in the forehead.
KENNY (to Corrine):
Hey, Corrine...are we at the bank?
CORRINE:
Yes. I'm surprised you knew that. I was always under the impression you thought I was the bank.
THE WARD:
I've got it! I've got it!
THE WARD starts to flail his arms wildly about.
THE WARD:
Oh man, I need a potato.
THE WARD runs over to the bank's fish tank and throws his arms into the water.
THE WARD:
It's okay. I took care of it.
Bank patrons begin to mutter to themselves, rubbing their heads and giving confused looks around the room. THE WARD walks over to CORRINE and KENNY, the epicenter of the disarray.
THE WARD:
Thank you, Corrine. You've done a great service to your species.
KENNY:
Who is this guy?
CORRINE:
This is The Ward.
THE WARD:
Hello, Kenny.
KENNY:
The Ward? That's your name, the ward? What are you a professional wrestler?
THE WARD:
No. And that's not my name.
CORRINE:
What is your name?
THE WARD:
Tohamobofefegagolaletinobe...
CORRINE:
You're kidding.
THE WARD:
...lapoli. What? That's a great name.
CORRINE:
It's like ten minutes long.
THE WARD:
I wish. You see each successive generation of Ward is given his father's name with an additional syllable. I am a sixteenth generation Ward and therefore my name is sixteen syllables long. It's a source of great pride with my people.
CORRINE:
It's completely ridiculous.
KENNY:
I have no idea what you guys are talking about...Is that my pokeball?
KENNY picks up the clay pokeball that rests next to THE WARD.
THE WARD:
Yes, I've been meaning to discuss that with you. You said, and I quote, I choose you Pikachu and then you threw it at my face. Now, I'm pretty sure you had enough control at the time to prevent that...
KENNY:
I said I chose you, Pikachu?
THE WARD:
Yes, right before you threw it at my face. Now the important thing is not what you said, but what you did...
KENNY:
Why would I choose Pikachu?
THE WARD:
Why would you throw a ball at my face?
KENNY:
What?...I..Is anyone sort of hot?...
KENNY loses consciousness and falls to the floor. CORRINE rushes to help him.
CORRINE:
Oh my God. What's wrong with him?
THE WARD:
That happens sometimes when the Cept is pulled from people. They grow weak and faint. He'll be fine. Just needs some rest and ginger tea.
CORRINE:
Here, help me get him back to the apartment.
INT. BRODIE APT. Early Evening.
KENNY BRODIE lies on the couch sipping tea from a chipped saucer. A blanket rolls from his armpits down to his toes and spills over to the floor. Next to him on the couch, his sister sits looking at her brother with concern. Sitting with his legs crossed on the floor next to her, sits THE WARD. He holds a plastic bag filled with water and one lonely goldfish close to his face so he can follow its erratic swimming pattern.
KENNY:
You realize anyone else would have you committed?
CORRINE:
Yes.
KENNY:
I mean, as far as I can remember I've never met this guy before.
KENNY shrugs his shoulder towards THE WARD before taking another warm sip of tea. THE WARD waves his hand in response.
CORRINE:
Yes.
KENNY:
Hmm.
CORRINE:
Kenny, look, you don't have to believe me. I was just trying to explain why you don't recall the last couple days.
KENNY:
Oh, I believe you. And this is so awesome. All those comic books and video games, I never thought...And now look, we've got own ancient psychic guy to thwart some parasitic evil spirits and save the world. We're freaking superheroes.
THE WARD stands, shoving the plastic bag into his sweatshirt pocket.
THE WARD:
Actually, this is the end of the road for us. You guys are safe, healthy. What I need is for you to forget about all this and go back to your lives.
KENNY:
I don't want to go back to my life. My life is boring.
CORRINE:
Kenny, come on.
THE WARD:
Defending the defenseless from the evils of the Cept is the Wards' burden. I couldn't curse you with it.
KENNY:
You can't do this by yourself; you're all weird and stuff. No one's going to talk to you.
THE WARD leaves the apartment and shut the door gently behind him.
KENNY (to CORRINE):
He's too weird and freaky. People are never going to talk to him.
INT. The Oakdale Apartment hallway. Early Evening.
As THE WARD walks into the hallway he is spotted by MR. CARNEY. MR. CARNEY face turns to severe agitation at the sight of THE WARD and he stomps his feet angrily as he tries to chase him down.
MR. CARNEY:
Hey! Hey you! What are you doing hanging around in the halls and parking lot at night? What are you up to?
THE WARD:
Uh. Have we met?
THE WARD jumps back into the Brodies' apartment.
INT. THE BRODIES' APT. EARLY EVENING.
THE WARD flies back into the apartment to the elated cheers of KENNY BRODIE.
KENNY:
You've changed your mind!
THE WARD furiously locks the doors several locks.
THE WARD:
Changed my mind?
KENNY:
About us working together. You know, stopping the Cept.
THE WARD:
Oh. I'm not sure...
MR. CARNEY begins pounding his fists against the door.
THE WARD:
Actually, yes. I did. I changed my mind.
MR. CARNEY:
Listen you weasely little turd, get out here now. Kenny, if you're harboring some thieves in there...
CORRINE:
Is that Mr. Carney?
THE WARD:
No. I don't think so. Maybe we should just wait until he leaves.
done. you guys can just ignore this now.
CORRINE takes the glasses off and puts them back on THE WARD's head.
CORRINE:
Keep your glasses. They're all greasy.
THE WARD:
Sorry, my face sweats more than it used to. As I was saying, because you know Kenny, you indirectly know the Cept.
CORRINE:
Okay, so what's the other thing?
THE WARD:
Pardon?
CORRINE:
The second reason you need me.
THE WARD:
Well, once we find Kenny I can't just walk up to him, slap him on the forehead, and pull the Cept out just like that. It has too strong a grip on him now. If we're going to be successful, I'm going to need you to beckon to your brother. Call to him. Get him to take just a fraction of his self back so I can get a foothold. In that moment, the Cept will be vulnerable and I should be able to extract it and force it into some smaller more benign living organism.
CORRINE:
Like a potato.
THE WARD:
Oh, we should have grabbed some potatoes.
CORRINE:
It really doesn't matter; I have no idea where Kenny is.
THE WARD:
Just think about it, where would Kenny go if he wanted complete control of everything? Where would he start?
CORRINE:
I don't think Kenny is really that motivated.
THE WARD:
Well, what does he like to do? Where is his favorite place to go? Maybe he went somewhere familiar.
CORRINE:
He likes sitting around doing nothing and playing video games. Maybe he went to one of those used games stores. Or back to bed.
THE WARD:
I don't think he would have gone back to bed, what are video games?
THE WARD and CORRINE approach the NEW PATRON as he stands guard in front of the bank. The NEW PATRON aggressively grabs THE WARD by his sweatshirt.
NEW PATRON:
Give me your change. It's needed inside.
CORRINE:
Are you serious?
NEW PATRON:
You too, now!
THE WARD:
I can't give you change. It's not a tangible thing, the difference in something over time. You have to make it yourself.
CORRINE pulls some loose change from her pants and throws it at the NEW PATRON.
CORRINE:
This is ridiculous.
The NEW PATRON releases THE WARD and frantically gathers the coins.
NEW PARTON:
Is this all?
CORRINE:
Yea.
NEW PATRON:
It'll have to do. Get out of here. Scram.
CORRINE and THE WARD quickly remove themselves from the NEW PATRON.
CORRINE:
That's unbelievable, threatening us for thirty five cents.
THE WARD:
That was unusual? What that guy did back there?
CORRINE:
I would say so. I mean, the bums can be kind of aggressive sometimes but they never grab you like that.
THE WARD starts back towards the NEW PARTON, CORRINE closely following.
CORRINE:
You're not going back there, are you? He's probably on something.
THE WARD reaches the NEW PATRON, and CORRINE stands safely behind him.
NEW PATRON:
Did you find more coins?
THE WARD:
What do you need those metal rounds for?
NEW PARTON:
The guy inside needs them, it's very important.
THE WARD:
Let me talk to him. Maybe I can help him.
THE WARD tries to walk through the door but the NEW PATRON impedes him.
THE WARD:
Come on, now. I'm just trying to help.
NEW PARTON:
No! Stay out here. If you don't have any more money, then just leave.
THE WARD:
We're not going anywhere and if you don't get out the...
CORRINE kicks the NEW PATRON in the groin and he topples over.
THE WARD:
Oh, well that was a little bit violent. Effective though.
CORRINE:
What? He wasn't going to help.
INT. Bank. Day
CORRINE and THE WARD walk into the bank and see KENNY BRODIE standing in the middle of the bank's lobby, atop a hill of shiny little coins. He grabs the money, lifting handfuls over his head, and letting them spill like rain over his face.
KENNY:
I can feel it already. I feel stronger.
KENNY addresses the group around him.
KENNY:
I need something to carry these in.
The bank patrons begin to scavenge for something that could transport the large volume of coins.
CORRINE:
Kenny! It's me, Corrine.
KENNY points furiously at the two new people who passed through his security.
KENNY:
What are they doing here? Who let them in?
THE WARD:
Cept, I'm going to give you one chance to leave this body peacefully...
KENNY:
Cept? I haven't heard that word in so long. Could we have a couple of Wards in our midst?
CORRINE:
That's right, you're outnumbered. And if you don't get out of his body right now we're going to shoot a telepathic message to all our brothers and sisters and bring a whole Ward army here to take you out.
KENNY:
Well, one Ward at least.
THE WARD (to CORRINE):
We can't do that. Shoot telepathic messages.
CORRINE:
No?
THE WARD:
No. (to Kenny)Cept, this is your last chance to relinquish your hold on that body without repercussion.
KENNY:
You Wards and your biased rectitude...
THE WARD:
That body doesn't belong to you.
KENNY:
Do you have any idea what it's like in our natural state? To know and think, but have no means to express yourself, to interact with the world around you? It's worse than living death; it's conscious nonexistence. It is hell. I won't go back. You can't make me go back. Pikachu, I chose you!
KENNY pulls his pokeball from his pocket and throws it across the bank lobby. It hits THE WARD in the middle of his forehead and bounces away.
THE WARD:
Ouch!
KENNY:
I knew it was too light. Who keeps an empty pokeball? No matter. Zerg rush!
THE WARD rubs at the welt developing on his forehead when he notices all the bank patrons turn and rush towards CORRINE and him.
BANK PATRONS:
Kekekekekekeke!
THE WARD:
Uh oh. Let's move.
THE WARD grabs CORRINE sleeve and drags her desperately to the open corner of the bank. Seeing no other outlet, they push themselves into the bathroom and lean their collective weight against the door.
INT. Bank bathroom. Day.
CORRINE and THE WARD brace themselves against the bathroom door, resisting the pulsing push of the patrons on the other side.
CORRINE:
This is ridiculous. He doesn't even recognize me. How do you know he's even in there still?
THE WARD:
Oh, he's definitely in there. If he wasn't in there protecting you, you'd be on the other side of this door. But, time is running out. We're going to have to get that Cept out, and get it out soon, or he could be lost forever.
CORRINE:
Well, what am I supposed to do?
THE WARD:
Talk to him.
CORRINE:
From here?
THE WARD:
It should work. You're just going to have to talk loudly.
CORRINE (into door):
Kenny, it's your sister, Corrine. I know we don't always get along great. We seem to argue a lot, and maybe some of that is my fault. But, you know, in my defense, you're kind of a slob. You never pick up after yourself, you just sort of leave your garbage all over the living room. And your hygiene, I've seen your toothbrush but I can't say I've actually seen you use it.
A violent surge threatens to knock the bathroom door off its hinges. THE WARD braces himself against the wall.
THE WARD:
Maybe you should try some more pleasant sentiments?
CORRINE (to WARD):
Right. Okay.
CORRINE (into door):
Kenny, I know sometimes I can make you feel like a burden living with me. Like I'm just fulfilling some undesirable sibling duty, biding my time until you decide to move out. But the truth is I like having you around. You drive me absolutely insane, but it's okay. It's almost charming. After a horrible day at work, I know I'll come home and you'll have some idiotic story to tell me and I'll laugh.
The pushing against the door subsides and THE WARD slowly transfers his weight back to his feet.
THE WARD:
It's working. Um, you should go out there. Look him in the eye.
CORRINE pushes her way through the bathroom door.
INT. Bank Lobby. Day.
CORRINE pushes past the statuesque bank patrons, keeping consistent eye contact with her brother as she makes her way towards him. KENNY's eyes follow her, his face inexorably void and motionless.
THE WARD:
Yes, it was. As I was saying, during the Cept's vulnerable moments, we were able to pull them from their hosts and move them to more benign organisms, potatoes, which we buried in a sealed metal container deep within the earth. Given enough time, even strong Cept hosts would grow old and weak. They would move onto younger hosts, get bogged down in our puzzle, and be captured and transferred to potatoes. It was an arduous process, but we were able to successfully bury the last of the great evil in harmless tubers deep within the shell of the Earth.
CORRINE:
You transferred the Cept into potatoes and buried them?
THE WARD:
Yes, it sounds so silly now. We should have known they would eventually work their way out; that eventually the seal would break. But, it seemed the best option at the time. We had so many potatoes.
CORRINE:
It does sound silly.
THE WARD:
Unfortunately, the process left the humans at only a percentage of their former glory. They were no longer the great masters we had served so dutifully and we no longer had a reason to be. So as a race, we went into hibernation and left the planet to you.
CORRINE:
Wow.
THE WARD:
I know.
CORRINE:
That is definitely one elaborate schizophrenic delusion you've got there. Maybe with some counseling and a little medication you can organize it into a really terrific novel one day. But, now you need to leave. I don't know who you are, or what's going on with Kenny, but you need to go. I can't deal with this.
CORRINE begins to push a resistant WARD out of her apartment.
THE WARD:
As hard as it might be to believe, I assure you that it is all true.
CORRINE:
No more. Go.
THE WARD:
I need your help, Corrine. The only chance I have of saving your brother and the peace of your world is if you do this with me.
CORRINE:
Don't care. Shut up.
THE WARD digs his feet into the ground and makes a stand against CORRINE's shoves.
THE WARD:
This is serious. We don't have much time and if we wait any longer Kenny will be lost forever. I won't be able to save him. Do you get it?
CORRINE:
Out!
CORRINE tries to give THE WARD one final push, but THE WARD sidesteps her and places his hand on her head. There is a mutual moment of inactivity before CORRINE stumbles into the doorframe.
CORRINE:
What are you doing? Don't touch me.
THE WARD:
You are Corrine Victoria Brodie. You were born September twelfth and are twenty six years old...
CORRINE:
How do you? Have you been spying on me?
THE WARD:
Something more secret...Um, in your Junior year at Western you dated a boy named Colin. You broke up with him because he smoked in your bathroom, and fed your neighbor's dog a handful of Seagram's, and shamelessly hit on your roommate in front of you.
CORRINE:
Is this about Colin? Are you his friend?
THE WARD:
No, I've never met him. I pulled it from your head.
CORRINE:
Oh, right. Because you're a magical Ward! Get out.
CORRINE puts her weight behind her and shoves THE WARD through the doorframe. The door flies shut behind him.
THE WARD (into the closed door):
You were raised by Flora, your single mother. She was a good mother and you loved her, but she worked a lot. You were often left alone with your little brother, Kenny, while she pulled double shifts and weekends. When your mother worked, you would take care of him. You would make his lunch, read him stories, and play games with him. Anything he wanted you did. You were a great sister, but maybe not the best parent. And now he's a lazy, slightly selfish, underachieving man child and you think it's your fault. You want to help him become an adult but you're afraid. Afraid he can't do it. Afraid you might lose him. And you can't risk that, losing Spaghetti Kenny.
The door slowly opens and CORRINE appears through the crack.
CORRINE:
How do you know that?
THE WARD:
About your mom and all that? It wasn't that deep, I just...
CORRINE:
Spaghetti Kenny. How did you know that?
THE WARD:
I pulled it from your head. You call him that, Spaghetti Kenny. I didn't catch why. I assume it has something to do with the noodle dish that people eat sometimes.
CORRINE:
When he was seven I farted during dinner. He laughed so hard he threw up. We were eating spaghetti.
THE WARD:
That makes sense.
CORRINE:
He called me Stinky Corrine and I called him Spaghetti Kenny. I haven't called him that in fifteen years. You can't know that.
THE WARD:
Exactly. I can't know that. Only Kenny and you know that, I just pulled the memory from your head.
CORRINE:
You pulled it from my head? Like read my mind?
THE WARD:
Well, yea...I guess so.
CORRINE:
What am I talking about? This is impossible.
THE WARD:
It's not just possible, it's happening right now. Don't you see? Your greatest fear, your nightmare, it's about to come true unless we stop it. You're going to lose him forever. He'll be ripped away from you right in front of your face. Will you help me save your brother?
CORRINE pauses thoughtfully before responding with a sigh.
CORRINE:
Yes.
THE WARD:
Perfect!
CORRINE:
This is insane.
THE WARD:
I suppose it is.
INT. Bank. Midday.
Four patrons line up in front of the bank counter waiting for the TELLER, female and early thirties, to leisurely work her way through to them. KENNY BRODIE enters the bank doors and pushes his way through the line until he is directly in front of the teller. He knocks his fist against the linoleum countertop to get the TELLER's attention. The TELLER looks at KENNY BRODIE perplexingly, before looking past him to the more familiar faces behind him.
TELLER:
Sir, you have to wait in line. These people were first.
KENNY BRODIE:
Oh, it's okay. They don't mind.
KENNY BRODIE turns to the handful of bank customers.
KENNY BRODIE:
Do you?
The bank patrons shake their heads in hushed unison. KENNY turns back to the teller.
KENNY:
See? Everything is fine.
TELLER:
Uh...okay then, what can I do for you?
KENNY:
Precisely. I want all your coins. Gold, silver, even bronze- I don't care. I want them all. Bring them to me.
The TELLER dazedly begins to open the register drawers, pulling out tubes of quarters and dimes, nickels and pennies and tossing them into the middle of the bank lobby. KENNY BRODIE again addresses the other people in the bank.
KENNY:
And if any of you have some coins on you, you can go ahead and give me those too.
A NEW PATRON, thirties and male, enters the bank. Seeing the focus being centered on one man and money being thrown towards him, he becomes alarmed.
NEW PATRON:
Is this a robbery?
KENNY:
Sure, why not. Give me all your coins. And when you're done with that, keep an eye on that door. Don't let anyone in. Collect all the coins you can from the people outside, but don't let them in.
EXT. Street. Day
THE WARD and CORRINE walk somewhat directionless down a Chicago street. THE WARD's eyes dart from person to thing to building looking for some unknown sign. The two talk as the walk.
CORRINE:
So, what exactly do you need me for? You're the one with all the super powers; can't you just feel him or something and take the thing out of his head?
THE WARD:
I need you for two reasons. First, I need you to find your brother.
CORRINE:
He didn't say anything about where he was going...
THE WARD:
No, he wouldn't have. But you know your brother, and therefore, you know the Cept.
CORRINE:
I don't know anything about the Cept.
THE WARD:
But you do. You see, it can be a very confusing thing for the Cept to navigate this world. They depend greatly on the mind of their host. They draw on it like a well, or better yet, a library. They reference and study it. If Kenny likes cheese, and swimming and the color black, the Cept will like cheese, swimming and black things. His affinities and fears, his understandings and misconceptions, will be the Cept's. Here, it's like these sunglasses...
The WARD takes off his sunglasses and places them on Corrine's face.
THE WARD:
When you look through them you see the same world everyone else does, only in a darker shade. This is how the Cept is seeing the world, only in a shade of Kenny.
THE WARD:
Like I said, the Cept in Kenny is too strong for me to take on directly. I'm going to need someone to help. And since you seem to be the person closest to Kenny, that someone is you. So, let's go!
THE WARD leads a confident one man march out the Brodie's apartment. CORRINE doesn't even watch him leave, shock usurping her facilities. A somber minute passes before THE WARD returns to the entry way.
THE WARD:
Let's go!
THE WARD pumps his arm optimistically out the door.
CORRINE BRODIE:
Kenny? Cept?
THE WARD:
Alright. I'm going to run through everything, but it's going to be very quick. So pay attention and don't ask any questions unless they are really, really good ones. Okay?
CORRINE BRODIE:
What?
THE WARD:
That's not a very good question. Let's try to keep them better than that.
EXT. Sidewalk outside the bank. Mid day.
KENNY BRODIE walks down the sidewalk with undefined purpose. His zombie trot has been completely replaced with a confident stride that almost assimilates him with the errand running city dwellers he finds himself surrounded by. As KENNY BRODIE passes the bank's entrance he collides with a BANK PATRON, early twenties and male, whose attentions are more focused on unraveling the paper cover of his quarter roll than on any obstructions blocking the building's exit. The impact shocks the roll of quarters from the BANK PATRON's hand, which explodes upon contact with the sidewalk. Cheerful metallic notes sing out with each ricochet as the sun reflecting currency bounds in all directions. The BANK PATRON immediately falls to his knees in an attempt to round as many quarters as he can before they are too scattered and lost for good. KENNY BRODIE watches the proceedings with interest but offers no assistance to the BANK PATRON.
BANK PATRON (still picking up quarters):
Oh, man. I'm sorry. Didn't even see you; I've been zoning out all day.
KENNY BRODIE:
That's a lot of coins.
BANK PATRON:
Laundry day, you know? There seems to be a couple by your feet there...
A couple quarters rest between the feet of KENNY BRODIE's stance, but one precocious coin actually rests on the toe of his left tennis shoe. The BANK PATRON lends KENNY BRODIE an awkward moment to respond, but it is not taken. The BANK PATRON stares quizzically at KENNY BRODIE as he slowly gathers the renegade money at his feet. With extreme caution he plucks the final coin from KENNY BRODIE's shoe.
KENNY BRODIE:
And you got all those coins from here? This building?
The BANK PATRON stands and slides the quarters he was able to collect into his pants pocket with a jingle.
BANK PATRON:
Yes, it's a bank. That's what you do at the bank.
KENNY BRODIE:
Wonderful. You've been great help, you can go now.
BANK PATRON:
Okay, man. Whatever.
The BANK PATRON, while still trying to look somewhat composed, quickly moves away from KENNY BRODIE. Every three or four steps he tosses back a nervous glance at the man who now triumphantly gleams at the corner bank.
KENNY BRODIE:
A whole building full of coins. It must be some sort of bonus level. If I were to scour every room, every corner, of this building I'd probably find millions of little coins. Using even the sternest of exchange rates, millions of coins should reward me hundreds of extra lives and immortality.
INT. BRODIE APT. Mid Day.
CORRINE BRODIE sits on the living room couch, her elbows resting on her knees and her face resting in her palms. Her eyes pass back and forth as they trace the nervous pace of THE WARD in front of her. After a few one hundred and eighty degree changes of direction THE WARD stops, turns toward CORRINE and opens his mouth to speak. He thinks better of it, and continues to march back and forth across the floor. CORRINE sighs heavily.
CORRINE:
None of this makes any sense. I must be dreaming...or dead.
THE WARD stops pacing and addresses CORRINE.
THE WARD:
You are neither dead, nor sleeping. You are alive and awake.
CORRINE:
Says the deranged homeless man who saved my life with a towel he wet in the toilet. Maybe I've lost it. Maybe the stress has finally pushed me over the edge and I've gone crazy.
THE WARD:
The first thing you must understand is this is the future.
CORRINE:
This is the future?
THE WARD:
Well, no. It's your present, but it's my future. Actually...I suppose it's now my present too, but it used to be my future. Because I am from the past. Not your past but THE past. Way before you, or your brother, or the bean....
CORRINE:
What?
THE WARD:
Yes, I am sort of rambling...just forget all that.
CORRINE:
Okay.
THE WARD:
Your questions are getting much better by the way.
CORRINE:
Thanks?
THE WARD:
May have spoken a little prematurely...
CORRINE:
Wow...
THE WARD:
A long time ago, before you could possibly fathom, human beings were the greatest of creatures in known existence. Their power was limitless. This world was malleable to the wills of their dreams. Mountains could be formed with a wave of their left hand, valleys with their right. Stars could be aligned to form messages, or extinguished for a better night sleep. They were masters of all that was and all that could ever be. They ruled graciously and we assisted them the best we could.
CORRINE:
We? You're not human?
THE WARD:
No, I am a Ward.
CORRINE nods along in feigned agreement with the preaching WARD.
CORRINE:
I see, a Ward.
THE WARD:
Yes, the Wards; a race of beings left to the care of the humans. We would do our best to support the humans in their affairs. Whatever they asked for, whatever we could do, we did.
CORRINE:
If they could make mountains and stuff, then why would they need your help?
THE WARD:
That's just the way it was designed. Catering to the human population gave us purpose, it was why we were. But for the humans...I suppose caring for something lesser than yourself, nurturing and protecting them, would teach you compassion. It would keep you kind. I think it would be important to keep the omnipotent kind, grounded. Additionally, we had our greater purpose.
CORRINE:
Your greater purpose?
THE WARD:
Yes, but I'll be there soon enough. We lived like this, Wards and Humans, for generations. It was beautiful, perfection- harmonious coexistence for years upon years and then-bang- it ended. So fast, just like that. Our utopia had spoiled, rotted by an unseen evil.
THE WARD stops and CORRINE raises her eyebrow in response.
CORRINE:
Evil, huh?
THE WARD:
The worst kind: The Cept.
CORRINE:
And they are?
THE WARD:
The Cept? Right. You wouldn't know who the Cept are, would you? What blessed lives you have been living. The Cept are the fabric of evil. They are ethereal parasites, floating imperceptibly until the opportunity to infiltrate a corporeal entity arises. Bacteria, plants, cats, ape; all living organisms were at risk to the Cept, but their favorite target was human. After the initial infection, it would only take a few hours before the Cept had complete control of the human's body. But that wasn't enough. They wanted control of everything: land, resources, Wards, even Humans. Wars began to break out between afflicted Humans, devastating, horrific wars that demolished landscapes and killed thousands. Something needed to be done before all was lost forever.
CORRINE (humoring):
Obviously.
THE WARD:
Obvious, but a difficult thing none the less for the only way to stop the Cept was to change the human population, our wardens, irrevocably. We worked quickly, gathering all healthy humans and reworking the map of their brains; twisting and folding it, convoluting it beyond recognition, creating a cerebral labyrinth to impede the Cept. When someone was infected, the Cept would try to unravel this maze, leaving them preoccupied and vulnerable, allowing us the time to pull them from their hosts...
CORRINE:
Wouldn't the Cept just take over you? And I thought the humans had all the special powers.
THE WARD:
The Wards were always able to manipulate the brains of humans. It was our greater purpose and perhaps the reason we were immune to the Cept.
CORRINE:
Immunity, that's convenient.
KENNY BRODIE scoffs condescendingly.
KENNY BRODIE:
Did you think that would hurt me? Am empty bottle?
CORRINE BRODIE:
Whatever, Kenny. Just shut up.
KENNY BRODIE:
I don't think you're in a position to tell me what to do.
CORRINE BRODIE:
Oh, okay. I guess I forgot who I was talking to.
KENNY BRODIE stares silently at his sister, analyzing her scrupulously.
CORRINE BRODIE:
Where'd you go, anyways? I don't think I've ever seen you awake before three in the afternoon, much less outside interacting with the real world.
KENNY BRODIE:
You'd like that wouldn't you? To keep tabs on me.
CORRINE BRODIE:
Actually, I don't care and I regret asking. God please tell me you have work or something. I can't take this today.
KENNY BRODIE sees a handmade clay pokeball on the television stand. Enthusiastically, he grabs the ball and marvels at it, rolling it in his hands.
KENNY BRODIE:
Is this a pokeball?
CORRINE BRODIE:
Uh, yea I think so.
KENNY BRODIE:
It's so light.
KENNY BRODIE makes tossing motions with the ball in hand.
CORRINE BRODIE:
It's made of modelling clay.
KENNY BRODIE:
Why didn't you tell me I had this?
CORRINE BRODIE:
You made it, and not that long ago either. I mean, ten year olds don't even like pokemon anymore. You would think if you're not going to act like an adult, you would at least act pubescent. But, you don't.
KENNY BRODIE:
You're trying to thwart me. You're feigning ignorance in an attempt to impede my progress.
CORRINE BRODIE:
Look Kenny, I'm really hungover. Gary and I got into a huge fight last night. I just want to sit here and watch a stupid movie and not think about anything. So just do whatever you got to do and go away.
KENNY BRODIE begins to push buttons on his controller.
KENNY BRODIE:
It's a shame really. But, I can't just let such blatant insubordination go. This is just too important. I'm sure you understand.
CORRINE BRODIE:
Shut up, Kenny!
CORRINE stands to emphasize her demand but is struck with sudden pain that encompasses her body. She yelps, closes her arms around herself, and collapses back onto the furniture. Weakly, she tries to stand for a second time only to repeat the painful routine.
CORRINE BRODIE:
Kenny, there's something wrong. I think I need to go to the hospital.
KENNY BRODIE:
A doctor can't help you. Not unless he knows PSI Healing.
CORRINE BRODIE:
What?
KENNY BRODIE:
You've got heatstroke. Awful affliction, common in the Scabara Desert. Every move depletes a little of your health until...poof. Only cure is a wet towel.
CORRINE BRODIE:
I'm not kidding, Kenny. I'm in a lot of pain. I think I might have an ulcer or something. It really hurts.
KENNY BRODIE:
Come on. Heat stroke?...Scabara Desert?...PSI Healing?
CORRINE BRODIE pales further than she had been in her severely hungover state. Beads of sweat form across her brow.
CORRINE BRODIE:
What are you talking about? Just help me walk to your car.
KENNY BRODIE:
What am I talking about? Earthbound. It's a classic. Probably my favorite RPG of all time. Ness and his friends traveling through wacky landscapes and interacting with a cast of odd ball characters trying to defeat the evil Giygas. You've never played Earthbound?
CORRINE anemically attempts to push herself out of the couch, moving only slightly before conceding to a tremor of pain and crashing back into the cushions. KENNY BRODIE smirks at his anguished sibling. He casually tosses the clay pokeball into the air and catches it in an easy palm.
KENNY BRODIE:
I would stop moving around if I were you. You're just going to make it worse.
KENNY BRODIE opens the door. He starts to saunter through it.
CORRINE BRODIE:
Kenny, please. It really hurts. I need help...
KENNY BRODIE turns his head as he stand in the doorframe and addresses his sister.
KENNY BRODIE:
I can't, I have got to get going. Hope you saved recently, Corrine.
INT. Oakdale's seventh floor hallway. Early Morning.
KENNY BRODIE strolls out his aparment leaving the door wide open behind him. He tosses the clay pokeball to himself as he goes. From the other side of the open door, THE WARD peeks his head out. Being careful to stay hidden, he watches KENNY BRODIE leave. When he is sure KENNY BRODIE is gone, he races in to CORRINE BRODIE.
INT. The Brodie Apartment. Early Morning.
CORRINE BRODIE lays strewn across the couch, nearly incapacitated with pain. She hears THE WARD enter her apartment and tries to lift her head before the pain overcomes her. Beatened, she drops her head. THE WARD takes a knee next to the couch.
CORRINE BRODIE:
Kenny, please. I need help.
THE WARD:
Kenny left. I'm sorry. I should have done something, but I can't confront him directly. Not now. The Cept is too strong. I tried earlier and got stuck in the parking lot for hours. I couldn't risk that happening again.
CORRINE BRODIE:
It hurts to move. I can't even blink.
THE WARD:
He must have cast a spell on you. They can do that sometimes. Did he say anything? Give you any clues?
CORRINE BRODIE:
I don't know. He said I had heat stroke.
THE WARD:
Heat stroke? Did he say anything else? Anything that might...
CORRINE BRODIE:
It's fall in the midwest, I don't have heat stroke. I need to go to the hospital.
THE WARD:
Trust me, I can help you. Now did he say anything else? Any additional information at all?
CORRINE BRODIE:
Something about Earthbound...he was talking about his pokeball...he said the only cure was a wet towel...
THE WARD:
Perfect. Perfect. That's good. Kenny must still be in there. What is a tao well?
CORRINE BRODIE:
A towel? Seriously?
THE WARD:
Yes, what is it?
CORRINE BRODIE:
It's a piece of fabric you use for cleaning and drying things.
THE WARD:
Okay. Do you know where we can get one?
CORRINE BRODIE:
There's some in the bathroom.
THE WARD:
Okay.
THE WARD looks around the apartment, but doesn't go anywhere.
CORRINE BRODIE:
You know what a bathroom is, right?
THE WARD:
It seems like I do. Which room is your bath room?
CORRINE BRODIE:
It's the door to my left.
THE WARD flings his body into the bathroom, followed by a symphony of clicks, crashes and clattering as sundry bathroom essentials are presumably thrown recklessly about. CORRINE BRODIE begins to moan as the pain passes into the realm of unbearable. Her breath grows fainter, almost imperceptible.
CORRINE BRODIE:
Hurry, it hurts to breathe.
Washcloth held firmly in front of him, THE WARD comes catapulting out of the bathroom, tripping over the room's entryway and crashing into the back of the sofa CORRINE BRODIE's tortured body rests on. A lone towel wielding hand, the rest of his body still heaped on the floor, rises from the back of the couch and drops the towel softly onto CORRINE's face. She gives a relieved sigh as the water soaks into her skin. THE WARD stands and looks down at Corrine who mutters ecstatically to herself.
CORRINE BRODIE:
What took so long?
THE WARD:
The towel was easy to find, but you didn't tell me the water supply was covered.
CORRINE BRODIE:
Covered?...Is this from the toilet?
THE WARD:
I'm not sure.
CORRINE BRODIE:
You know what, I don't even care.
After a few pleasurable moments, CORRINE BRODIE sits up, letting the washcloth fall wetly to her lap. The gravity of the situation strikes her, and she begins to tremble.
CORRINE BRODIE:
What is going on? Who are you? I couldn't even move. My skin was cooking, boiling from the inside and you give me a towel. A wet towel and it goes away instantly.
CORRINE BRODIE stares at THE WARD, her face frantic in confusion. Her mouth slowly fidgets as it tries to form more questions.
THE WARD:
Look. I understand this has been a lot to take in. A lot of new information for you to digest, dissect, make a part of your conscience. But unfortunately, time is of the essence, so I need you to pull yourself together and come with me.
CORRINE BRODIE:
I am not going with you. I don't know what's going on, but I don't want anything to do with you.
OFFICER NAISMITH:
Right, well, the parking lot is still a part of the property. So, if you were asked to leave the premises, you can't just stand here. You're going to have to go home.
THE WARD:
I wish I could, but I can't.
OFFICER NAISMITH relaxes his posture slightly as he comes to a realization.
OFFICER NAISMITH:
Uh huh, I think I see what's going on here.
THR WARD:
Really? Because I am completely in the dark.
OFFICER NAISMITH:
Look, a lot of times these things just need some cooling off. You go home and come back the next day and everything is fine. You know, sleep it off. Let her miss you a little bit. It's hard, but really nine out of ten, it works out fine. Like nothing ever happened.
THE WARD:
I don't know what you're talking about
OFFICER NAISMITH:
Well, with these domestic issues. Relationships can be tricky. Sometimes the best approach is a hands off one.
THE WARD:
You don't know what you're talking about.
OFFICER NAISMITH(irritated):
Regardless, you've now been asked to leave by the police. So you can either leave on your own or you can leave with me. I think the right choice is a pretty simple one.
THE WARD:
You're in the police?
OFFICER NAISMITH points to his uniform in disbelief.
OFFICER NAISMITH:
Yes.
THE WARD:
But they're British...and Caucasian.
OFFICER NAISMITH agitates quickly. He aggressively rips his handcuffs from his uniform.
OFFICER NAISMITH:
Alright, I think that's about enough of this. Put your hands behind your back. You have the right to remain silent...
THE WARD:
I can't!
Further irritated, OFFICER NAISMITH grabs THE WARD's wrist attempting to handcuff him, but when he presses his fingers against his skin, his face goes void and his body goes limp. The handcuffs fall from his hands and clatter on the ground. The connection is quickly broken though, as THE WARD stumbles forward, just catching his balance before hitting the ground.
THE WARD:
Hey, you unpaused me!
OFFICER NAISMITH (dazed):
...huh?
THE WARD:
It's nothing. Don't worry about it.
OFFICER NAISMITH:
What is going on?...
OFFICER NAISMITH see his handcuffs on the ground. He picks them up with ginger care, and stares at THE WARD questioningly as he tries to piece together what is happening.
OFFICER NAISMITH (more coherently):
What are you doing out here?
THE WARD:
Just, uh, taking a walk...
OFFICER NAISMITH shakes his head clearing the cobwebs from it.
OFFICER NAISMITH:
Well, we've had complaints about you standing around suspiciously out here.
THE WARD:
Oh, really? I'm sorry. I was just about to head inside anyways...
OFFICER NAISMITH:
I think maybe you should stay out here and answer a few questions.
THE WARD:
Taylor? Taylor Naismith?
OFFICER NAISMITH:
Yea? I'm Officer Taylor Naismith.
THE WARD:
No way! It's me.
OFFICER NAISMITH looks discerningly at THE WARD, unable to pinpoint where he might know him from.
OFFICER NAISMITH:
I don't...
THE WARD:
Jeffrey Dosier. Eric Dosier's little brother.
The name sounds familiar to OFFICER NAISMITH, he fumbles it around his mouth as he attempts to conjure up a face.
OFFICER NAISMITH:
Eric Dosier....Dosier...
THE WARD:
Don't tell me you've forgotten your fullback. Come on, the guy who paved your way to a single season class 2A rushing record in ninety eight.
OFFICER NAISMITH face alights with an electric smile and wide glimmering eyes.
OFFICER NAISMITH:
Bull! Oh, Bull. How is he doing?
THE WARD:
He's good. He sells insurance in the west suburbs.
OFFICER NAISMITH:
Insurance, huh? Small world. Bull Dosier...
THE WARD:
Yea, mostly auto I think.
OFFICER NAISMITH:
I haven't seen that guy in years...
OFFICER NAISMITH's radio cackles unintelligibly. OFFICER NAISMITH pulls the mouthpiece from his belt and responds to the call. He sighs as he clips the mouthpiece back to his belt.
OFFICER NAISMITH:
I've gotta to go. There's a burglar alarm going off about three blocks north of here. It's probably nothing but, you know...
OFFICER NAISMITH pulls a pad from his front chest pocket and scribbles something on it before hastily handing it to THE WARD.
OFFICER NAISMITH:
Here. Next time you see your brother give him my number and tell him to call me. We should get a drink or something.
OFFICER NAISMITH turns towards his car before quickly turning back to THE WARD.
OFFICER NAISMITH:
And you probably shouldn't wear the glasses at night. It makes you look like you're drunk or on drugs or something.
THE WARD:
No problem.
OFFICER NAISMITH(to self):
Bull Dosier. Wild.
OFFICER NAISMITH jogs back to his vehicle and swiftly jumps in. His lights and sirens burst into full effect before the police car peels out of the parking lot and races out of sight. THE WARD looks at the piece of paper in his hand, indifferently he crumples into a wad and shoves it into his sweatshirt pocket.
THE WARD:
Okay. Let's try this again, Kenny Brodie.
THE WARD turns left down the back alley behind the Oakdale apartments, but after only a few steps he stops abruptly and turns one hundred eighty degrees. He begins to walk the other direction down the alley. Again, after only a few steps he stops. Looking slightly lost, THE WARD rubs his hands together before opening his palms to the open air, trying to feel KENNY BRODIE as he had done earlier in the parking lot. He drops his hands in failure.
THE WARD:
You'll probably return at some point. So, I guess I'll just wait here.
EXT. Park. Morning
A stray cat sits atop a park tree branch stretching its sinewy legs as it struts across the branch's length. The sun is awakened and shines low through the greenery of the horizon. Beneath the tree, KENNY BRODIE sits next to a HOMELESS MAN on a park bench. The HOMELESS MAN sprawls across his own disarray and filth. KENNY BRODIE lightly fingers the joystick of the controller he holds.
KENNY BRODIE:
A world of lemmings. Numb and broken; silent and still. Empty souls waiting for my guidance to give them purpose.
The cat's body falls past KENNY BRODIES face with a shrill shriek before dully hitting the ground with a thud. The HOMELESS MAN lifts his head to see the noise and annoyed turns himself over, face towards the bench's back, before going back to his hungover slumber.
KENNY BRODIE:
My world of lemmings.
EXT. Oakdale parking lot. Morning.
KENNY BRODIE returns to his apartment parking lot. His gait is far more coordinated and purposed, as if walking were an art he recently mastered, but his eyes are still distant and unobserving. THE WARD rests on his back between two of the parking lot's dormant vehicles. As KENNY BRODIE passes in front of THE WARD, THE WARD's torso flies upright. THE WARD opens his mouth to speak, but thinks better of it, silently watching KENNY BRODIE pass. Slowly, he rises to his feet, being careful to sheild himself from sight behind the automobiles. Keeping a fair distance, he follows KENNY BRODIE towards the apartment's entrance.
INT. Oakdale Apartments Seventh Floor. Morning.
KENNY BRODIE walks with even focus down the Seventh floor hallway. THE WARD tiptoes behind him, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. KENNY stops at his aparment door and spins on his right ankle, turning the ninety degrees to face the door on a dime. THE WARD reacts to the flamboyant maneuver by aggresively and intensely inspecting the wall next to him. He runs a single finger a foot length across it.
THE WARD(mumbling to self):
Great...craftsmanship.
KENNY pays no mind to THE WARD's peculiar behavior and enters the apartment with great flourish, slamming the door behind him. THE WARD runs up to the door after him and places his ear against the cold finished wood to eavesdrop.
INT. The Brodie Apartment. Morning.
CORRINE BRODIE sits on the living room couch, the fabric of her pajamas barely visible through the blanket cocoon she has formed around herself. The television is on, consistently droning in the background. Her hair is pulled into a greasy tangled ball above her head, her eyes are bloodshot and darkened. Irate, she throws an empty water bottle at her brother.
CORRINE BRODIE:
Stop slamming the doors.
finished.
CORRINE BRODIE stumbles through the living room and into her bedroom, never taking notice of her brother sitting unwavering on the couch. KENNY BRODIE stares with watery, unblinking eyes at the dormant television screen. His tongue slips across his mouth, moistening his lips, as his fingers slowly tap the buttons of the controller in his hand.
KENNY:
Games are fun.
With a slow smoothness, consistent like dripping molasses, Kenny raises from his chair and walks towards the apartment door. Absently, he twists its handle and pushes just hard enough to force the door to swing softly into the hallway. Kenny disappears into the hallway light, leaving the door wide open behind him.
EXT. The Oakdale Apartment Parking Lot. Early Morning.
Thin clouds of condensation leave his mouth as THE WARD paces the Oakdale's parking lot, a simple asphalt extension from the building's back exit. He moves back and forth between two phosphorous lights pathetically attempting to illuminate the parked cars beneath them. THE WARD stops and lifts his arms over his head in frustration, a thick plume escaping as he exhales deeply. After a second of reflection, he brings his arms down and holds them fully extended from his chest with his palms up and facing the complex as if the building was a fire warming his hands.
THE WARD:
I know you're in there, I can feel you. But, where? Around which corner do you wait? Behind which door do you hide? Time is evaporating and the window to save you is closing. Where are you, Kenny Brodie?
The Oakdale's back door explodes open, slamming against the brick wall it's attached to with a crack that echoes off hollow cars and cold cement. Emerging from the doorway, KENNY BRODIE marches into the parking lot. THE WARD smirks in disbelief, he drops his arms and jogs enthusiastically towards KENNY BRODIE.
THE WARD(as he closes the gap):
Kenny?! Kenny Brodie? You have to listen to me. You're in a lot of trouble.
THE WARD reaches KENNY BRODIE. As he does, KENNY's abandoned eyes momentarily electrify like a blown fuse. He turns to THE WARD, looks him in the face, and presses a button on the controller he is holding.
KENNY BRODIE:
Pause.
THE WARD:
Pause?
KENNY BRODIE cackles softly and continues his steady trot through the parking lot.
THE WARD:
Kenny, this is very serious. You're infected.
THE WARD tries to follow KENNY BRODIE through the parking lot, but finds his limbs are no longer responsive. His legs remain cemented beneath him like street fixtures, his arms hang loose and numb like windless sails.
THE WARD:
What's this?
THE WARD turns his only functioning appendage, his head, and watches KENNY BRODIE disintegrate into the inky night.
THE WARD:
Kenny! Kenny! Fight it, Kenny! Come back here!
THE WARD accepts KENNY BRODIE isn't coming back and sighs.
THE WARD:
Well, this has never happened before. My limbs have mysteriously and instantaneously stopped functioning.
THE WARD tries to force himself to move, his face strains and his head bobs wildly, while the rest of his body remains static. After a few moments, THE WARD exhausts himself and gives up.
THE WARD:
This is not good. Not good at all.
Ext. City street. Early Morning.
BEN, early twenties and male, and ERIC, early twenties and male, walk unevenly down a dark and simmering city street. They are obviously putting the finishing touches on a long night on the town, both are holding foil wrapped burritos which they chew lazily with open mouths and half massed eyes.
BEN:
That burrito's awesome, isn't it?
ERIC:
I can't believe you.
BEN(rolls eyes in drunken exaggeration):
Oh, come on.
ERIC:
I told you I liked her. You know, that I was trying to...
BEN (jokingly):
Woo her?
ERIC:
Yes, actually. I was trying to woo her. I've been flirting with her like everyday at work and now it's going to be weird. What am I going to say when I see her? How does my roommate's mouth taste?
BEN laughs at ERIC.
BEN:
Why would you ask her that?
ERIC:
Shut up. This sucks. I can't even talk to her now, she'll probably just ask a bunch of questions about you. Work sucks now.
BEN:
You hate your job anyways.
ERIC:
Yea, well now it's worse. Thanks.
BEN and ERIC walk silently for a few seconds.
BEN:
Look, I'm sorry. You're right. It was a jerk move. If you want, I won't call her. I'll completely ignore her.
ERIC:
Don't do that.
BEN:
I'm glad to hear you say that. It was a completely empty promise.
ERIC pushes BEN in the shoulder which causes BEN to loose his footing and stumble a little bit.
BEN (in mock anger):
Hey! Settle down over there and eat the burrito I bought you.
ERIC takes another large bite of his burrito, hints of pleasure on his face as he does.
BEN:
It's good, right?
ERIC:
This is the best burrito I've ever had.
BEN:
And it's open twenty four hours. I love that place. I'm thinking of moving in there if things don't work out between us.
Following behind BEN and ERIC is KENNY BRODIE. Even at his steady zombie pace, KENNY is able to make ground on the intoxicated wandering totter of the two in front of him. As with his interaction with THE WARD, KENNY's dull eyes illuminate for a second.
KENNY:
Round one. Fight!
KENNY begins to push buttons on his controller, as he does BEN turns to ERIC and roundhouse kicks ERIC's burrito out of his hand.
ERIC:
Whoa! What was that for?! Now, you owe me another burrito.
BEN drops to a knee next to the fallen burrito and begins to pummel it into the sidewalk cement with a closed fist.
ERIC:
I don't think I'm going out with you anymore, man. You're kind of a nasty drunk. You need help.
BEN stops punching the burrito, which was flatten to the ground long ago, and looks to ERIC.
BEN:
Shoryuken!
BEN flies into the air with an extended fist above his head. His fist connects with ERIC's chin and sends him spilling to the ground where he lays unconscious. After a considerable leap, BEN lands on the ground and holds his hands in front of him. He shifts his weight from foot to foot like a waiting Street Fighter character.
KENNY:
You lose.
Ext. Oakdale Apartment parking lot. Early Morning.
THE WARD whistles to himself as he stands motionless in the parking lot. The tune is unidentifiable and wandering as if he is making it up as he goes along. His eyes have the glaze of boredom that accompanies stagnation. A police car enters the parking lot behind THE WARD, its lights quickly illuminate and its warning siren chirps just before OFFICER NAISMITH, early thirties black male, leaves the vehicle. THE WARD tries to see the commotion behind him but is unable to turn his head that far.
OFFICER NAISMITH:
Evening. Mind if I ask you what you're doing out here so late?
THE WARD:
Nothing. Absolutely nothing at all.
OFFICER NAISMITH, finding it strange THE WARD didn't turn to address him, stands next to THE WARD. He shines his flashlight off into the general direction THE WARD is forced to stare in.
OFFICER NAISMITH(curious):
What are you looking at?
THE WARD:
Same thing you are. A building, some trees, couple trash cans...
OFFICER NAISMITH(cutting THE WARD off):
Okay then. We've had a complaint about you standing out here in the parking lot. You're making your neighbors nervous. Why don't you head back inside so they can get some sleep?
THE WARD:
I can't.
OFFICER NAISMITH:
You can't?
THE WARD:
No, I can't. And even if I could, I don't think I'd be welcome.
OFFICER NAISMITH:
Why's that?
THE WARD:
I was asked to leave.
OFFICER NAISMITH:
You were asked to leave?
THE WARD:
Well demanded really. Rather rudely too.
OFFICER NAISMITH's eyebrow raises quizzically. He shines his flashlight at THE WARD, who squeezes his face behind his sunglasses unable to shield his eyes with his hands.
OFFICER NAISMITH:
Have you been drinking tonight?
THE WARD(squinting):
No, and actually I'm quite thirsty. So you can see how frustrating this is.
OFFICER NAISMITH leans in towards THE WARD's face and deeply inhales the stationary man's breath through his nose. Smelling nothing, he continues.
At 8/12/11 02:01 PM, Travis wrote:
Don't suck the big corporate cock though.
i bet he needs the money...shot.
At 2/13/11 04:19 PM, ICY-HURR wrote:At 2/13/11 04:10 PM, Me-Patch wrote:
you know what really sucks...is how his family does care what he does. His dad died when he was a young kid, his mother never really cared about what decisions he made and brother and sister are both alil weird. I dont know what i can do to help this guy out but i got to figure something out soon.
it is my understanding that a lot of released criminals reoffend because they lack support from their communities and family. if there's no one there to impress, or disappoint, or care about him in general he'll probably go back to whatever he was doing before and consequently back to jail. all you can do if you care is be a good friend and hope for the best.
roughly 150,000 other people you've never met died today. sadly, no one made them a newgrounds post.
mmmmmm...yummy desert.
why not try to pass your shitty rap lyrics as poetry? it'll still suck but at least you might get some of the people in the writing forum to click your link.
At 1/13/11 04:25 PM, PiGPEN wrote:At 1/13/11 04:09 PM, Mexifry wrote: Most of these stories are way too long for a minute long flash animation.You can't really expect anyone who hasn't written for the screen to know how time works.
If any of them get used it will just be up to the production team to pare them back.
yea. i realize that now. just kind of got carried away. it was fun though. i had an outlet to vent about homely people.
i decided to use the letter format. it seemed to work swimmingly for the example cartoons.
To whom it may concern,
On Friday, March 12 of this year, my son and I stopped for lunch at your Madison, WI restaurant. I was quite shocked and repulsed to find a red haired woman taking orders on this particular day at this particular restaurant. She was not just a ginger; she was overweight, greasy, and her eyes were spaced abnormally close together. It was disgusting. I refused to place my order and, whilst dry heaving, demanded to speak to management. When a manager did arrived, I explained to him in excruciating detail what the problem was. As I discussed with him how difficult it was to eat food that was given to you by someone so hideous, the ginger woman began to weep heavy, wet tears from her abominable face and into my food. Onto my exposed fries! And worst of all, the manager's demeanor seemed almost incredulous to my complaint giving me the impression this was not the first time something like this has occurred. Let's hope it was the last.
I think it is incredibly irresponsible for a fast food chain to employ ugly people where they can be seen by the customer base. My son and I were forced to eat in the one place her nauseating image wouldn't affect us, the bathroom. The whole experience has left him scarred. My son was only six years old at the time. How do you explain ginger to a six year old? You can't. I am not an unreasonable man. I do not expect Brad Pitt and Jessica Alba to deep fry my potatoes and wrap my burger; however, there is a certain tolerable standard that must be upheld. Ugly people can do unseen menial work in the back of the restaurant, completely to the consumer's ignorance. They should not be upfront and center causing the paying customers to loose the lunch they just purchased.
Now, it wasn't wholly an unpleasant dinner. My hamburger and fries were delightful, as I have come to expect from your chain. And, although his burger had a slight e. coli contamination, I am sure my son would say the same if he were still alive today.
Still a faithful patron,
Reginald Montooth III
At 11/13/10 09:29 PM, Fro wrote:At 11/13/10 03:37 PM, TheLameSauce wrote:So a piece that made my top and if there were more judges perhaps a top place.
thanks for the feedback. i had originally came up with the idea for last year's halloween competition, a biopunk theme, and never actually wrote it. i think maybe because i was trying to fill up as much setting as i could as quickly as possible, without it being forced, i didn't spend enough time on what actually was happening. it's cool to know the story was liked, especially since the competition was pretty strong.
like tom said, your story was really quite good as well and it's a shame no one else voted enabling it to be a part of the competition. it read smoothly and the slight twist in the ending was satisfying. the reader was led to believe the protagonist was also the antagonist, but the suprising way it develops was very entertaining.
i would appreciate feedback as well, fro.
At 11/10/10 06:57 PM, LarxII wrote:
Agreed, sorry for taking offense It just seems like instead of constructive criticism some people are just trying to piss me off without giving me a pointer as to why they didn't like it.
i don't believe i ever said anything insulting towards you or your poetry. i really was trying to help.
any attempt to manipulate other people's posting is utterly pointless. whether it be by flaming, trolling, petitioning, or banning people are going to do whatever the hell they want to do. and that is the way it should be.
To me, the reason art is so special is because a lot of people do it without expecting anything back. They do it to share. This forum for instance, i doubt anyone has posted a short story or poem here hoping it would ink them a book deal. Being wealthy isn't- or shouldn't be- the point, that's the beauty. You can be a carpenter during the day, and play keyboards at night. You can retail clerk and write poems. Art is about exploring humanity and the world around you and hoping to discover something that can be shared. And if you're doing something artistic for any other reason than discovery, you're probably making shitty art.
There isn't a connection, as far as I can tell, between the amount of money invested in a piece of art and it's artistic quality. Because of this independence, art doesn't NEED to be funded as much. Really, as long as we continue to value art. As long as we teach kids to appreciate literature, music, painting then we will continue to have writers, musicians and painters. We don't need to provide financial incentives.
At 11/7/10 12:11 PM, TheLameSauce wrote: as this seems like a perfectly reasonable place to whore myself out, here is a stream of conscious piece of writing i did about a year ago on the same topic.
obviously, i decided against whoring myself out. i'm new to the internet.
i think it's a little unfair to label all stream of conscious writing as chaotic and unintelligble. personally, i find that as long as you're honest in your attempt and truly uncovering your feelings as you write them, they add the element of discovery into your work. you can see ideas and emotion develop sentence by sentence. as this seems like a perfectly reasonable place to whore myself out, here is a stream of conscious piece of writing i did about a year ago on the same topic.
as for your specific poem like thing, it seems like you're holding back. you're leaning on cliche themes and phrases. use your words to express how you feel. not words that you've heard before that suffice in expressing your sentiment. use analogies derived from your personal experience. a more personal piece is more cathartic.
i posted the story i was contemplating for the halloween contest last year. finally wrote it, hope it's enjoyed. happy halloween.
Recognition sinks in immediately for the boy. Eyes previously shuttered with fatigue explode open. Tears rim the whites as preciously hazel irises dart for escape. The boy's mouth begins to stammer in a fear induced convulsion.
"No. No. NO."
The boy kicks his legs, trying to distance himself from Greene. Blood that had been resting in still pools on the boy's abdomen is disturbed and spills over his side.
"Relax," Greene reassures, stroking the boy's sweaty head with gentle, precise finger tips. "The worst is over."
Cries emanate from the boy. Not gaudy, attention seeking whelps, but babbling hopeless sniffles. Greene is reminded of creeks he once knew, running peacefully through some unnamed forest. He closes his eyes and tries to visualize them.
"I want to go home. I want to see my mommy." Shock is strengthening the boy's resolve. He speaks clearly, hindered only slightly as he calms his emotions with gasps of air. His eyes focus on Greene's, pleading with his humanity. It hurts Greene to disappoint something so angelic, but it's too late now. They have stepped off the ledge and all that's left is free fall. He must be strong.
"Do you love your parents?" Greene inquires. He rearranges his weight, positioning himself so he can sit more comfortably on the gritty floor.
"Yes, I love them. I want to go home." Aggression creeps into the boy's tone like a negotiator who has just stolen the upper hand. He pivots his wrists on the floor and tries to lift his shoulder blades higher, pulling his tailbone against the wall. As he does, a soupy piece of red sponge slides from his chest and nestles softly on his hip.
"Well, if you love them then it is probably safe to assume you want what's best for them. Which is precisely why you can't leave. Why you can never leave. Do you know what the average life expectancy is today?"
Greene pauses, waiting for the boy to guess. He doesn't. The spritzing of hope the boy had felt has burned off and been replaced with an inevitable, undeniable truth. He isn't going home.
"Two hundred and sixty. We are expected to live for two hundred and sixty years. That's absurdity of biblical proportions. They've eradicated all disease. They can treat all levels of injury. They've all but cured death. And in the process, all but destroyed what made us alive. There's no fear or pain. There's no anger or hate. How can we know hope if there's nothing to hope for? How can we love if we never know its counterpart? We've neutered God and made him a silent spectator as we float hopeless and numb for all eternity. This is hell. The only way we can save our world from this hell is to shock it from its slumber. We need to sacrifice something innocent. We need to wrong society and rob it of its security. We need to startle it so badly, it never sleeps again. Your death will save us all."
The boy whimpers weakly as droplets race from each eye leaving symmetric trails glistening down his ashy cheeks. His voice is a shrill whine whirling around Greene's ear like a pierced balloon.
"I don't want to die." Terrified emotion is bubbling inside of him, billowing out his pores. As he speaks, blood and spittle spray from his desiccated lips in a salmon mist.
"We all die." Greene scratches at his jawline as he spills his callous rejoinder. "Very few of us live before we do."
Greene reaches between the boy's legs and lifts up a length of mottled sanguine rope equidistant from their faces. Dramatically, he clenches the rope in his fists. Cherry juices are released from its surface as it contracts, rolling through Greene's knuckles and down his forearms. He brings it closer to the boy's face so he can be witness to the demonstration, but his eyes are shut.
"Do you know what this is?" The boy shakes his head listlessly in response. His eyes never opening, a pallor developing his face. Greene returns the rope to the boy's lap with an apathetic toss before continuing.
"That is your small intestine. In an adult it is typically about sixteen feet long. Surprisingly, that's about three times longer than the large intestine."
Greene's waits for his fact to be absorbed. The boy is stagnant as if sleeping, coral liquid gleaming at the corner of his mouth.
"Last night, I pulled out roughly four feet of your small intestine from the flowing gash in your stomach and left it to dry out and rot at your feet. And look at you. You persevere. You fight and gnash against the odds, desperately clawing for extra seconds. You refuse to give up. You refuse to accept your fate as it is obviously and literally laid out at your feet. And why? So you can taste your favorite protein brick one last time. So you can play one more round of game with your friends. So you can kiss your mommy and your daddy good bye before you're stricken from this world. You cling to each breath, each beat of your tiny heart, like the fleeting gift it is. Never sure if another will follow. You've lived more in the last night than anyone else has in a century. You are enlightened and we would all be blessed to know what you have felt."
A fly lands in one of the pink puddles along the boy's mouth, its spindly legs rapidly fluttering as it consumes the moisture. The boy slowly waves a fragile hand, shooing the fly away and back into the droning crowd that encompasses him.
"Sorry. They are impatient, but with good intent. They know the new world we are building is upon us." Slight indignation creeps into Greene's voice as he excuses his insect dependents
"You're not building anything. You're a monster. All you do is kill."
The words leap form the boy's mouth with rapid passion. Each one attacking Greene with precision, burrowing under his thick skin and into the malleable dough that spins beneath. His neck grows hot and his vision narrows. Greene strikes the boy across the face with an open palm, sending his limp body tumbling. Blood pours from his torso like a broken dam, emanating from the wound in waves. His chest no longer puffs and hollows on frail lungs.
Moments pass before Greene is able to collect himself. Later he will unsheathe his hunting dagger and chop away at the pudgy little limbs extending from the boy's corpse, ripping through muscle and tendon with each adroit strike. The meat is thick on the bone and will probably garner a healthy bit of trade at market. Even later, his following will bury themselves in the boy's deteriorating chest cavity. They will eat and lay their eggs in the sloppy mess that once sustained life and he will wilt like a plucked flower. But first, he will take the boy's decapitated head and leave it somewhere public. Somewhere it will generate cries and whispers. Somewhere the boy's lifeless eyes can accuse a world that forgot about them. And this terrible place, this place that causes good men to destroy beauty to preserve beauty, will find cracks forming in its foundation.
Greenfly
A tickle dances along the ridge of Greene's cheekbone, light and capricious like an eyelash. He sweeps the hair from his face with sleep encumbered reflex before digging his body further into the bedding that surrounds him. It's only when the tickle returns to his left nostril that Greene is coerced into consciousness. His hand, a bony projectile launched from some sheet covered cannon, rips through the air in front of his face. Greene sits up in his makeshift bed, a motley collection of discarded linen and secondhand clothing piled haphazardly in the corner of the room, and listens to the affronting irritant buzz in the hollow of his fist. He is humored by the faintly perceptible pressure applied as his visitor attempts to force itself through his fingers. For just a moment, Greene squeezes the muscles in his hand before opening it completely.
The fly escapes the thin, leathery digits that once held it captive and disappears into a world only flies know. Greene tolerates the flies, but it is not just toleration. They feed in his wake and flourish in his habitat. They need him; they are his dependents. He feels responsible for them and cares for them. The humming specks that float around him are his aura. They are a congregation so profuse they could black out the sun if they so chose. Or if Greene chose. They are his flies and he is proud of them.
Greene stretches his sinewy wingspan away from his torso, his bronzed flexible skin contorting as he cracks his spine. He rolls his bald head along svelte shoulders until his neck too pops satisfyingly and then stands in the midst of his slumbering mess. Greene is a tall man, and a slender one at that, attributes that have an exaggerating effect on each other. His head and face are meticulously shaven to the skin; beautiful, constant skin that rolls like desert from his crown to his toes without respite. He wears a simple pair of bathing shorts to cover his more offensive anatomy, incandescently white over his body's copper background. His movements are always calculated and efficient; he navigates life with a cool grace.
It is a minimalist space Greene stands within. Fifty by fifteen feet, ten feet tall, and three stories up; to Greene it is perfection. The room has to be at least a century old. The walls are deteriorating into the neighboring rooms and the ceiling has been removed leaving a metal skeleton above. Although the floors are covered in soot and dirt, Greene knows they are patchy, chipped wood underneath. Maybe it once was the conference room for some fortune 500 company, or the personal office of some hot shot defense attorney, or the storage room for research embryos for some nonprofit organization. Whatever it was, it is nothing now. It is abandoned like everything else in The State's Twelfth Sector, left to fade over time. That was until Greene arrived and revitalized its lost halls with new purpose. Greene never feels the need to decorate his home, it is the way it is supposed to be. Its character is earned and authentic. It has been three years since Greene moved in, and aside from some minor bedding, not a thing has changed. Feeling nostalgic, Greene's eyes scope the area seeing nothing but earthy walls, his whirling insect friends, and the residual gore from the night before.
Chills slide down the exposed hills of Greene's spine like melting ice as his mind entangles itself in the night before. The orgasmic rush of adrenaline, the acuteness of an endangered mind, the sweltering fervor that blurs the edges of memory into one continuous delirium. They revisit him like haunting ghosts. Suddenly, he can hear the distinct shrill of the screams in his ear and taste the salty blood on his lips. Greene's heart pelts within his chest like a desperate caged animal. The moisture drains from his mouth, leaving his tongue clicking blindly for water. Greene's euphoria passes, encompassed in a surge of thirst.
With long elegant strides, Greene glides away from his bed and towards the clear gallon water jugs he keeps abutted against his eastern wall. Yesterday had been an eventful trek into the Tenth District. During the daylight hours, he had successfully bartered five pounds of relatively fresh meat for six gallons of water and enough protein bricks and vitamin supplements to last a month. And after the sun had set, another satisfying hunt.
He is well known in the Tenth's black market meat circles. Palpable stares follow him through side streets and alleys, his canvas bag of paper-wrapped steaks slapping rhythmically against his thigh. The right people know where to find the Butcher Bones and his consistent supply of delectable cuts. It isn't the name he would have chosen for himself, but it serves its purpose. The moniker shrouds him in an air of epic mystery and legends are never in need of clientele. Greene has to fight back the smirks as the community's most exemplary figures came calling for his wares. Doctors, attorneys and legislators all clamoring for sustenance the way it had always been intended, with texture and flavor. They never question where such an abundance was found in such barren times. The Butcher Bones is truly an adept hunter.
Cool water pulses through Greene's mouth and down his throat as he pulls it from the jug in steady streams. The asperity is washed away with each gracious swallow and his innards electrify with a brisk shock that radiates relief throughout his system. Nothing is seen wastefully trickling from the corner of Greene's sharp lined mouth. There are no thoughtless drips plummeting from his defiantly pointed chin like a neglected faucet. It is all directed with strict intent inside, where it is needed the most.
As Greene places the jug back against the wall, he can hear a whisper. It is barely audible over the constant buzz of his flies, like the whistling breezes that sometimes blow through the holes in his walls. Only this whisper has the distinct staccato of words, a trick the rustling wind never learned. Greene turns to the wall opposite him, to the crumpled flesh that lays dormant there. Hues of rust and brick streak away from the body epicenter like a corporal sunset. Chunks of shredded meat and skin and organ are interspersed in its pigment, plastered to the drywall like stucco. Greene's eyes distend with disbelief. He shuttles across the floor, falling to his knees as he makes his approach and leveling himself to the boy.
"Help me." The whisper is repeated on innocent, pouting lips. Each word strenuously unearthed as though they were the heaviest ever spoken. He is beautiful, this boy. Beautiful and so perfectly youthful. Yesterday, he had been carefree, floating feathery down market streets. Tawny hair bustling the edges of a jovial, round face. His skin so pristine and taught, creamy with a hint of cinnamon across the bridge of his nose. His meaty limbs flailing with frantic, joyous zeal as he pranced.
He is the youngest human being Greene can ever recall seeing in person. Greene knows that at some point he must have been surrounded with people just like the boy, but that is reason not memory. It is a time for overpopulation and depleted resources. It is a time for handed down preformed food stuff rations and State mandated birth control. It is not a time for little boys. His parents must have been of great wealth and influence to be afforded such a treasure.
This creature, so scaled down, awkward and disproportional, is new to him. His arms and legs are stubby and graceless, his head sits swollen on his shoulders thwarting all hope for balance, his eyes are enormous moons but his nose and mouth just minute stars. He is a caricature of the fully grown adult he might have one day been, much like his thick, wriggling maggots are to their nimble fly parents.
Greene leans in to speak to the boy, his voice brittle and sharp like shattering window panes. "Oh, my son, I am helping you. I am helping you more than anyone else would ever dream to."
Could you point out which ones? I'm not too amazing at proof-reading
The man in the alleyway has long since gone; almost as soon as the gun went off he was round the corner and gone
Also, it's not a lead up to a mystery novel, it's a story about God being evil and the main character (the one that dies) trying to overthrow him to save the day.
well, i tried my best with what i had. i see what Deathcon was saying, although i assumed you were more establishing setting(i.e., mysterious death of the protagonist) then establishing the character. if you'd rather establish the character, don't do a prologue. as the other critic stated, we don't know your character and don't care if he's dead. if you want us to care, start off your book with the beginning of your story, develop the character, and then kill him.
won't my emo grass look all wilted and pale?
i haven't seen this particular form(self-mutilating lawn) of ridiculing emos, but in general terms it's really not an original idea. emos cut themselves-that's not even beating a dead horse, it's rattling the bones. as for more specifically, your script isn't that good. the generalized idea inspires an upturn corner of the mouth at best, and each individual joke is cheap and easy like bunting off a tee (see my opening joke, took three seconds).
the idea of taking a pun and making into a short flash is a proven formula and you could find some success with it. however, i wouldn't invest too much effort in this effort. it's just not that great.
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