All entries for January 2011

The exexexexexexex

I’m not bitter, by the way. 

The exexexexexex is a fantastically brutal creature. She exists in a world of hate permeated by sweet frustration. The beating of her heart sends long thin tendrils of ice skating across your skin. Her sharp teeth sparkle with malice and glint in silver moonlight as if winking at your impending death. Once she has set her eyes on you, you become ensnared in a web of confusion. Her gloriously wicked fingers trace outlines of false love across your body, cutting strips of flesh away from your bones. She is monstrous to behold; her dark hair floating behind her head as if made of serpents, her narrow eyes breathing terror down your throat. Her skin crawling in scaly parasites which leech the hope from within your soul. 

But no, in fact she’s not like that at all. She is perfectly beautiful. Her skin as soft as fresh snow, and her eyes such a deep and passionate blue that you may lose yourself within them. You lose yourself in the tumultuous looks she gives you from across the room, and you feel submerged as you did when you leapt into that glacial pool in European mountains. With every gentle caress she graces you with you feel reborn; it’s as if you’re waking up from a deep sleep you never knew you were in...

Bitch. 

Samuel Dodson : 24 Jan 2011 10:51 |  Tags: Fiction Monster Story |  Comments (0) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

The Self Always Wins

Well, man, my man. Ahm standing here, right, like, and I’m itching, really fucking itching - not like, ah’ve got crabs or anythin’ like that - it’s like with fear, ahm itching with fear all over my body. Shivers, too, my spine's shivering like a shiteing dag. Ah stuff my hands into my pockets to stop ‘em from trembling but it’s no fucking use. Ahm shook up and that’s the end of it. 

The cold is biting my neck - man, ah’ve never had a hickey from the fucking weather before tonight but the way it’s feeling ahm gonna be looking like ah’ve been necking with Dracula all night - ah take my hands out my pockets and blow on them. They’re covered in this fucking red dirt ‘n all! Tip to fucking toe and toe to fucking tip ahm covered in the shite. Why’s it red anyways? Why the fuck can’t it be brown like all the rest of the stuff? Why’s it gotta be so damn individual? 

Fucking pretentious-self-loving-individual-dirt. Man the fuck up and stop being such an arse. 

-QUEST’QUE TU LA FUCK? What the shiteing thing was that? Ah rummage in my pockets for my torch and shine it’s pitiful beam of light into the night. Ah’ll give you fucking made in England, you fucking torch, you couldn’t light a match you phallic shaped tiny bastard. 

My torch is being a right pain in the rear, the punitive amount of light it sheds hardly cutting through the waves of darkness which have descended upon me. 

-THERE IT IS AGAIN. You may be swathed in shadows, son, but you can’t escape my tiny torch light! 

A pair of wide white eyes catch the light of my torch. Ah knew it! Ah fucking well knew it! Just another fucking roo! Go back to Kanga you fucking overgrown-bouncy-dog-bastard! 

This place is full of the fucking rats, they’re creeping me out ‘n all, bouncing about like they own the place. Bollocks to ‘em, ah say. You can have this damn place. 

Ah look down at the hole ah’ve been digging for the past half-hour. That’ll do ya, I reckon. Ah swing my back-pack off my shoulders and dump it on the ground. Ah unzip it and let my red hands grope about its insides. Presently, they procure what they’ve been searching for and lift the precious prize into the open-air. 

Ah flash my torch over it as ah play with it in my other hand. Ah can’t stop touching the bloody thing, it’s like ah’m hooked on the way it feels. 

Fuck this for a game of toy-soldiers. Ah’ve gotta honour my part of the deal, right? Gotta do the moral thing here, ah reckons so. 

Then again. 

What if the other guy’s thinking like ah’m thinking right now? 

It wouldn’t be logical, now, would it? To leave this beautiful, glorious, desirous thing right here only to find ah’ve been done over by the other player - well that wouldn’t be very fair on your’s truly! 

Nah, it’s not worth it. There’s no point letting myself be screwed over: after all, maybe there’s a chance ah can keep this little treasure and get what the other squire’s holding on top, now wouldn’t that be a neat little thing. 

There’s a faint line of light on the horizon. Better make tracks sharpish, ah reckon. Ah replace my darling possession in my bag and strap it back onto my back. Ah pick my hat off the floor beside me and dust it off before putting it back on my head. 

Ah’ve only just set off when this sexy little aboriginal lady-girl walks by strutting her stuff on the desert cat-walk. Man, she’s something else, something smooth in this coarse fucking-egotistical-dirt-land. Ah whistle my sexiest whistle. 

‘Ere, love! Fancy coming back to mine for a cider and a massage?’

Samuel Dodson : 08 Jan 2011 19:45 |  Tags: Fiction Short Story |  Comments (0) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

Time

Watch shadows dissolve the day,

Dead hearts in soul’s oblivion, 

Wash away sins, yearning years,

Forget the fleeing panic of the sky’s 

Vanishing pavilion. 

Listen to what those preachers say, 

Take heed with no salvation, 

Remove your rings, dispel your fears, 

Watch the lord control the flies

And then destroy the nation. 

Speak soft sonnets on the way, 

Dear Danger feed my hesitation, 

Hear those who win, mourning tears, 

Break the selfish idle ties

That halt your inclinations. 

These damnable traces are etching 

Thoughtless examples of freedom

Which wake me, searching, retching, 

From a sleepless serfdom, 

Deep pollution fills the seas,

Love this revolution. 

Samuel Dodson : 03 Jan 2011 23:31 |  Tags: Poetry |  Comments (0) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

New Years

And so it begins such as this. 

“The time has come,” the pirate said, 

“To talk of many things:

Of brews from yonder Tennessee-

And that drink which gives you wings-

Of rings of fire and double shots-

And foolish one night flings.”

A little bit of advice to usher in 2011; if you had ever wondered to the contrary, it does in fact turn out, that pirate outfits can be exceedingly cold. They will not keep you warm if you decide - for whatever reason - to sleep in your car. 

Many happy tribulations/tidings/returns/wishes/greetings to you all. 

Samuel Dodson : 03 Jan 2011 23:10 |  Comments (0) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

Glimpse

EXT. HIGH STREET. DAY. 

A contemporary town high street seen from the top floor of a building. Slow moving traffic drags itself along whilst pedestrians, bathed in sunlight yet wrapped up in thick winter wear, filter across the road through waiting vehicles. Colourful primroses hang from Victorian lamp posts in wicker baskets.  At one end of the street a large and elegant red-brick Victorian building and clock-tower overlook both the high street and a large public park.  

EXT. PARK. DAY. 

Long shadows cut across the well kept lawns of the park. Sunlight seeps through trees which, whilst they still retain their leaves, have been tinged by the glow of autumn. A small family feed large geese by the side of the lake. The loud honks from the geese and the squeals of glee they evoke from the children are just able to cover the sound of the town’s traffic. We move away from the family scene and follow the path which snakes through flower beds and beneath willow trees towards a slight incline where a magnificent fountain stands. Just in front of the fountain an elderly bespectacled woman sits on a wooden bench looking down at the lake where the family and geese co-exist. 

NARRATOR

This world is, has and always will be under the control of circumstance. 

EXT. HIGH STREET. DAY. 

JUNE 1940. 

The same high street is different to the one we know, yet retains enough similarities to remain familiar to us. There are fewer vehicles, the road markings have changed and the pedestrians wear less so that they may combat the heat of the day. Yet the buildings remain the same shape and size; differing only in the names they display embossed above their entrances. The primroses once again hang from lamp posts. Underneath the clock-tower a number of stalls have been set out; each covered with Union Jacks, and are manned by pretty women and old, moustached men in drab green army uniforms.

EXT. FOUNTAIN. DAY. 

With the clock-tower eclipsing the horizon, we find ourselves once again at the grand old fountain in the park. A young man, FRANCIS, with bright eyes and a copious amount of looping, curled hair sits close beside a young woman, LILLY, whose short hair is tied in a neat bob.  The white polka-dots are dazzling against the blue of her dress as the sun strikes them. As the water bubbles from its heights into the pool below, it combines with the sound of tranquil bird calls to create the backing tune to the couple’s animated engagement. 

LILLY

You’re not making any sense. 

FRANCIS

Why’s that then? 

LILLY

You’re just not. You know you’re not. 

Francis laughs, Lilly swipes him hard on the shoulder. 

LILLY

It’s not funny. 

FRANCIS

No, of course not. 

LILLY

I told you it wasn’t funny! 

FRANCIS

Do I look like I’m laughing?

LILLY

It’s in your eyes. You’re still laughing at me. 

FRANCIS

What else can you see in my eyes? 

LILLY

Not everything. 

There is a sudden rustle in the nearby bushes and a young boy bursts from it’s heart covered in dirt, leaves and scrapes and manically runs away. He is soon followed by two other boys, holding long thin sticks as if guns. 

SMALL BOY I

He’s a spy! 

SMALL BOY II

What sort of spy? 

SMALL BOY I

Russian, pro’lly.

SMALL BOY II

After him!

The boys scamper away out of sight. Francis watches them for a moment and Lilly follows his gaze. 

LILLY

You’re going there aren’t you? That’s why you won’t say. 

FRANCIS

Where am I going? 

LILLY

You know where. You won’t say because you know I’ll stop you.

FRANCIS

Look Lilly, I have to go.

LILLY

Why?

FRANCIS

It’s something I need to do. 

Francis stands and pulls Lilly up with him. He holds her hands in his. 

FRANCIS

I love you. 

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He makes to kiss her, but she turns her face away. He kisses her cheek instead, turns around and walks away. 

EXT. HIGH STREET. DAY. 

Francis eyes the stalls outside the clock-tower, taking in the young men who stand in the short line in front of them. One of the pretty uniformed ladies looks over to him and smiles. He returns the gesture, glances briefly towards the park, then joins the line of men. 

EXT. FOUNTAIN. DAY. 

The elderly woman continues to sit alone on the park bench. As we draw closer, we begin to see similarities which we had hitherto overlooked. The familiar face of Lilly - aged but recognisable - looks back at us. 

EXT. HIGH STREET. DAY. 

Francis eyes the stalls outside the clock-tower, taking in the young men who stand in the short line in front of them. One of the pretty uniformed ladies looks over to him and smiles. He returns the gesture, looks to the ground, then to the heavens. He turns his back on the stalls and walks away. 

EXT. FOUNTAIN. DAY. 

Lilly sits on the side of the fountain, legs close together and gazing down at the daisies which litter the floor around her. A solitary collard dove coos overhead in the branches of a nearby willow tree. The sound of approaching footsteps and a hesitant cough. Lilly looks up to the sight of Francis standing, squinting due to the force of the sun striking his face, holding a bouquet of flowers. 

LILLY

Frank?

FRANCIS

Lilly?

Lilly slowly walks over to Frank. She is soon close enough to him so that she blocks out the sun which is too bright for his eyes. She hits him sharply across the side of his head. 

LIILY 

Where the hell did you go?

Frank smiles and drops to his knee. 

FRANCIS

I just needed to go somewhere. 

EXT. FOUNTAIN. DAY. 

The wind picks up and whistles through the trees; shaking leaves from branches and causing the water falling from the fountain to splash against the stone which rims its edges. An elderly couple sit side by side on a wooden park bench. They watch as a man of about thirty walks by on the nearby path talking agitatedly on his mobile. 

MAN

Look for the last time I’m telling you; I have no idea what you’re talking about...I have no idea where the underwear came from! 

The man passes. As we look closer at the man and woman we recognise them as being Francis and Lilly; older yet unmistakably the same. A strong gust of wind flicks at Lilly’s hair. Francis takes his scarf from his neck and places it round his wife’s. He pulls her closer to him. 

THE END. 

Samuel Dodson : 03 Jan 2011 22:47 |  Tags: Film Screenwriting Short |  Comments (0) |  Close comments |  Report a problem