Hard Fall: First Draft 1950's Script

Remember, a lot has changed since I wrote this, so don't expect the same thing just in novel form. I would like to write a zombie story set in the 50s, though. It would be very interesting to use Communism and the Cold War in a zombie plot. Of course, that would require I touch up on my history a bit...

Here's the Hard Fall draft.

INT. Ryder's apartment, bedroom - Day

Beams of sunlight shine through the white blinds that cover the one window in the room. The Queen-sized bed is in the middle of the room. Sheets on the right side are shuffled and out of place. A wall of pillows lines the left side, on top of the sheets, untouched. The room is covered with a very ugly 1950's style wallpaper--retro green with brown pin-stripes.

On top of the hope chest at the end of the bed is several 1950's editions of the magazine MY HOME. On the table along the right side of the bed sits a picture frame. Inside, a picture of RYDER, a fit, 20 year old, black-haired confident man with his arm around VIOLET, his girlfriend, same age, with shoulder-length blonde hair wearing a pretty summer dress. They are leaning on a red 1951 FORD COUPE. Both look radiant and untroubled. Also on the table is an open notepad. The words WEDDING PLAN IDEAS is scribbled on top of the page, with nothing underneath.

In one corner, a large black military duffel bag is propped up. It looks stuffed, bulging. It's tied shut. Scattered on the floor around the bag is pages of a newspaper. The front page is face up--it reads, IMPENDING SOVIET ATTACK?

In the other, a frame to a baby crib with piles of blue and pink clothes inside. On the top of the pile, a fluffy brown teddy bear.

INT. RYDER'S APARTMENT, central room - day

The room is clean and tidy. It too is covered with ugly wallpaper, except this is a light blue with yellow and green flowers. One half is arranged like a living room. The other half is the kitchen. The room is split by a bar, with three stools with metal legs underneath and a fruit basket on top. The sunlight from the windows is the only light.

A very small 1950's box television with a long pair of antennae sticking from the top is facing two recliners and a small sofa that clashes with the wallpaper. A black and white cartoon is playing silently on the television.

A Coffeematic coffee machine GURGLES. Steam rises above, the sun gleaming against it through the window above the sink. The small yellow refrigerator is HUMMING, then suddenly COUGHS to a stop.

The cartoon on the television becomes grainy, then goes to pure static.

Ryder emerges from the bathroom, wearing shorts and a white t-shirt. He moves a toothbrush around in his mouth with his tongue like a lollipop. He walks to the television. He moves the antennae, waits, wiggles them more violently, then shrugs and starts to actually brush his teeth, heading back into the bathroom. As he walks away from the television, it turns to black from the edges of the screen to the center. He shuts the bathroom door.

A RUMBLE from outside, muffled. Then the floor VIBRATES slightly. A pause, then a louder RUMBLE, followed by another VIBRATION.

The bathroom door opens. Ryder is frowning, confused and curious. He goes to the window above the sink and peers outside, still brushing his teeth.

EXT. 1950's HARRISBURG SUBURBS, apartment complex, roof - day

Thick clouds of black smoke rise in the distance, from within the city. Faint SIRENS and occasional POPS of gunfire. A jet fighter zips by overhead, going towards the inner city. Another flies from the city, directly over the apartment. It is a F-86 SABRE.

INT. RYDER'S APARTMENT, CENTRAL ROOM - DAY

Ryder backs away from the window. He pulls out his toothbrush and throws it in the kitchen sink carelessly. As he walks towards the bedroom, a very loud THUNDER makes him duck. The apartment shakes violently. Plates CRASH against the floor from the kitchen.

Ryder falls over. His breathing becomes audible and heavy. He scampers into the bedroom on his hands and knees, struggling to come to his feet.

INT. RYDER'S APARTMENT, BEDROOM - DAY

Ryder, now on his feet, goes directly to the corner and picks up the bag. He grunts as he tosses it onto the bed. It lands heavily with a THUMP.

Ryder looks around the room, frantic. He throws open the dresser drawers and grabs some clothes.

INT. RYDER'S APARTMENT, CENTRAL ROOM - DAY

Another THUNDEROUS BOOM, this time in sync with the quake. The coffee falls from the counter onto the floor. Hot coffee spills and quickly spreads across the tiled floor, steaming excessively.

Someone runs by the door to the apartment building's inner hallway, THUMPING loudly.

INT. RYDER'S APARTMENT, BEDROOM - DAY

Ryder stuffs clothes into the bag, which is almost overflowing with clothes and supplies. He is now wearing a white button-up shirt and black slacks with a belt. A marked map falls out. He folds it and crams it into is back pocket. A gas mask, binoculars, and a sheathed bowie knife sit next to the bag, in addition to M1949 military mummy bag and a tent kit. The sheath for the knife is very worn and scratched.

He pauses, looking around the room. He sees the picture frame of him and Violet and opens it. He gently picks the picture up and folds it. He reopens it, looks down at it, bites his bottom lip, and refolds it. He slides it into his front right pocket. He glances at the notebook, moves his hand towards it, but moves towards the crib.

He grabs the teddy bear off the pile of clothes and places it in the bag.

Ryder finishes packing and ties the tent and mummy bag to the duffel bag. He bends backward and puts his arms into the bag's straps. He winces as he straightens to stand. He puts the gas mask and binoculars around his neck. The knife goes in between the belt and the slacks.

INT. RYDER'S APARTMENT, CENTRAL ROOM - DAY

Ryder briskly walks over to the door to the hallway. He begins to open the door, but stops and turns towards the kitchen. He shuts the door. Ryder walks to the refrigerator, steps around the spilled coffee, and opens the fridge. Scanning the contents, he pushes some SWANSON T.V. DINNERS to the side and grabs two glass bottles of soda (preferably Coca-Cola) and takes off his bag.

Ryder opens the bag and wraps the bottles in clothes. He carefully places them in the bag, ties it shut, and heaves the bag back onto his back.

Ryder rushes to the door and opens it.

Int. Apartment complex, second floor hallway - day

The hallway is dim. The overhead lights are off. A window at the end of the hallway is the only light. A garbage can lays on the floor, trash spilling out and down the hall.

Ryder peers outside, looking both ways. No one. He steps out runs to the stairwell door. He doesn't shut his door.

int. apartment complex, stairwell - day

The light seeping through the door frame struggle to illuminate the stairs. There is no window. Ryder jogs down the stairs, skipping every other step. A woman's SCREAM echos down from above. Ryder doesn't stop. He throws the door to the lobby open forcefully.

int. apartment complex, lobby - day

The lobby is nothing more than a service desk, a couple of folded metal chairs, mailboxes, a U.S. Army propaganda poster, and some fake foliage. The only light is from the front door leading outside. PEOPLE are running past the door outside. Muffled SCREAMS and SHOUTS come from the front door.

A BALDING MAN, 40s, rather short and still in his sleepwear, and a SOBBING WOMAN, 50s, long, curled graying brown hair, wearing only a blouse and underpants, rush in front of Ryder, coming from another stairwell. The Balding Man is pulling the Sobbing Woman along by her hand. She is SOBBING uncontrollably, gasping for breath. The Balding Man glances at Ryder, showing a crazed and frantic look, then faces towards the front door.

The couple rush to the front door. Ryder follows behind, cautious. As they open the door, the SCREAMS and SHOUTS immediately become louder. Ryder stops and begins to put on his gas mask.

The couple stop on the sidewalk just outside the door. The door shuts and the sounds are again muffled. The Balding Man looks to the left, then suddenly dives into the street. A POLICE OFFICER comes leaping from the left and tackles the Sobbing Woman. She slams to the ground, her torso and head sliding to the right, past the door frame and out of view. The Police Officer remains on top of her. The Balding Man looks towards the Sobbing Woman, horrified, and darts away. The Sobbing Woman's legs kick up and down, then stop.

Ryder stands frozen, holding the gas mask over his face, unable to continue to put it on.

The Police Officer sits up on his knees and looks around. Blood runs down from his mouth. His skin is pale. His eyes find Ryder. The Police Officer stares, wide-eyed, teeth clenched. As he breathes through his teeth, blood flies and sprays into the front door's glass.

A door behind Ryder SLAMS open. Ryder jumps, the gas mask snapping against his face as he lets it go. He backs against the wall. A SCRUFFY MAN, overweight, 40s, holds a shotgun. He pulls it up and aims at Ryder. He pauses. Ryder glances at the front door, then looks back at Scruffy Man. The Scruffy Man looks at the front door, swings his gun towards the door and shoots. A deafening BANG followed by a high pitched RINGING.

Ryder moves towards the door, stumbling. The Police Officer is strewn on the sidewalk, twitching. Ryder steps on broken glass from the door. It CRUNCHES under his boots.

Behind Ryder, Scruffy Man--barely visible--fires another shot, and another, and then is tackled to the ground by three figures.

Ryder stops momentarily, turning his head so his right ear faces back into the lobby, then looks to the ground, then forward again. He steps through the door frame where the glass was previously.
 

Hard Fall

Today's the day I'm starting Hard Fall, a story I've been developing for a year or two now. What you need to know: It's a somewhat expansive look at the outcome of a zombie-infested America through the eyes of a man trying to find his pregnant wife-to-be. That's a pretty simplified version of the plot. I hope to get the first couple chapters done in the next several weeks at the very least.

I'll be posting songs and pictures depending on what scenes I'm writing, as a lot of inspiration is coming from them, especially a playlist I have on my ipod.

While I struggle to get the first pages done (always the hard part in my opinion), I'll post a screenplay version I did in my screenwriting class. Just keep in mind that a lot's changed, and that I realize I broke some rules (more than five lines of description in a paragraph happens a lot, deal with it).

Eli himself won't make an appearance, but the film is a big influence.

Back...again, for good? Let's hope so

So it's been forever since I've even logged in. For all I know, it could've been really popular...of course, that's not the case, and that's fine. This is for me, to encourage myself.
Anyways, I'm finally done with my least favorite semester of college, done with all my senior projects, done with pretty much anything that's been hanging over my head. Meaning I can finally start writing again. And I'm actually feeling pretty inspired.
It's my Christmas break, so I get to just chill and do whatever for about a month. I really want to start one of my larger projects, so that's what I'll be talking about in the next couple days. The first couple "scenes" (not writing it as a screenplay, though it was originally) are all planned out. Hopefully my hard drive won't die again, like it did last time I started this story.
On a side note, I plan to start a tumbr as well...though that will probably be more of my personality and fun stuff (not that this isn't fun) instead of my depressing blog posts and writing examples.
I've also changed a couple scenes in the small amount of The Quietside I posted...always editing :)
Here's a hint at what my next project is going to be about...I take no credit for the image. I'll probably post some thoughts on using pictures and music to help inspire stories soon too, including some playlists.

Recent Films

On a more happy note, I've seen a couple films since my last post.

Heat was excellent. It breaks away from the cliché cop vs. robber plot lines and makes it's own. There are several scenes that really spoke to me, particularly ones between Pacino and his wife. A lot of little details will be very helpful in The Quietside. The infamous shootout scene was perhaps the best shootout I've scene in a film, period. Definitely worth a watch.

I'd heard quite a few things about Taxi Driver. It was DeNiro's big break, and I can see why. The term psychopath is not to be used lightly. Though I didn't really like the ebb and flow of the film (pacing), it does what it set out to do well--screw with your head, screw with what you think is logical and sane. I'd actually call it slightly disturbing. Not a new favorite of mine, but I understand it's importance. It's just one you need to see for yourself.

Yes, I saw this. Yes, I enjoyed it. Is it an emmy award winner? Definitely not. Did it have a plot? Not really. But it achieved what I wanted it to--a in your face, macho-man 80's flashback to action movies like Commando and Rambo. It's also pretty fucking funny. Not a new classic, but a fun one to watch with your friends.

It's been too long...again.

Well, I'm back at school. I can't say I'm thrilled with myself. I wrote a total of 3 pages over the summer (not including the work for the local paper) and read two books. Not enough. Not at all.
Look, I know getting busy makes it hard to do the things you love, because if you're doing the things you love, you wouldn't feel busy. I'm extremely busy right now. Between moving 500 miles down to school to finalizing my internship to the 6 classes I'm taking this semester, I'm literally swamped. But that's still not an excuse for me.
I need to find time. I'll make sure to keep track of how I do it. I know once I do--once I get back into the Quietside, back into Cruise, back into my imagination, I'll be much happier.

Success!

Tonight was a good night. I managed to finish my last article for the newspaper I'm working at, relieving a huge stress. More importantly, though, I joined Goodreads and started reading again! Woohoo! Hopefully Goodreads will work like this blog is, except for reading. Now it just comes down to keeping it up and not being the 40 year-old single-and-lonely man who maxes his credit card on a treadmill from QVC on January 2nd in hopes of holding true to his resolution of loosing weight over the next year only to use the treadmill once. So yeah. Here's to sticking with it.

This won't be me, I swear. Or at least I'll never wear a shirt over a shirt like that.

Wasting Time

Lately I've been having a difficult time managing, well, my time. I've been busy working and writing for my local paper, sure, but there's still a lot of time that gets thrown away doing worthless things. Sure, we all have to have some down time, but I enjoy writing, so why am I not doing it? Well, the answer to that is simple. I'm not writing because I'm not writing.
Wait what? Yes, I wrote that correctly. Since I have a knack for planning and crafting stories but never writing them, a large pile of ideas has simply overwhelmed me enough that I avoid writing. It's taken me awhile to realize this, but this blog has helped.

Well...I might be dramatizing it a little bit... 

So what's the first step? Well, I'm taking a shot in the dark, but I'm going to start reading instead of doing the worthless things (video games and youtube, mainly). I have a whole shelf of books that I've bought or come into possession of that I've deemed "must-reads," thinking I'll learn something from them. Well, thing is, I haven't read hardly any of them. My thought is by reading, at least I'm being productive and shooting towards my goal of writing several hours a day, like I started doing last semester while taking a class on novel writing.
Of course, reading isn't writing. I'm going to eventually just have to force myself to sit down and do it, even against the large pile of concepts, ideas, plots, partially written short stories--you get it. Reading should get me in the "mood" to write, so that I won't have to force myself to do something I enjoy.
A lot of this mess will be solved by this time next week, when I'm completely done with work for the summer. I've given myself time to collect my thoughts before heading back to school after what will probably go down as one of the worst summers of my life.
Which leads me in another direction--writing comes hard if your own life isn't in check. It's pretty hard to write about an emotionally scarred police officer when you yourself don't have a grip on things. Sometimes it helps convey the mood--especially in poetry--but sometimes it really hinders your ability to "become" your character. A great example of this is The Quietside. It's first person, so I'm completely Cole when I'm writing. Or I should be. If issues in my life keep seeping through, Cole gets pushed to the side (which he really doesn't like) and will not act himself, which leads to a failing and illogical story.

So true.

Basically, I've discovered writing is a lot like running. It may appear to depend on skill, practice, and performance (aka quality of the writing) but it's about 90% mental. You could have the best physical body (or prose) in the world, but if your mind isn't there backing it up, you might as well sit it out. The mind is capable of anything. ANYTHING. I just need to tell myself I can write for several hours each day, and I will.
Note: For those of you who don't know me, I ran for about 10 years of my life in middle school, high school and a little bit in college before I hurt my ankle--I haven't been able to talk myself into starting again for more than a week or two.
This is why I started this blog. I need somewhere to talk myself through things.
These next two or three weeks will set the tone for this next year. I hope they're productive.

The Emmy Goes To...

I know I haven't posted for awhile, but I've been extremely busy with work--all three jobs--and watching the Olympics. I want to work on Cruise and start writing The Quietside again, but I just don't have time. So I hope this quick review makes up for it.

I watched Take Shelter again on Thursday. What a great example of a drama. The pacing is perfect, the tension is always strong, the directing is great, and the results of decisions the characters make are able to create an emotional response--fear, sadness, pity--with ease. Most importantly, the acting is top notch, especially from Michael Shannon and Jessica Chastain. While it doesn't have the action most people look for nowadays, the power of the drama keeps you glued to the screen. For once, the dvd cover doesn't lie--this should be a new American classic. A must watch. If you're still on the edge, go watch the trailer. After that, if you're still unsure, watch this scene (keeping in mind that there are spoilers and that this tension has been building for quite some time, so you might not fully feel the power behind it) and you'll be sold. One of the greatest scenes I have ever seen in a film, period.

I've let my employers know that I'll be getting done on the 12th, so the couple weeks before school will be packed with posts and work.

The Flowers of War

I bought this film two nights ago after watching the trailer on IMDb again. What a amazing performance by all the actors, especially Mr. Nolan, who flexes his acting muscles much more in this film than in the Batman films. There were several scenes that almost had me crying (ALMOST) which is very rare--only Private Ryan and Wall-e have done that. Definitely a Drama, but a fair amount of action for those impatient people as well. Pacing is excellent until the very end, which I wasn't crazy about--I thought it ended rather abruptly. The directing was top notch as well, with only a couple scenes I wasn't crazy about (the CGI tank explosion) and only several very small errors I noticed on the first viewing (there will be more), an example being the stained glass of the church being broken and then appearing untouched later in the film.

Definitely suggest this for film buffs, one of the best of the year, very underrated and unnoticed, even with a star like Nolan.

Test #1

I managed to find time to try out the camera at night... definitely need to fix some settings, but still not bad. I've seen videos with much better quality though, so looking into that. Also, iMovie sucks. Downloading a professional video editor once I have some time.

The Quietside, Chapter 2

Even though my focus is on Cruise/Moonlit, I'm keeping The Quietside in my mind, which I think is necessary for a story to stay alive. Even though I'm not writing, I'm sifting through ideas, characters, places--anything that comes to mind. I'm reading a book called "The Peninsula" by Louise Dickinson Rich, which so far has some excellent descriptions of the Gouldsboro area, not too far from here.
Hopefully I'll have time to write more chapters soon--I'm gaining more and more interest in this project as the summer goes on, as if it's one of those annoying blackflies buzzing in my ear (except I like it).
Here's chapter 2. Pretty short, but necessary.

2

I got back to Autumn’s friend’s house in Ellsworth around one in the morning. We were staying there during the awkward transition phase between our old apartment in Portland and the new house. It was a nice gesture, but I was glad to know I wouldn’t be staying there much longer.

Her name was Francine but she went by Susan, which never made much sense to me. My guess was she didn’t like her name and didn’t want to disrespect her parents and go through the paperwork to change it. She was a single mom with a bratty ten-year old boy that couldn’t get it out of his mind that I was a punching bag. I don’t remember his name. I just called him Brat.

Autumn played softball with Susan at University of Presque Isle before I knew either of them. Autumn was breaking up with the asshole she followed from Portland up to school. Susan was a shoulder to cry on, which made an inseparable bond between them until I came into the picture. Susan got jealous of us when we started dating, and decided to get knocked up by some business major who ended up not being so good with money or commitment.

The house was a shitty modular that felt half-finished. I was never quite warm enough. I’d catch the shivers just after getting out of bed that would last until I had my second cup of coffee at the station. A house with a fireplace never gets like that.

It was cold when I walked in that evening, but still a paradise compared to the harsh winter night. I felt the wall for the light switch, flipped it on and headed towards what Susan called the guest bedroom but was actually a small computer room. Boxes Autumn got from the grocery store for our essentials were stacked precariously around our mattress on the floor. She was already asleep, face down in the pillow with the light still on.

I started to unbutton my uniform and walked over to the kid’s room, which was nice and quiet. They were sharing with Brat—another reason I wanted out of Susan’s. The room was a lot cleaner than Autumn and mine’s, since we left the toys back at the apartment, afraid Brat would steal or break them.

I finished undressing in the computer room and scrounged around a bathroom box for my toothbrush, making a racket. Autumn rolled onto her back and squinted at me, confused but strikingly innocent and beautiful, even with her dirty blonde hair in a mess.

“It’s already in the bathroom,” she managed, her voice already broken, as if she had been sleeping for days. I nodded and took a step towards the door as she collapsed back into bed.

I cleaned up and did an abbreviated version of my walk around the house, hoping to get to bed early to get some rest for the move. It was exciting, but in a way I felt like I was cheating myself. It felt like a handout or a pity date in high school. I didn’t feel like I earned the new house, or even the opportunity. Autumn told me I did, but her vote of confidence was only part of what I needed, and was only said to calm me down for a while. She’d turn around and question my decision the next day, saying we were putting all our eggs in one basket.

           

            Mary Ficher, Cutler’s librarian, would always tell me not to put all my eggs in one basket. It’s one of the things I still remember about her. She said it so damn much, I can still hear her say it. When I’d run up the hill from my house as soon as my old man and the armada of fishing boats were too far out in the harbor to see, I’d wait on the library steps for Mrs. Ficher to come at eight on the dot and unlock the door. It’s where I spent my days before I started school and afternoons after school was let out. We’d have the place to ourselves most of the time, so she’d read to me until her voice went hoarse or she lost her grip on the books. At the time, I thought she’d lose grip because the books were too heavy, not knowing about arthritis. So I’d only grab one book, and she’d tell me not to put all my eggs in one basket, every time.

            I knew taking Wittenburg’s opportunity was the right choice for us. A house, free of charge, and place like Cutler without the bad memories, a new chance for me to prove myself. I figured Autumn could find a job in one of the retirement homes in Bar Harbor—it’d be a twenty minute drive, but it could work. It’d be the hardest for the kids, and I knew that, but they were young enough to make new friends. It was a nice, small school that could help Tucker with what the doctors told us was ADD and let young Maya be a little more creative than the larger public schools would.

            I knew Autumn would see this was best for us eventually.

I left the kitchen light on and returned to our room. I turned the single-bulb light off and staggered to my side of the bed, lifted the covers and climbed in. Autumn rolled over, giving me the spot she had been laying, preferring the cool, crisp sheets. I inched forward, spooning against her as I did until I was almost asleep. The warmth of her soft skin made me want to wake her and make love, but I knew she would protest, even though it had been a couple days since we had been able to. She was hesitant out of respect for Susan, and it was late. She would’ve said we had a busy day ahead of us, which was true.

She was lying on her back, breathing heavy. Not quite a snore, but just enough to make me feel comfortable.

The movers were already there when we pulled in the driveway at Bass Harbor. The fog had mostly rolled away and the house looked a lot less depressing with some sun on it, turning the ugly cream to a more vibrant light yellow.

Wittenburg told me it was all right if I used the cruiser to help move things in. Autumn still had her car from college, a lazy maroon Camry that still smelled of her grandmother, who had passed the car down when she went to retirement housing just before the turn of the century. 

Jim, an unshaven guy built like a linebacker, was one of the movers. I didn’t catch the other guy’s name, but he was scrawny and seemed new. Jim already had the ramp lined up to move the little furniture we had off the six-wheel truck. As soon as I opened the door, he started moving things in, while the other guy took his time, finishing his coffee.

I made sure to put the lighter boxes in the Camry for Autumn and the kids, even though I ended up moving most of it anyways. Autumn said she was sick in the morning, nervous about the movers not showing up, and both Tucker and Maya raced to find their rooms and stayed up there while Jim moved the heavy stuff in. Tucker tried to claim the living room but Autumn showed him around and he eventually picked the east bedroom, which had a nice skylight and more shelves for his model cars.

It was a pain in the ass to get our bed frames through the door and up the stairs, but Jim new a couple tricks that made life a little easier. Autumn kept herself to small things, like making the beds and putting dishes away. I saw her try and move the giant couch, but stopped herself after a couple pushes and asked the lazy mover to do it for her, which he did without a word.

She eventually felt good enough to move a couple boxes from the Camry in, one that had some odds and ends of mine in it, mostly from Machias High, my alma mater just fifteen minutes from Cutler. I watched her take it up the stairs, making sure she wasn’t lightheaded or dizzy. It was only a minute or so after when she called me upstairs to the master bedroom, which didn’t seem much bigger than the other two.

I found her crouched over the box on the floor, studying the contents.

“You needed something?” I peeked my head in the door, wishing she would say no so I could help Jim finish so we wouldn’t feel obligated to feed them.

“Hey.” She didn’t turn to face me and sounded more interested in the box. “What’s this?”

“I think that’s my old high school stuff.” I walked in and took a look at what she was so curious about.

“You never showed me this.” She was holding a picture of my parents and me. Autumn moved it closer to me, as if I hadn’t studied it when it was on my bedroom desk back in Cutler. We had just gotten out of church, I think, because we were dressed nicely, standing in front of the garden just as the orchids my mother planted were blossoming. I was no more than three at the time. “It looks like you and your Dad. I’ve never seen your mother though.”

“Yeah, that’s Mom.” I took it from her. “It’s one of the few pictures I took when I left. One of the few Dad kept of us all.” Autumn stood up and grabbed my cheeks like distant aunts do. “Well, you were cute. I don’t know what happened.”

“Huh.” I smiled and set the picture down on the nightstand next to the bed. “If you say so.” She knew when to move on, when something was bothering me.

“I’ll let you sort though this box later. I’d like to do the bathroom now. You look like you have empty hands, go grab one of the boxes for me.” I rolled my eyes and didn’t move. “Well?” She looked at me expectantly.

I headed downstairs, past Jim and the other guy and outside to the cruiser, where the box of shampoo, soap, makeup and that sort of thing was. I had my hand on the passenger door when a truck drove by nice and slow, eyeing the house. I waved, guessing he was a local by the condition of his truck that looked like it had been patched together from a couple other models that were probably headed towards the scrapper. He looked at me, looked at the cruiser, and gave me a good, cold stare. I stared back.

We finished moving all the boxes and furniture in around supper time. Autumn took a break from organizing and made the kids and me some peanut butter sandwiches. She had some cereal, not daring to eat much after her rough morning. 

Some people say you don’t sleep well if you’re in a new place, but more was keeping me up that night. I don’t know what Wittenburg expected me to find here, but I had a good feeling I wasn’t going to like it.

Equipment

Monday my camera came, complete with the essential suction-cup mount for the car. Today I bought a tripod, 32 GB HD memory card, and a pair of aviators for Archer. Things are coming together quite nicely, except for my bank account, of course.
As far as the screenplay is concerned, I'm nearing completion of the first "Act" that will take place here in Maine. I've already decided on the locations and that sort of thing, and I hope to be ready to film by the 12th, when I'm getting done with my three jobs to relax but mainly work on this project.

GoPro on its way! And a preview of things to come

Purchased my GoPro motorsports edition tonight! It's really a shame I couldn't get it in a store, just because a friend is visiting with a motorcycle that would be fun to play around with. Oh well. On the plus side, I'm saving 50 bucks through Amazon. Now if I can just find the Final Cut Pro my parents got me with my laptop...
These guys in the video have the right idea. This is a lot like what I'm shooting for. Some shots I would like to do differently. An example is the shot from inside looking at the mirror--I don't really like that one, I would just put it outside. I really like the wheel-well shot though.
I'll be writing tonight, maybe I'll get enough done to feel like I can post something. If not, I'll post an old piece I've done since I haven't posted any writing in awhile.

A very cool blog

For anyone who's interested, I've found this blog extremely interesting. I'll send a script along, if I ever have time to finish one.
http://scriptshadow.blogspot.com/

Turn your volume up.

While I'm still unsure if this will make it to Cruise/Moonlit's soundtrack, I think it would make for an excellent chase scene or even a fight scene of some type. Either way, this is pretty sick.

Delays=Progress

I was hoping to get a camera from Wal-Mart or somewhere so I could make sure I was getting the right thing, but no one had it. Looks like Amazon is the place for GoPro's, specifically the motorsports edition. Oh well. So it will probably be another week until filming for Moonlit can even start.
Even with the delay, I've decided on some things. I was thinking it'd be cool to have the opening scenes  set in the 80s, instead of right before Archer goes back to school, but that just wouldn't work--I'd either have to hire a baby or have an older actor play Archer in present day, since I can't look 30 years older or younger. And a 30+ year old guy at a college is always super sketch.
While little things like this may seem minor, they really do help keep things moving. I've also purchased a wireless keyboard that will help me write for longer stints. I love my Macbook (his name's Jackson. Yes I named a laptop) but the keys are slightly too far from the front of the laptop because of how big the trackpad is. Because of this, my wrists end up resting on the somewhat sharp edge of the laptop, which is uncomfortable. It also ends up looking like I've been cutting myself.

The (very possible) opening song in Cruise/Moonlit

This is a recent favorite of mine. A great throwback at the classic 80's synth, this will work well with the opening, specifically the shots I want happening. The 80's revival songs in Cruise/Moonlit will show the past.

Bullit

Last night I watched Bullit with Steve McQueen and took some notes on how to direct a chase. I also really enjoyed the film--at times, I thought it could have moved a little faster, but I think the intention was to be deliberate and careful about how fast things happened, so when things did happen, they appeared even powerful than they would normally.

I'm officially writing Cruise

I've started the screenplay tonight and already have what will amount to around 4 minutes of screentime. It won't be until I hit page 10 or so that I post some of the screenplay, just so I'm not over-posting. This is very exciting! In around a week, I might get the camera if I see while school shopping. I'm looking for the motor-sports version though, so I might not find it.
Just another small note on Cruise...I'm considering a new title, "Moonlit" and debating if that's cliché or not. It would really fit Archer's character.

The Hunter by Julia Leigh

This being my first review, I just want to say that I don't plan on going to in-depth unless I really really like the book. I won't spoil anything and won't spend time explaining the plot when you can just look it up and see for yourself.

I finished The Hunter just a couple days ago, which is now a film starring William Dafoe. I picked it up when I was in Hawaii for something to read on the plane rides. It has an interesting perspective--it's a very close third-person that goes into first-person stream of conscious. It takes awhile to get used to, but it works with the pacing and setting, and most importantly, what I think the theme of the novel is--being lost. Leigh explores the feeling of being lost in many ways, some more obvious than others.
My major complaint is the last 50 pages or so. They feel sudden and disconnected from the rest of the novel, almost like it was an short story beforehand. Even the writing feels a little different, which I could buy because of character development...if it was first-person and wasn't rushed. I feel like Leigh thought the pacing was too slow and sped things up to the end, but I would have been content on reading another 100 or so pages before the conclusion.
I had some other minor issues, including things not being explored enough or dropped completely and characters doing a couple things I didn't buy according to how they acted in the novel as a whole.
Overall, its definitely worth a look. Even though the POV is a little odd, it's an easy, quick read--it just won't go down as one of my favorites.

Deadmau5 will be in Cruise...a lot

In general, the soundtrack will be mostly electronic music like Deadmau5...good beats with catchy riffs, great for driving.
This song will most likely fit in nicely when Archer goes for his first drive after he returns to school. He'll be contemplating until the "drop" at 2:35, when he decides to drive again, and fast. This will also go well with slow motion, if I chose to do so.

Cruise Pitch

            The main character, Archer, is recovering from a recent single-car accident in his hometown. His girlfriend, who was his only passenger, was killed while he was left unscathed. Though no charges were filled against Archer, he knows there should have been. Ever since he was a boy he has been obsessed with speed and taking risks—he just took one too many the night of the accident. He feels guilty enough that he gives up driving as a personal punishment.

            The film begins with Archer returning to college for his final year. His social skills have been seriously affected, even around his close friends. His depression worsens, while his desire to drive increases. He goes to the local racetrack and decides to start driving again.

            After his first night drive, his friends take him to a local club, where he first sees Sadie, his future love interest, but doesn’t approach her.

            Archer goes on another drive, this one longer and more daring.

            Several students approach Archer the next day, saying he would be good for a job that’s opened up recently. They tell him to meet at the club where his friends took him. He goes that night and meets Seth, the college’s “go-to” drug dealer, who wants to expand his operation and needs a drug runner to travel to Philadelphia at night. Archer is hesitant, but Sadie enters the room and takes a seat next to Seth, who immediately treats her poorly. Archer takes the job.

            With each drug run, Archer cuts it closer and to getting caught by both the law and rival operations who have taken notice or use the same route. He starts making money, but doesn’t get flashy so people aren’t suspicious. Sadie notices him in the club. His grades are suffering.

            When he gets the chance, he asks Sadie on a drive. A relationship begins to grow. Archer starts defending Sadie when he sees Seth for payment and jobs. Seth notices this and sets Archer up, telling police and letting rival operations know he’s picking up a “large” payload on his next run. Tension builds on his way to Philadelphia as he notices extra law enforcement along his route and several suspicious cars following him. 

           

            Action/Drama/Musical. Very stylistic, especially with the night drives. Pacing can be altered with drives. Dependant on music during action sequences and drives. Limited amounts of dialogue make the action and soundtrack do more work. Camera work drastically changes from drives to normal scenes—lots of slow motion, motion shots, tracking shots with drives, while camera stays still during normal shots.

Sorry I can't let the ending be released, partially because it isn't finalized and partially because I don't want it spoiled. And remember, this is still very much in the works.

            

Music and Writing/Cruise Info

All writing comes from the author, sure, but the author has a lot of help. I'll get more into this another time, but for right now, I want to focus on one of my biggest influences: music.

I've always been involved with music, from playing, listening, and even creating some original compositions. It's another one of my favorite things besides writing. So why not combine them?

I have everything from trailer music to apocalyptic metal of my ipod that I'll listen to in order to get into the mood or deeper into the scene/chapter/stanza I'm working on. As I'm working on a piece, I think it will be cool to post what I'm listening to and explain why, along with suggesting some good writing music to anyone who's interested.

My main project right now is a short film, "Cruise," which will be filmed when I get back to school and written over the summer and even as I film. The thing you may not expect--

It's a MUSICAL.

Yep.

A MUSICAL.

Anyone who knows me will be scratching their heads right now. I'll explain it in more detail later, but I'm calling it a "new breed" of the musical form as most people know it ("Sound of Music," recently "Rock of Ages"). It's not going to include singing. Instead, the pacing will be adjusted according to what song is playing. There will be a lot of driving scenes that have no dialogue whatsoever, just music and ambient noises. It will make the action do all the work showing things and won't depend on dialogue nearly as much as most of my pieces do.

In addition to showing plot details, the pitch, and scenes straight from the script from Cruise, I'm going to include the potential soundtrack as well. It should provide for an interesting take on the film. I'll make them separate posts, though, and explain why I chose the song, when it's going to play, and to what effect.

I'm back

I realize I've left this untouched for far too long. I've been very busy with finals, a trip to Hawaii, and now 3 jobs at once, so I haven't had a lot of time to write. Well I'm making time. I'll be posting old and new material alike from now on (old meaning from the last couple semesters), hopefully at least something each day. This should also help motivate me to write once I get home from work at around 11 at night.

I'll announce a couple things:
I will be purchasing a GoPro Motorsports edition camera for my film currently called "Cruise." The script will be written over the summer and filming will start once I get back to school. More on this later...I should have a developed pitch written soon.
The second and third chapter of The Quietside are "done" (for now, at least) and will be posted soon. Unfortunately, this project might get put on the backburner for at least awhile.
Short stories will be a large focus for me for the next several months, as I will be writing several in hopes of submitting and getting published in an off-campus publication.
These short stories (possibly) include: "Fostertown", "Harvest", "The Dead, Dead West", "Prefab", and "Unjustified/Condemned." That's a lot, so only a couple will actually get written. I'll probably end up writing pitches or outlines for them though. More on those later.


I hope that these random thoughts/ideas/concepts/complaints/suggestions/epiphanies will be enough to keep people interested.

Indigo Dunes

While I'm at it, I'll also post a poetry piece of mine. Since I'm finalizing my poetry portfolio, there's going to be a fair amount poetry showing up. Just know that I prefer fiction writing over poetry--basically, I wouldn't call myself a poet.
This poem will be appearing in Sanctuary Magazine, a publication here on campus. It's also my first officially published writing.

Indigo Dunes

Already the Kid can see

 barren indigo waves drift

  into the blanket of night

   with vengeance and mutual

    tolerance worn thin, like

     how he misses her

      thin purple dress, and

       she is his only concern,

        she is his only thought,

         her gentle curves seen

          in the sand dunes as he

           stares into the Egyptian blue

          night, his fire out, shivering—

         but unlike his spirit, he

        glares patiently, expecting

       white roses to fall from the

      heavens, kissing his face

     cold with tears of God as

    if apologizing for the

   thirst that stole her life and

  now sits beside him, potion

 clutching his spine tight to

manipulate its marionette like a

  pup, leading his thoughts on a leash,

    a singular meridian of murder

      wide around the earth, letting the

        hellhounds out and on the loose,  

          like the wild dogs roaming the dunes

            running with sand, an opaque wind

              along her legs and hips, and

                they begin to rip his flesh

                  tear and snap his tendons,

                 disembowel her painful past that

                is within him as he bleeds in a

              savage skeletal wasteland long

            dead, not a thing living but the

          Devil itself, a beast of a

        temptation, who asks where his

      savior is in his time of need,

    but he insists it is nature

  at its best, and that God has

 always been here, the true

design, the War that He is.

The Quietside, Chapter 1 D2

This is my first chapter from my attempt at a novel. It's for my Novel class at school, and is still very much in the works. Grammar mistakes and other goofs may pop up (hopefully not, though).
To people who actually know where the Quietside is and have been there, please understand that this is a work of FICTION based off reality (as all fiction is).
I have many plans for Cole in the future beyond this one novel.

1

            Locals call it The Quietside. Bass Harbor’s faded and worn WELCOME sign approached me on the right, covered with little blue and green splotches. Paintball guns. It was something us kids used to do in Cutler in our free time, leaning out of the passenger window and tapping the trigger as fast as our fingers could, the cool metallic smell of carbon dioxide puffing out from the barrel as the muffled pop was unheard over drunken whoops and yells. I never much liked it to be honest, even though every ball I shot hit my target and I’d get a wet and smoky kiss from some girl in the backseat, two beers long gone.

            The billow of fog was beginning to settle in by the Bass Harbor Head Light as I drove by it just after supper on my first night patrol there. I drove through the fog in the Hancock County Sheriff’s cruiser switching between high and low beam headlights.

            I came from the thick spruce forest that held Bass Harbor against the sea, lifted off the gas and let the 4.6-liter V8 hum and slow. I drifted past Kennedy General, a closet of a building with two regular-only gas pumps in front and a diesel on the side. Across the street, two large garages loomed over a sign that read KENNEDY AND SONS CONSTRUCTION.

            It was about the time for the locals to start a good smudge that would burn until early morning, talk about the day, drink shit beer, laugh about relatives and fall asleep as soon as their heads hit the pillows. I had a good idea about how these people acted, and I liked that. Moving downeast to Portland right after I got out of the Academy, I had no idea how city folk acted. I’ve heard that a person’s overall temperament has a lot to do with your home state, but I think it’s more about the size of the town you grew up in and how people live there. I learned real quick that most city folk tend to go with the crowd and not think things through too well. Either that or they’d think about the smallest things, like if they’d manage to get in line for their coffee soon enough so they could still make their bus. The Quietside was just a tad bigger than Cutler, but in both towns they’d think you were joking if you told them people got in a hissy over their morning coffee.

            I continued to coast, letting the car come to a gentle stop right in front of Gerald’s Bar and Mainely Good Cookin’. Piles of weatherworn buoys decorated the front entrance. A plastic deer target with a wide hole above and a little left of the front leg stood leaning against the bar, head turned, staring blankly at me. The neon Budweiser signs were still on behind the bar, surrounded by stools and three booths. There wasn’t a television in Gerald’s like the bars in Portland had. Didn’t need one. I only got to go in a couple times, real brief, to talk to Gerald himself about an incident that happened, as I found out, after he purchased the bar. I never went in to drink. Used to vow against it, thanks to my old man, the notorious drunk Keith Bubba Wakefield. I bet he would’ve fit right in at Gerald’s place with the men whose time for work had passed and time for drinking didn’t have an end in sight. Men who had as many stories about fishing and fucking as I do about death.

            I tapped the gas so the bar was just behind me, stopped again and relaxed in my seat. I rolled the window down. The cool night air hit my face and made it tense up like it does after a couple beers. I smelled the salty water and the seaweed, the smell of hard work and sore bodies. Not a sound though. Dead quiet. I can remember realizing how fitting The Quietside was as another name. Cutler was just Cutler. People knew it was quiet, if they knew about it at all.

            A gust of wind whipped into the cruiser and I caught the smell of the distant but ripe clam-flats. The one and only time I took my girlfriend and future wife, Autumn, to meet my old man, she caught a breeze of the flats near my house and said it smelled like pure shit. I’d never made that connection before. Clam flats smelled like clam-flats—they’ve never been foreign to me. Autumn’s South Portland roots didn’t include clam-flats. She tarnished the smell, in a way, but I still think they smell like Cutler, and I did that first night patrol in Bass Harbor.

            I smiled, rolled the window up and let cruiser roll forward again, only to stop at a four-way intersection. I was going straight, towards Wayward Lane, past the church and then a left to Pier Drive. I’d been to Bass Harbor a couple times with the Sheriff to look at the house, enough to know my way around the fog. The town was no bigger than a couple blocks in Portland, a lot less ground then I was used to dealing with.

            A pickup with a rusty snowplow hanging off the front-end rolled to a stop directly across from me. The truck looked like an old Ford, maybe an 80’s model, but I couldn’t be sure because of the fog. I flashed my high beams to let the truck go, wanting to make a good impression. I wanted the locals to like me—better yet, respect me, so they could let their ideas about college pricks out of their heads long enough for me to get my foot in the door.

            The truck didn’t go. That couple seconds was enough to get me jittery enough that I went for the lights and was about to flick them on when I heard the diesel roar from ahead of me. The plow tilted upright, as if the truck was being thrown forward. I watched it go straight long enough to get a glimpse of some writing on the door, not clear enough to make out though thanks to the fog.

            I sat there for a good minute or two, thinking. I knew what just happened. It was a town where almost every kid at recess played as robbers and that one unlucky sonofabitch who was the cop would always lose. It was a town run by the locals and the locals only.

            Sheriff Wittenburg told me people this side of the island didn’t care for newcomers. Tourists hoping to see a true costal town instead of the t-shirt shops in Bar Harbor were told to avoid Bass Harbor by the spruce pigs, who followed their own preachings, even though Acadia National Park bordered the harbor. Most flatlanders couldn’t even find it and would turn around somewhere along the narrow winding road before they saw the shot up welcome sign.

            The day the sheriff drove me down to Bass Harbor to show me around, he made it very clear about how the locals viewed newcomers. “These people keep to themselves,” he said, “they like it quiet. We haven’t had any trouble, ‘till now. This town hasn’t seen a cop for, I dare say, oh, about a good ten years. Don’t expect they’ll be happy to see there’s one living here now.”

            I didn’t need to hear that. I could tell by the stares the Sheriff’s cruiser got that day. I spent more time staring back at people than at the town itself.

            I turned onto Pier Drive and stopped in front of house number 109. We were moving in the next day. Wittenburg was letting me off. The man’s a hard ass, but he has his redeeming qualities. He could have given the offer to anyone else in the station, all of who had better records than I did. But he didn’t.

            The deal was I live in Bass Harbor as a kind of “outpost,” as Wittenburg called it. I’d be the emergency responder here if things were to get hairy, which he seemed to think they would. Southwest P.D. started complaining just around a month before I arrived, bitching about how many calls they had to handle on top of Southwest’s issues. That’s where I came in. They gave me a foreclosed house and a cruiser and turned me loose.

            The house was as bland as my old man’s wardrobe. The siding was a dull yellow, closer to a cream with the wear and tear of seaside weather. The trim was a forest green and looked like it was a fresher coat than the siding. A covered porch wrapped around the front, slanted downward, heading towards the ocean. Some diagonal lattice had been tacked along the side, but was mostly rotted or flat on the ground. Wittenburg promised repairs, but I didn’t take his word for it. I’ve never been one to depend on another, at least people I don’t know too well.

            I pulled the keys out of the ignition and pushed the door open. The salty air hit me just like the fans they have in the big department stories, blasting more heat outside than the furnace in our apartment could in a whole day. Even though it was just four hours south, Portland was always a couple degrees warmer and the snow never stayed quite as long. Growing up in another coastal town prepared me for cold, but it felt like it’d dropped a good ten degrees in the time it’d taken me to get from the bar to the house.

            I walked across the lawn to the front door, past the foreclosed sign that still sat stuck in the dirt, sagging forward as if it was tired of its job. The tips of my fingers, my ears and my nose were already cold, turning white and stiff.

            I’d forgotten if I’d locked the door behind me when Wittenburg showed me the house and gave me the keys the other afternoon. When I asked him to turn around so I could check, he said that it’d be fine.

            “The people here are kind hearted, Cole. They’re not going rob you. No one’s even going think of robbing you here, neither. It’s a good bet this town has more guns than people. You’ll have a nice break in October when it’s hunting season, I’ll tell you that for sure.”

            The man couldn’t make up his mind about these folk. From what he was saying, I got the impression that one second they needed to be watched, the next they’d be bringing you warm blueberry pie and venison. Wittenburg wasn’t some mall cop. He knew people pretty well, which is why I think I got the job in the first place. Still, he couldn’t make up his mind.

            I pulled the screen door open and turned the stained door’s handle. Sure enough, I’d left it unlocked. The door creaked open as I pushed against it, revealing a dark, barren living room. The previous owners left a couch that must have been added before the doors were installed because of its size. A worn sheet covered it from dust.

            I kept thinking someone could have walked in the front door and could be waiting for me when I started to move in the next morning. No matter how hard I tried, I saw his eyes, squatting behind the oversized couch, .45 in hand, loaded. He was wearing that stained Miller Light t-shirt that hung from his scrawny shoulders. I went for my holster, still expecting the 9mm Glock, the hard polymer and the cool metal just about the grip only to remember halfway down that I wasn’t carrying it anymore. I took my Maglight instead, clicked it on, and shined it inside, expecting to see his eyes sparkle in the light before the crack of the gun. Or maybe my partner held at gunpoint again. There was nothing but the couch and a thin layer of dust on the wooden floor.

           

            My imagination would run off a lot like that, taking a bizarre trip to the past or the possible future. The therapists told me it would stop after more therapy sessions, imagery rehearsals, more bullshit. Of course they’d tell me that. A treated patient doesn’t make you much money at the end of the week. I stopped going to the sessions about a month before Wittenburg called me and told me he had a spot open and was looking for somebody with experience, right around the same time Autumn lost her job and things started to get tight.

            It was always at night, just before bed. Autumn would give me some books to read, happy ones, to take my mind off the sound in the kitchen, who was outside Tucker’s room, who was watching Maya’s crib for the right time, who was in the mirror. It never helped. I’d have all the lights on in the apartment, walk through the apartment once more, and make Autumn get up and shut them off as I got into bed.

            I’d talk in my sleep, screaming and thrashing until Autumn would run her hands through my hair to wake me up. She’d tell me Michael was gone and she was my only partner left, and I didn’t sleep until the next night.

            That was when we were still in Portland, only a couple months after it happened, when my imagination was more vivid than it was as a child watching the closet door.

            I scanned the room a couple more times with the Maglight and made sure to lock the door. I triple checked, fingers fully numb and nose running as I walked back the car. Inside the cruiser had already cooled off and would take a good ten minutes to warm up again on the way back to the station in Ellsworth. As I turned the ignition, I took another look at the house. I knew it was going to be the talk of the town the next day, not for the moving truck or the new family but because the Sherriff’s cruiser sitting in the driveway.

Procrastination

Instead of working on the 90+ pages I have to do for finals, I've created this blog. Yay procrastination! I'll post my writing here, which will vary depending on the classes I'm taking, my mood and my blood-alcohol content (once I'm 21, of course). I'll also talk about what I'm reading, problems I run into, stuff like that. The goal is to not only share my work and get feedback, but also help switch gears into writing as a lifestyle instead of a hobby/requirement. I hope this will be somewhat enjoyable for others, and maybe even another means of procrastination for those who share the same problem I do.