cowboys of the brown bush
(backstory: much of the town has been cleared out by an angry gunfighter. the men of the town had went into a necrophiliac fever over the gunfighter's dead girlfriend, to which the gunfighter responded by killing most everyone in town, save for two other gunfighters, who now find themselves at odds.)
Cue the Ennio Morricone. Its quickdraw time. Webb and McEndrith having a showdown.
Webb draws first, shoots the eye glass off of McEndrith's face. Mac falls and searching blindly, finds his glasses, but they are busted, the frame destroyed. Smiling, Webb runs behind the corner of a building and kneels. Thinking to himself, he begins to laugh.
Now nearly completely blind, Mac fires wildly until his pistol is empty. Fumbling, he grabs a rifle off his horse.
Webb looks around corner and shoots Mac in the kneecap. Mac falls. Webb goes back around corner, laughing heartily now.
Mac crawls with the rifle in hand, crawls closer and closer to Webb's position, while Webb happily muses and laughs.
Webb looks and Mac is right there! Webb grabs the end of the rifle and Mac fires, with the barrel right beside Webb's head.
Instantly, Webb is deafened. (Foley: dissonance)
You really are something. Get in the game! It's all for you!
The Honda Accord, two-door, 5 spd manual transmission. Sped towards downtown. The actions of a lonely man, wanting a lifeline, but not knowing how to ask for the help he needed. So he went to Sonic and got some tots and went home, back to the radio and the doubts in his mind.
Don't be Peter. Get in the game. There's a big world out there, and now with social media its closer to us than ever! Get in there and tell the world when you see a problem; don't sit idly by while it eats you alive.
If you don't have any suggestions for the world, just tell us something of these past days, let us relate to your experience. We are out there waiting, and we want to hear from you.
-You are valuable.
-You are like a diamond: rare, unique, flaws and all, worthy to be looked at and appreciated.
-When you're not around, we miss you. There's only one of you, and be rest assured, we have room for you, always.
It does not much matter what we do. As long as its together.
Y Me(a selection from a screenplay of mine)
a herd of teenage girls, each wearing a bullseye shirt.
aerobics instructor: "I'm feeling it." making a twisting motion in his midsection.
HAMAS FIGHTERS going nuts with their AK's, firing off in the sky.
BULLET TIME: we follow one bullet way far up over the earth, it comes down in a wide arc, (foley whistling noise).
ESTABLISH the rounded pinwheel of TRANQUILITY BASE
RED EYE OF HAL, and in his ROBOTIC MONOTONE VOICE:
"They don't even know what a pound is. Nah. They call the quarter pounder a (emphasis)'royale with cheese'."
"Royale with cheese!" muses astronaut at console.
outside, bullet falling, whistling noise
watson sitting in classroom, listening to teacher.
bullets falls into his head.
immediately his noise starts bleeding.
disaffected, he wipes his hand up and looks at it,
saying, "Darnit. I'm going home early."
control room: "nose bleed. be ready for anything now."
from the back "dumbshit probably got sky-high bp."
from the front "watch that attitude."
Purse and shoe porn for lipstick lesbians: this and other beneficial life advice
what are we doing here?
What does it all mean?
Is there a higher purpose?
Other than quelling my guts and my nuts?
I plan to leave this burgh on the good side of the ledger. With a decent name, leaving my goods behind, and departing this mortal coil of clear conscience.
But not yet. Not yet.
Walking the dog one night, I might get flattened by a steaming meteor or something, but to die unexpectedly doesn't mean I wasn't ready. A con in a movie said "you never get tied up in anything you can walk away from in twenty seconds flat." I'm not that succinct about it. That's no way to live. Come over. Unpack your things and sit on the porch with me. It'll take you thirty-five minutes to make even the minimum socially-acceptable exit.
The energy of your spirit will break down into its constituent elements and eventually return into the surrounding macrocosm, just as it was before you were conceived. Life begets life. Life is immutable.
My soul will be as a song in the winds.
Only atrophy is certain, however. And maybe one day in the debris field there will grow little patches of fur that will be the only remainder of life left.
All Lies: My Rose Spent A Summer With Those Nasty Travelling Gypsies.
Roma, they call themselves, the wayward scum in their pull-behinds.
My Rose spent a summer with them and came back pregnant. Did we keep it? None of this is real, I told her and did the thing myself. I had gotten shed of many a litter of pups previously from around the neighborhood with those wandering mongrels. A Roma half-ling would be nothing new. It's all a matter of air getting into the placenta. But I'm sure you don't want to know the gory details.
Or maybe you do.
My Rose had a sadness in her eyes ever after that told me she yearned for that lost pup of youth. She didn't blame me, or so she said, but she kept thinking of that lost pup, being properly niggled by the whole matter.
If my Rose didn't have those charming fat thighs that I like so much, maybe I would give her a good dose of chlorine, cleaning the life right out of her, so she could join her lost pup, which looked so much like the ketchup-covered stuffed cabbage right out of the oven, and was even still warm to the touch, meaning the little mutt was probably not quite dead yet when I tossed it into the dust bin.
Such happens. Life is an abortion of love. And spirit.