Got To Keep Writing

Because any silly little thing can become a great idea

Month: February, 2013

Meeting Place Sketch

This is the first sketch I’m going to send in as part of a call from the BBC Writer’s Room for radio sketches based around different genres. This one is for Thriller/Suspense.

MEETING PLACE

F/X: Phone Rings

John: Hello?

Kidnapper: (D) Mr Reynolds? John Reynolds?

John: Yes?

Kidnapper: (D) We have your wife, she’s safe for now.

John:

Give her back now!

Kidnapper: (D) Easy now. We wouldn’t want any harm to come to her would we?

John: Just tell me what you want.

Kidnapper: (D) One million pounds. Meet us at the disused car lot across town at midnight tonight with the money.

John: Erm.

Kidnapper: (D) What? What is it?

John: Well, I really would like to get my wife back. But, the truth is I have no idea where that is.

Kidnapper: (D) Really? Fine. We’ll be at the southern entrance to Riverside Park. Midnight.

John: Nope. Don’t know that one either.

Kidnapper: (D) Come on. You know, it’s opposite the cinema that shut down when all those people got stabbed.

John: Well I’m not going to come now.

Kidnapper: (D) That was months ago! Well, that was weeks ago!

John: Absolutely not.

Kidnapper: (D) Well, where do you know?

John: Erm, Adams Street. There’s a closed down takeaway there.

Kidnapper: (D) Yeah and a police station. I’m not falling for that one mate.

John: How about the old mecahnic’s then?

Kidnapper: (D) That’ll do. Yeah. Midnight then.

John: Oh right, yes…

Kidnapper: (D) What is it now?

John: Only I’ll need some time to get the money together.

Kidnapper: (D) How long?

John: A couple of days.

Kidnapper: (D) That’s too long.

John: Look, I would get it today but it’s already past 4. I mean it’s not a very good idea ringing up in the middle of the day asking for ludicrous amounts of money when you know the bank’s shut. And it’s Sunday tomorrow.

Kidnapper: (D) Well, you do have a point there.

John: So if you want your money you’re just going to have to wait. Unless you want me to do it online, I’ll need your bank info though.

Kidnapper: (D) God no. I’m not going to just give you my details. You think I’m stupid?

F/X: Phone HANGS UP

 

Worlds Are Like Conkers

So six days between posts isn’t great, but I did write this while at work a couple of days ago and needed to put it down on here.

First, there was a creak. A long, winding, rising creak that shied away from ending. This woke Mark, but he chalked it up to nothing more than a ‘midnight noise’. Directionless but no cause for concern, a noise that the regular hassle and bustle of the day would’ve drowned out and he turned in his bed.

Then another, louder creak, bookended by a bang. This had to be something real, surely. Had Mark left a tiny crack of a window open? We’re the neighbours once again failing to sneak around their house in a vein attempt to not incur Mark’s nighttime wrath again? He rose from his bed in a huff and checked each room from the hallway. Kitchen, check. Living room, check. Bathroom, check. Nothing was wrong and Mark gave up his quest.

He slid back into his bedroom, hoping to regain some sleep. Suddenly a crash, beckoning the room to shake and Mark bounced from his mattress as soon as he made contact with it. Lights flickered, pictures fell and a voice could barely be heard over the racket enveloping Mark, who was now cowering by his bed with his face pointed at the ground and his hands shielding his head.
“What?” he cried out.
“-, going on?” Said a familiar woman’s voice.
“Debbie?”
“Are you alright?”
It was at this moment that, as peculiar as your bedroom suddenly deciding to collapse down on you is, Mark experienced an even more peculiar thing. He had the thought, the words formed and he heard “I’m alright, just try to stay calm” but Mark did not actually speak them.
“What’s happening?”
Again, Mark heard the intended “I don’t now, just stay here” but he was not the source. It was as if the room had shook his voice out of him and it was now reassuring Debbie without any of the regular physical presence that one has when comforting someone that, despite knowing nothing of the situation unfolding, things will be fine.

Eventually the shaking stopped. Mark opened his eyes and looked at the walls. They were fine. He flipped over and saw the ceiling. Also fine. Slowly he got up, regained composure and asked “Debbie are you alright?”

There was no reply. Then Mark realised there shouldn’t be. Not that he was expecting Debbie to have ran away in fear or been crushed by the seemingly falling room, but Mark suddenly remembered that, despite his best intentions and hopes, Debbie had not slept at his place this night. She had gotten a taxi back home and would see him tomorrow. This fact raised two very difficult questions when Mark turned around to see who occupied his bed. The first being who is this person who looks, talks and acts like, but, by the generally reliable laws of physics, could not be Debbie? The second being why was there an identical copy of Mark sitting in bed next to here?

Before anyone could collect themselves, a knock at the door. The three of them darted looks between themselves and the door, no one moving.

“You now, I don’t actually have to wait but I believe this is the polite thing to do.” Said a slightly agitated voice through the door. The Mark from the floor walked over and opened it. There stood a man in a black suit and tie who immediately walked into the bedroom. Debbie almost spoke, but was cut off by the man’s hand raising at the first syllable. He surveyed the room a little, inspecting it and then stood between the seated and standing Marks.

“Alright, nothing too bad. I mean, considering. Could’ve been really messy but we kind of lucked out. I’m gong to guess you’re the odd one out here as you’re not in bed?” Said the man, gesturing towards the standing Mark, who didn’t know where to begin an answer.

“It’s alright, I wouldn’t expect you to understand. Neither of you actually. We rather hoped that no-one would have to know but when a level 5 shift happens someone’s going to have to spill the beans aren’t they?” Chuckled the man, swapping his gaze between the bewildered couple and the supposed ‘odd one out’.

“Right well, better get this going. Debbie, Mark and well, Mark. There’s been a sort of accident.”
“I think we can see that” blurted out Debbie, finally.
“Yes, well, bullet to your head you’d probably say that was an earthquake, right? But what earthquake only affects the bedroom of a eighth story flat? Exactly, none of the ones I’ve seen either. So, what actually happened is that two worlds have collided. Namely yours” started the man, pointing at Debbie before spinning round at point at the standing Mark and finishing with “and yours”.

This left everyone concerned in an even more bewildered state before the man in the suit had another realisation. “Of course, right, you don’t even know how the worlds work. Permit me to explain. Worlds are like tennis balls”. The man then produced two tennis balls from his inside suit pocket, which strangely caught the people in the room as of guard as when the room seemed as though it would collapse. The man bounced one of the balls of the ground then snapped “No, that’s not it. That’s not it at all. Ah! Yes. Got it.” The man placed the balls back into his pocket and from the same one produced two conkers tied on seperate strings.

“Worlds are like conkers,” began the man, giving one to Debbie and the other to the standing Mark, “you have yours, Debbie. And Mark, here’s yours.”
“What about me?” Questioned the seated Mark.
“I’ll get to that,” said the man in a slightly concerned tone while dragging the standing Mark next to the bed, “so, yes, you both have your worlds. These worlds are yours, you see them through your eyes, you do what you want and so on. And what’s happened is that Debbie’s world has smashed,” the man explained, as he guided Debbie’s conker into Mark’s, “into yours, Mark. And by the looks of this room Debbie’s won.” The man smiled a smile of a job well done.

The standing Mark finally managed a few words out in what felt like hours, or perhaps it was just the lesson-like delivery from the man.
“So my world is…” Mark faltered, only to be conversationally saved by the man.
“Destroyed, yes. Terribly sorry about that.”

Beginning Again and Spark Word: Prophecy

So I said to myself I would write more, and come the end of 2012 I looked back and saw I had written nothing. At all. Which disappointed me. So I pledged this year to actually get into a habit of writing, and before the naysayers cry that my first post comes in February, I’ve actually made some progress! Me and Ellie Watts have been hashing out an outline for a DnD based musical which should hopefully be great. It’s mostly her music that has so far been kicking ass so all I need to do is string them together. Alas, this post is not to document the musical, that will likely come later, this is my wrist writing task from my Writer’s Block book. Let’s see how it goes!

Spark Word: Prophecy

Many people believe that prophecies exist, and of those people almost all believe prophecies to be important. Well, perhaps important is too vague of a word to use. More, people believe that extraordinary events must transpire in order to be classed as a prophecy. After all, prophecies are received and passed on like a great story and all great stories have a grand feel to them. The prophecy of the Christ child returning. The prophecy of the world coming to an end. Moreover, a prophecy MUST come true, or the spectacular events of them will surely not occur and we will have to go back to the regular. I’ll admit right now that, without any particularly strong religious beliefs, if someone was about to fulfil the prophecy of Christ being reborn I would at least keep a close eye on the fellow, because the anticipated result is so much more interesting than the if the whole thing is a sham.

The truth is that we all have our parts in our own prophecies. Prophecies are just the destinies that people feel are more important (there’s that word again) than others. So, when Michael started to hear these prophecies at the tender age of 10, he had no idea which to prioritise above the others. Was one man’s acquisition of his rival’s company more important than where a young woman went off to college? All Michael knew was that there were so, so many people in the world, each their part to play in some large or small way and he could feel them all at the same time. He tried to tell some of them. He told his friend to walk a different way home, past the house of girl who just started school with them, but he was told it didn’t matter. He told his neighbours not to give up on their marriage but he was chastised and told to mind his own business. He told his mother to call in sick for work, to take a holiday, anything to keep her in the house on the day a drunk driver lost control and slid across a sidewalk. He tried to help so many, but just as many believed what Michael’s teacher did, that children were to be seen and not heard.

Michael grew up and slowly learnt the way people worked. That people believed what they wanted to and largely kept to themselves. They didn’t want any intrusion or persuasion, certainly not from a stranger on the street. The only person that could coax them into change from was a man with a couch, and leather bound books and a medical degree on the wall. So, that’s what Michael became, and he helped a great many people, but still at the back of his mind there were those who did not listen, and the world they left behind. And this filled Michael with great sadness.