If I ever run for office, I will build my entire campaign around one simple idea: I believe that during the course of your life, you should be able to legally kill one person. This will be called "a freebie".

There will be rules and limitations, of course. You can't kill anyone under the age of fifteen; if you do, you're disqualified, and will proceed straight to jail. Also, you can't kill with complicated chemical or machine-based weapons (including guns and explosives); however, simple handmade weapons (like clubs, spears, and cudgels) are totally acceptable. Weapons based upon simple machines (wedges, pulleys) are also encouraged. Killing someone with bare hands would be highly esteemed, and totally something to brag to friends about.

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“ Hey Ren, you’ve got five minutes.” said Joe, the stage manager for Saturday Night Live. He nudged Ren’s shoulder encouragingly, and walked off to give the rest of the band their time cue. The cigarette Ren had been smoking was almost gone, but his nerves were still as shaky as they were when he first was told that his band, The Drones, would be playing S.N.L. He threw the remainder of his fix to the floor, and ground the heal of his black leather boot into the steaming ashes.
        Ren paced the stage wing, trying to keep his composure, but he could feel his heart in his throat, and his mind had left him. He had worked so hard for this: his chance to claim his rightful place in the pop culture universe. “Two minutes.” called Joe. This meant Ren had to collect himself, fast. He turned to his drummer, Randy. “We got this, don’t we?” Ren muttered, choking on his words. Randy flashed him a sly grin, and confidently replied “Yea, we got this.”
        “Show time. Good luck guys!” Joe announced in a volume that could be heard throughout the entire back stage area. Ren grabbed his guitar, and took a big gulp in the back of his throat. As he stepped out on to the stage, the florescent lights blinded him. The audience was roaring with anticipation of the brilliant performance they were about to see. Then Ren fell under the crowd’s trance, took the microphone, and started to…
        RIIIING…RIIIING…RIIIING. The phone in Ren’s three room apartment screamed. “Dude, where are you?” he heard Randy‘s voice from the other end of the line. Ren looked at the clock that hung on his living room wall. “Aww man…9:00...” he muttered worriedly. Ren hung up the phone, packed up his guitar, and took off for The Drones gig at the local grunge club.

thursday, nine thirty.

he was watching her watch her tea steep,

leaves like honeybee swarms -- like grocery shoppers, shopping.

she -- gently tugging the string, she -- coy-ling it around her fingertip

like slow electricity across the table from him.

he was watching her through serpentine steam

when he decided to become a lesbian.

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yesterday,

at least eight people loved me.

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His name was Jean, not like the pants. If you were to say "John" without moving your mouth or tongue, that is how you would say his name. You could probably say it if you were drunk too, or if you were French, or both, but since he lived in Baltimore, everyone called him Jean, like the pants, unless they were drunk. That is why he got in the habit of introducing himself as J.P. The "J" was for "Jean" and the "P" was for "Pierre." Jean-Pierre Square: J.P. Square. When he was talking to the pretty girl on the first day of class, he would say "Uhh...hi. My name's J.P." She would nod imperceptibly.

"So, um...are you a theatre major?" he would press a bit more. "Or are you, like, just taking it for fun?"

"Square, Jean?!" A moment passes. His eyes falter, but he keeps grinning.

"Here," he would say through clenched teeth. He was a theatre major, he could hold a smile. She couldn't. She tried, but she couldn't stifle it. She wasn't a mean or insensitive person; she just wasn't a theatre major.

"Pff...Pfff..hm hah!"

The rest of the semester was very awkward between the two of them.

 

-o-

 

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The perfect profession would have to be priest. Or cardinal. Or reverend. Or rabbi. Or something. People never kill those guys. They're too scared to. Whenever you hear people talking about a nun getting killed they sound so sad. Like it was so much worse than a normal person. Yeah. I think that's what I'll do. Especially if there's actually a god. He wouldn't kill me if I worked for him.

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Frank and Tony

 

 

Frank and Tony sat in the darkness of their 1979 black Cadillac Deville outside of Mickey’s Diner on 44^th street. The silence in the car was like a wet washcloth: heavy and uninviting. They had already been sitting for quite some time when Tony finally broke it.

“When’s this creep gonna show up, already? We’re waiting here all night for this fuckin’ guy, and for what? So we can do Little Al another favor out of the goodness of our hearts?”

Frank glanced at his temporary partner out of the corner of his eye, and resumed peering out at the street. “Just shut up and do your job,” was all he said.

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Hey guys, wrote this a while back.  Just edited it up some.  It's a story that's just dialog.  Tell me what you think, please?

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Here is what I hope will be the final cut of my film. If anybody has ever edited a film, you know that by the time you're done, you never want to see that footage again. Without further ado, here is the alternate version of my film. I hope it is an improved version, and if it's not, I really don't care. I'll just have to get better with my future films. As of now, I don't have a title for it, but if you have a suggestion, please let me know and I'll consider it.

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Authors note: This dream was a bit disgusting. I've omitted no details whatsoever, so if you're in the middle of eating something or if you're about to go to that new expensive restaurant you've been dying to try, maybe save this one for later. That is all.

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It wasn't just that there was no soap in the men's bathroom.  It also wasn't just that the coffee was cool and the milk unnervingly warm. And (even though maybe it should have been) it wasn't just that there was bacon and a long black hair in his veggie lover's omelet.  Being a frequent and understanding restaurant patron he could overlook all these things.

But 'Tina' standing at his table arguing with him about the bill was something he could not forgive.

"The omelet comes with onions, tomatoes, and mushrooms.  The peppers are extra."

He looked at her incredulously. "But $1.50 for the pe-". 

"Sir, excuse me," Tina interrupted him.  "But I got a lot of work to do.  I'll get you the manager if you want."

Before he could respond, she had turned her back to him and began walking towards the back of the empty diner.

Now almost seven minutes later she had finally brought him back his credit card.  Staring at the blank 'TIP' line on the credit card receipt, he now faced a true customer's dilemma. 

As a guy that usually tried to tip 20% (and sometimes even more on smaller bills where the service was good), he didn't really know what to tip for bad service like this?  A 10% tip on $9.81? Less than $1.00?  He realized she didn't even deserve this much. 

But then his inner consumer's conscience started with him. "C'mon she makes minimum wage.  She works the night shift at this crappy diner.  Really, how is leaving her $2.00 going to hurt you?"

He started to write '2-' on the blank and stopped.  Why should he reward this bad service with his hard earned money?  Seconds later, he put the pen down and walked out of the restaurant knowing he made the correct decision.

Almost half an hour later, while clearing the table, Tina decided to see what the customer had left for her.  "Over" was written into the "TIP" blank.  Turning the receipt over, she read her tip:

"When using Microsoft Word, holding ''Control' + 'Z' can be used to undo the last operation performed by the user."

Committing this new knowledge to memory, Tina crumpled up the receipt and threw it into the waste basket.  With a frown across her lips, she knew it was the best tip she had gotten all night.

I really loved Brian's whole idea of writing down dreams and turning them into stories. I recently had a pretty sweet dream, so I figured I would turn it into a story. What do you think? This is what comes out of my crazy mind.

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Part one:
Vanessa looked up at her father.

"Why do birds fly?"

"What?"

Vanessa looked down at the ground.

 

Part two:

Vanessa opened her eyes to look at her boyfriend.

"I love you."

"Thanks."

Vanessa closed her eyes.

 

Part three:

Vanessa coughed and looked down at her granddaughter.

"Grandma, why do you have to leave?"

"I have to."

"I am going to miss you."

Vanessa's eyes widened. Vanessa smiled.

 

Vanessa died.

 

I, William Thomas Xavier-Pendragon, being of sound and disposing mind and memory, and not being actuated by any duress, menace, fraud, mistake, or undue influence, do make, publish, and declare this to be my last Will and Testament.

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Here is the finished film to the screenplay I posted before. The only edit I would make in the future is when I find some music that fits the film that I can easily obtain the license for. As it stands, I can't submit this to any film festivals, etc. so if anybody knows of some suitable and easily licensable music, let me know.

Enjoy .