Sunday, September 5, 2010

ABOUT OPEN SCRIPT PROJECT

This is an open script project. I encourage people to use these stories to make films. I encourage as many versions of films generated from these stories which I wrote as possible. I do not want money only a courtesy nod that you used one of my stories from the open script project for your film.

Saturday, September 4, 2010

Early Drive

From the kitchen window, I could see the sun rising over the hills. The lights in the house were still off, and in the dawn’s sun, the sink’s shadow decreased incrementally. I got dressed in a blue button down and a pair of khakis, and while tying my shoes, became fixated on the restored tissue that some mistakenly call “forearm.” “Forearm” offers nothing new by way of explanation.

At 7:30 A.M., I left for work, and driving toward the Golden Gate Bridge, the city’s white buildings blinded me, so I put on sunglasses. The moon was still visible, but fading. As I got closer to downtown, the phrase, “a theory of everything has yet to be configured properly” rattled around in what I call my “cyclotron”, but others incorrectly refer to as my “brain.”

As I approached work, there was an increase in my stomach acid levels. “This could be a problem,” I said to myself. I almost entered the parking lot, but knew I shouldn’t go into work today. It would be more productive to take the day off and drive to L.A. instead. I needed to think, to study this acid build-up problem with all its complications and qualifications. The further south I drove, the more my stomach acid levels decreased. In the valley, walnuts waited for burlap. At some point, I switched to the coast road, and listened to the Pacific churning below. It was already 9:00 A.M, and the staff and other researchers would be in our morning meeting by now. To my left, uniform rows of broccoli and spinach flourished. Few general principles can account for what happened next. It requires an entirely new mode of explanation that hasn’t been developed yet. On a shoulder of Route 1, I made a U-turn and headed back to work. There was no reason for doing this, no hypothesis to account for it. As the car finished out the circumference of its turn, my thoughts made no motion. Driving north, my ability to think returned in fragments. After twenty minutes had passed, my mind fixated on a drawing of the elementary building blocks of matter that was in a biochemistry textbook I co-authored. Twenty minutes more and I could envision one of the large superstrings used to account for dimension theory. Pulling into the parking lot, I saw my coworkers returning from lunch. They were staring at me, wondering where I had been, but I would explain it all in detail, the acid build-up, the locked mind, the building blocks, and the superstring. I knew that they would agree with my considered decision not to go to the A.M. staff meeting. They might be concerned, but once I gave my reasons, they would understand. They’d see that my reasons were part of a set of fractals derived from the same equation, an equation that endlessly flaps its altering answer.

The Gift

I received a box in the mail that had no return address. I tried to open it, but couldn't. It was made of some kind of impenetrable plastic. A few days later, I got another box, and this time, same thing, I couldn't open it. The boxes kept coming, usually once or twice a week. At first, I threw them out but then began to stack them in the basement. You never know what might come in handy. After a year, I must have had 50 boxes down there, stacked in neat rows, piled up against the foundation walls.

The Wind

Back at his apartment, he opened the door and put his bags down in the dark room. That's when he began to hear the sound of a strong wind building up. He stood motionless. For some reason, neither pieces of mail, nor post-it notes on the fridge were disturbed. He didn't feel any breeze on his skin, his clothes didn't billow or flap, and the apartment's dust and secrets didn't scatter around him. There was only the sound of it, but not the effect. Surveying the apartment with a turn of the head, he reached one hand behind him and turned on the lights. The sound ceased. His hand hovered a 1/4 of an inch above the light switch. He pressed down. The sound returned. In a flurry of fear, I grabbed my bags, fumbled with the keys, took the stairs to the first floor, and hailed a cab to the airport. When I got to the airport, there were crowds of people leaning against walls, sitting on their bags, and opening and closing their cell phones. I told the driver to head back to the city. Back at the apartment, I opened the door quickly and put my bags down. When I closed the door, I heard the sound of the wind slowly building behind me.

The Room

One by one, they walked towards the room. Cleared of furniture it had a dank, musty smell. Its walls, floor, and ceiling were painted a matte black. Being an interior room, there was no danger of daylight entering, and perfect darkness had been achieved. Staring into the darkness, they saw incredible things. Then one of them opened his mouth, and the silence, infinite and black, filled it.