Séan's Film/Writing Blog

Day Three – Renewal

Write about being renewed

Once again, this one got unusual. I guess I should be happy this one ended up very different from the last two, but different has never guaranteed good. I tried to force myself to do a story, or at least part of one, so here I ended up, with the first act of a probably generic noir crime thriller. Hey, at least it’s an idea I have in my back pocket. I don’t think the story is necessarily bad, it just needs more than half an hour of writing to establish the plot. I guess this is why we keep being told that you physically cannot do a short thriller. Well, either way here’s day three:

William Phillips was a bad man. He’d grown up in the war and the war wasn’t a place where good men survived. But now it was different. It was 1953 and Bill lived in a small office in New York, not that many people would call it living. Bill got by on money left over from his parent’s will and the few bucks he made off being a private eye. For such a big city, a lot of people knew Bill. He had a reputation, and on his 30th birthday, he killed a man in cold blood.

As usual, the story started with Bill working some pointless adultery case. The classic bored husband, depressed wife kind of thing. Mrs. Whitman had come to him to catch her husband in the act and, needing all the work he could get, Bill begrudgingly agreed.

Later that night Bill was staking out Mr. Whitman’s place of business, expecting to find him with some cheap tail, only to find he was meeting with someone far more important. Mr. Whitman had a meeting with Frank Beanie, the biggest mobster in the east. Mob deals weren’t unusual. If the presses were stopped every time a businessman met with a mobster then the presses just wouldn’t exist. But this was different. Mr. Whitman wasn’t important, rich, or even that smart. He had a simple desk job for some dumb political agency. What could possibly have gotten the biggest criminal in New York interested in him? Well, Bill soon found out.

After a bit of talking, both men began to head downstairs. Against his best judgement, Bill had to find out, if anything so he can get a slice of the deal. He spotted Whitman’s car just outside and decided to hide in the alleyway opposite. He’d barely made it up the fire escape when Whitman and Beanie had moved outside. It was unusual to see Beanie on his own. Usually he’d be surrounded by the walls of muscle he calls bodyguards, but tonight it was just him. The whole thing reeked, and now Bill knew why. Whitman and Beanie were staring down into the trunk of the car and Bill could just make out that it was a person.

Kidnappings happen all the time, so why was this one so special? Well, since Whitman and Beanie had gone back inside, Bill went to go find out. They weren’t planning on staying much longer, so Bill had to hurry. He quietly made his way over to the car and popped the trunk. The sight alone nearly stopped his heart. It was the mayor’s 16 year old son, tied up and gagged and likely beaten to unconsciousness.

Bill was usually good at thinking on his feet, but this whole night was anything but usual. Knowing he didn’t have long he closed the trunk and checked the driver’s seat. Even for a budding kidnapper Whitman was still dumb enough to leave his keys inside. Throwing caution to the wind Bill jumped in, started the car, and drove off. He could see Whitman and Beanie looking confused and furious (respectively) behind him, so he just kept driving, not knowing anywhere safe from the reach of the mob. He found that he’d driven to the docks, so though he could possibly buy some time by hiding in a warehouse. He manoeuvred the car behind some large crates and killed the engine.

Now, having stopped driving and being given some time to think, Bill considered why he did it.

“You shoulda just left it. It ain’t your business. Who cares about the dumb kid?” Despite it all, he figured he should let the kid out, maybe he’ll help Bill understand this mess.

Making sure he’s quiet and cautious the whole time, Bill gets out of the car and moves to the trunk. Inside, the kid was now awake, and starts freaking out at the sight of Bill. He tries to calm him down but it doesn’t work, the boy’s writhing and kicking to high hell, catching Bill right in the chest. Having almost immediately lost his patience, the P.I punches him right in the face with the accuracy and speed of someone who’s experienced both ends of a lot of punches.

“Now, are you gonna let me help you kid?”, Bill asks once the boy settles down. He nods. Bill pulls him out and unties his arms and legs, reminding the kid that if he runs “you’re as dead as a cat on a freeway.” Heeding his warning, the boy remains still while Bill removes his gag.

“Now, how the hell did you get napped by some pencil pusher? What the hell’s going on?”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about, but I overheard someone talking about ransoming me off to my dad. Says I’m worth more than double my weight in gold.”
“Judging by the size of you, that ain’t hard.” Bill cuts in with. “But from the looks of it, Whitman is trying to sell you off the highest bidder, but why?”

“Wait, Whitman? Samual Whitman, who works for my dad? He kidnapped me?!” The boy says getting louder and louder.

“Hey, shut up! Every mobster in the city is looking for you right now, so you’d better listen. Step one is getting you somewhere safe, and step two is getting you to your dad.”

Before he can continue that thought, the two of them are blinded by lights. Bill looks over to the warehouse door where the lights are coming from. He can make out the outline of a short man.

“So, you’re the guy who stole the car? Not bad, but surely you didn’t think the docks were a bad place to hide. Half of my boys live across the street!” the small man said with a hint of amusement. Bill began to recognise that voice. It was Frank Beanie.

Beanie stepped in front of the lights and into the clear. “So, unfortunately for you, I need the kid back. Kill him, boys.”

Day 2 – Ordinary

Write about one ordinary moment that happened yesterday.

So, today’s prompt already has me questioning my decision to do this challenge. How on earth am I supposed to spend 30 minutes writing about something ordinary when the only thing of mention that I did yesterday was go to the shop. That’s it. Everything else was either uneventful to the point of hilarity, or (the one un-ordinary thing I did yesterday) set up this blog. So, I chose that and figured I’ll just figure out my point during. I don’t want all of these prompts to end up with me ranting about some weird subject, but when the prompt is specifically about something I did, it’s difficult to translate that into a short story.

I went to the shop. Something I now do on a near daily basis. There was nothing special to it, nothing remarkable. Nothing that would make it any more worth mention than any other time I’ve been to the shop. Which begs the question, why am I talking about it? Well, I’m not sure. I guess I’m employing the same technique that got me through my English exams and I’m just going to hope I find my point through the process of making it.

As my fingers hit the keys, the keys send electric signals which lead a tiny computer to display a letter on a screen my mind cycles through the various parts of my journey to the shop. I walked the same route I now always do: the scenic route. Although, calling it the scenic route may be an exaggeration. I’m choosing to walk down an urban city street as opposed to a different urban city street, though I guess it’s because the first time I walked down that street was when my dad first visited me. Even though it was raining cats, dogs, and a manner of other household pets at the time, it remains a happy memory, one I reminisce on every time I go to the shop.

Choosing a longer road to walk down every other day exclusively for a small sentiment is probably the first step in my mental decline, so I guess I’ll argue for another reason: music! Recently I’ve been trying to listen to more albums. Not just all my music on shuffle for me to pick and choose as to which songs I do and don’t want to listen to. Instead I’m actively trying to appreciate the art of the album. There is a skill to making a song, there is a skill to making several songs, and there is a separate skill to taking those songs and arranging them in a certain way. There’s an art to it. Without it we’d might as well just arrange all songs in alphabetical order, with no care for themes or motifs. An album is a statement made by an individual or a group, frozen in time to be re-appreciated and re-evaluated with every listen.

To continue this point (because filling my half an hour time limit writing about just a trip to the shops would be as much fun as jumping onto a bicycle with no seat), Varg Vikernes (also known as Count Grishnahk), the former guitarist of Norweigan black metal band Mayhem and founder of Burzum talked about how he constructs on album on his blog. I’ll be paraphrasing, but he compares it to casting a spell, because he is a mentalist and literal murderer. The first song or two settle the listener, giving them a hint of what to expect from the album, like a spellcaster chanting their mystical magic words. He said how he almost wanted people to fall asleep during this section so that they could visit the mythical fantasy world his songs create in their dreams. Then, the main bulk of the songs are the spell talking effect. The listener is now completely invested and apart of the journey. The victim of the spell is now transported, cursed, or whatever the effects of the spell were, and these songs represent their experience under that spell. Finally, the last few songs bring the listener out. They’re calmed once again and brought back into the world of reality. The spell wears off and the person affected is free to go about their business until they next cast the spell.

This belief is all well and good until you consider most albums made in these modern times are more packaging than anything. A way to group a set of songs together so people can find the specific songs they like on Spotify and never even consider the other songs. It’s a disservice to the musician. This is a strange point to end on, I know, but you try and pull some greater meaning out of a 15 trip to buy microwave pizzas, okay?

Advent Writing Prompts

Day 1 – Something that gives you peace or robs you of it

As I’m currently experiencing my first period of living away from my family, I remembered the other day that this year I don’t have anyone to buy me an advent calendar, and buying myself one felt far too self-indulgent for a student budget. So, in an attempt to kill some birds with a number of stones I’ve decided to fill each of my advent days with a separate writing prompt in order to build the tension towards Christmas and to force myself to do something productive for a change. Click here for the entire list I shall be going through: https://tracimsmith.wordpress.com/2015/11/29/advent-writing-prompts-25-days-of-writing-writing-write-writingprompt-writersblock/

So, as the heading gave away, I was to kick this writing challenge off by writing about something that either gives me peace, or takes it away. I decided to go with the former, because focusing on something I find chaotic and aggravating would probably be the straw that’d finally break me.

I remember the walk so vividly. There was nothing that put my mind at ease more than those 15 minutes I would spend with her. Down the street, crossing over at the bridge, always intrigued as to whether or not the flood control pipes were open. Then down by what once was the abandoned factory but is now hills of rubble and dust. Strangely enough, it was more relaxing with the construction.

I guess the noise didn’t matter since it never overpowered the music passing through my headphones into my mind. The combination of no responsibility other than walking and making sure she doesn’t run off mixes quite well with the transportive power of music, I always thought, to create some sort of small adventure in my own subconscious. Allowing my constantly distressed thoughts to focus on nothing but the story that the music was taking me on. It didn’t matter what story the song told, or even how I then took that song and made it my own. Sometimes I would be the loved-up protagonist putting his heart on the line, or other times I was instead performing the song, imagining how I would take the different parts and details of the recording and then amplify them on stage.

With my mind elsewhere, I was free to relax as we would walk through the retail park, only ever slowing down to see if the guy I know at the sofa shop was on his break. For such a seemingly mundane and uneventful place, I can’t help but reminisce on the few memories I have had there. Some good, some bad, as all memories are. This is also the part with variation. Do I turn immediately and walk past the shops, or do I continue on ahead first and walk along the main road. The choice itself is rather inconsequential. No matter which, I will walk roughly the same amount and arrive home at the same time, yet it always ended up a big decision for me. I guess if something so trivial becomes a big decision, then that’s something to be thankful for. Could always do with more triviality in life.

Now we reach the home straight. This street and I have always had a strange relationship. It’s home to my primary school best friend, so I’ve a few random memories of it that all stopped once we went to different secondary schools. I barely walked down it for years after that, only on occasion to go to the very shops I just spoke about. This all changed when it became apart of my dog walking route. Now I have many new memories of the street, albeit some far less eventful ones.

Finally I reach my street. A street I’ve walked down more than I’ve walked any. One so entangled with my memories that I could hardly find a single part that wouldn’t spark something often neglected in my head. Clearly Grace recognises it just as well as I do (impressive considering she can’t see colour and has lived there 15 years less than I have) Whenever we come back across the bridge we crossed at the beginning she seems to find a small burst of energy, trying her best to both rush ahead and stop for every different smell. I’d guess that she must think about how excited she suddenly is to be home where it’s warm and where there’s food. That or maybe she just doesn’t like me… though obviously that isn’t it.

As I reach the front door, the keys pulled out of my pocket about five houses too early, I return to my natural head-space, of over-thinking and under pressure. I step down off the stage as I take my headphones off and I return all the memories I had brought up back into obscurity neatly folded up. Though, I’m always comforted with the knowledge that the dog will always need a walk. Which is why I’ve never wanted to go home more than now.

My First Blog Post

Hello and welcome to my humble corner of the internet!

I am a first year student currently studying film and screenwriting. In an attempt to force myself to do more writing and do literally anything productive I have made this blog. Unfortunately for you, in addition to not really knowing what I aim to put here besides short writing prompts I’ve done and reviews of films I watched in uni, I’m also rather inexperienced in writing as a whole, but like every one of my creative heroes, I have to start somewhere. And where’s better than right here.

So, with that, I hope you enjoy what I will put on here from now until the indefinite future!