Horrific Beauty from the Shattered Cinematic Mind Corey Roden

Acknowledgments

It’s a shock to me that I have made it this far, and I know this portfolio would not have been made possible without the support from many individuals who never gave up on me, even when I was wholeheartedly ready to give up on myself.

I express my thanks to my dear friend Emily Sattler for her own artistic ability, creating the cover illustration for this portfolio. Not only that, but for being such a special person in my life- my best friend.

I recognize that I would not be the writer I am today without the overall support of my UNA professors, taking their time to work alongside me and my work, watching me grow and (hopefully) improve throughout my years under them.

So, thank you

To Kathleen Richards for recognizing a talent that I could not see and giving me the opportunity to share it and teach others.

To Jessica Mitchell for showing me that change is not only okay but is necessary in order to reach a dream.

To Christa Raney for not only encouraging my writing but challenging it for the first time in my life, allowing me to step back and analyze myself and the kind of writer that I am, and discovering the kind of writer that I want to be.

To Jason McCall for giving me an opportunity to explore new styles, adapt, and mold my writing, all while never criticizing but offering insightful feedback so that I may utilize it to become better at my craft.

To Brenna Wardell for teaching me not only to use a critical lens to view film but to also use a critical lens to view the world.

Lastly, to Calhoun Community College’s Christie Burney for inspiring me to become “the writer I was born to be.”

Introduction

I’ve never considered myself a “genre writer,” and I can’t say that I intend on becoming one. In fact, when it comes to genre, I used to be terrified of anything remotely “horror.” When I was young, anytime a horror film would play on TV, I’d close my eyes and run the other way. It wasn’t until I began writing my own stories that I became fascinated by it. I found myself discovering an odd beauty within it symbolism, emotion, and the reaction of those who engage with it.

As I mentioned, I do not intend to write solely horror pieces, but many of my works can be put into that category. In this portfolio, one will not only find typical scary stories but deep-dives into thought and romance. I put a little bit of myself into everything I write, and my goal is that my readers will not only pick up on themes and ideas but are able to use their own perception to find meaning. Like any artform, the intent is to entertain but to also make one think. Someone might read my work and immediately grasp the intention while others will miss the mark, and that is okay. This is the beauty of art the freedom of interpretation.

This portfolio is divided into five sections, with the first being my personal pieces. I decided to include these writings to allow readers to get to know about myself personally as well as my history as a writer. It is an intimate look into my life, and I feel that it’s necessary to understand an author prior to engaging with their work. I hope that it presents who I am and the reason that I do what I do. Besides my array of poems and short stories, I have included a section dedicated to film analysis and screenwriting to coincide with my journey as a Film minor. Everyone loves movies, and throughout my semesters, I have taken that love a step further by learning the craft of delving deeper into a medium that I love so much. I find it funny how this has affected my own enjoyment of film. I always joke, “I can’t even watch a movie just for the fun of it anymore. I’m always analyzing and asking, ‘Now, what does this really mean?’”

The most important thing I have learned to do in my time as a college student is to combine my Writing major with my Film minor in order to inspire my work. It isn’t too uncommon that I’ll find myself writing with cinematic elements in mind. Whether I simply end up writing about films or writing my own is unknown to me, but I will continue to write with this cinematic mind that I have adapted while continuing to create and find beauty in life’s horrors.

Table of Contents

Personal Pieces

The Writer You Were Born to Be 6

Reflection: English 310 and the Paper that Changed My Major 10

Corey Likes Old Stuff 12

Thursday 15

Poetry

Loose leaf 19

Skeletons 20

The Lady Came to Check on Me 21

Jobs 22 Therapy Session 23

Connie’s Café for Family Fun 25

Space Cowboy Part II: The Return 27

Galaxy Girl 28

Alien 29

Her Ocean 30

Short Stories

The Crow 32

The Embalmer 33

The Washing Machine 34

Two Thumbs Up 42

Film Analysis

PulpFiction : Tarantino’s Formalistic Approach to Narrative 47

Response to Psycho 52

Intertextuality in Sam Raimi’s Adaptation of Spider Man 56

Beyond the Remake: How del Toro Reimagines a Noir Classic 61

Screenplays

Come on Eileen 70

Salamander Graves 78

Choice 89

Personal Pieces

I’ve always had the belief that an important aspect of art is the one who created it. One’s work can reveal many things about an author, but I believe that those things can be controlled. Personal pieces can allow intimacy between an author and their readers. It is then that readers can discover particular themes within an author’s creative works. This is what the following section sets out to do- created intimacy, insight, and trust.

The first two pieces, “The Writer You Were Born to Be” and “Reflection: English 310 and the Paper that Changed My Major,” were both written at the beginning of my journey as a Writing Major. Written in Christa Raney’s Advanced Composition course, these two pieces serve as an introduction to who I am as a writer and the intent behind why I do what I do. As one title indicates, the course was a decisive factor in my decision to pursue a major in writing.

The following two, “Corey Likes Old Stuff” and “Thursday,” are creative non-fiction pieces that were written in Jason McCall’s Advanced Creative Writing courses. I decided to include these two works to offer a deeper look into my personal life my interests, relationships, and struggle with mental health. Every experience that life has thrown at me has influenced my writing, and I believe that readers will benefit from the self images that I have painted.

These personal pieces may be the most impactful pieces in my portfolio. Where many of my works derive from a creative mind, these personal pieces are written from the heart. I hope that readers are first able to make a connection with me as an individual before engaging with my works in order to connect with me as an author.

The writing speaks for itself, but the words of the writer speak louder. Over the years, I have learned to take pride in my writing, but along the way, I have learned to take pride in the one who wrote it.

The Writer You Were Born to Be

I would like to say that I couldn’t believe what I was staring at, but I knew exactly what it was and how it got there. The number stared up at me, and letting out a long sigh, I stared down at it. As if it were written in blood, the markings of red ink signified my failure. I had gotten yet another failing grade in math a sixty four.

Sitting in front of me, my friend held his ninety eight up in victory before turning around to ask me what I made. I knew he wouldn’t ask how I received the grade that I did, for he knew why. The teacher would write out example problems on the whiteboard, and she would explain how to solve them in great detail. I could hear her speak, but I didn’t care to process it since I had speaking of my own crowding my brain with no room left for hers. I was working on writing “Tokia,” a short story about a boy who goes on a magical adventure to avenge his father’s death from the evil dark wizard named Wasabi. I wasn’t very good at coming up with names, but I was proud of my small cast of characters and the story about them. I even illustrated the story, and it was all contained in a 70 page spiral notebook that my mother had bought me for my 7th grade math class. Obviously, writing stories was much more important than math.

When I wasn’t working on writing or drawing, I was getting my best ideas from the stories that I read. The plot of “Tokia” may have resembled Harry Potter a little too much, and the action sequences seemed like they were straight out of a manga such as Dragon Ball or Naruto. At the time I didn’t see it as “copying,” for books, comics, and manga served as some of my biggest inspirations and influences. In fact, according to my mom, the first novel I ever read from cover to cover was Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone (D. Roden, personal communication, January 26, 2020).

Ever since I was immersed in reading novels, I was inspired to write my own. To this day, I have yet to write a full length novel, but I do have many wonderful ideas for multiple series of books. Whenever I’m required to introduce myself to a classroom and share “one interesting fact about myself,” I tend to use the response, “I’m Corey Roden. My major is Secondary Education English. I’m a writer, and one day I’m going to write a book series. Be on the look out because it’s going to be a big deal, and I’m talking ‘a movie adaptation and merchandise’ big deal.”

Though I haven’t begun writing my award-winning book series, I did write many short stories besides “Tokia” during my primary and secondary school years. My bibliography began in Mrs. Beshears’ class when I was in the 3rd grade.

As a 9 year old, I sat on the carpet that was in the corner of the cheerfully decorated 3rd grade classroom when a lady walked in wearing a long white coat and green scrubs. If you had asked me at the time, I would have described her ensemble as “doctor clothes,” but moments later I found out she was a dental hygienist. Normally when we were called to the carpet, Mrs. Beshears would read us a few pages from Sideways Stories from Wayside School by Louis

Sachar, but the hygienist took over “carpet time” that day to give a presentation about dental hygiene.

“I want everyone to rub their tongue against their front teeth,” the hygienist instructed through her extremely white and perfect grin. “What does it feel like?”

Kids began shouting out different responses like “smooth” and “bumpy.” I couldn’t tell what I was feeling because I was too focused on how dumb everyone looked with their mouths agape, moving their tongues back and forth like windshield wipers.

“Do you feel anything fuzzy?” she asked, looking around the room with a shining smile.

One kid’s hand shot up in the air and they started shouting, “I do! I do!”

The white coated woman hid her smile in a frown as she explained how the fuzzy feeling means that there’s plaque on our teeth and how if we don’t brush our teeth, they’ll fall out. It was enough to scare me straight that the presentation was all I could think about for the next week.

One afternoon during free time, Mrs. Beshears asked us to take out a sheet of paper and write her a story about anything we wanted. With fuzziness, cavities, gum disease, and the wide grin of a dental hygienist on my mind, I started writing about teeth. I didn’t know enough about teeth to write an informative essay on them, so I wrote about a giant tooth with a face who was a superhero instead. I cleverly named it “Super Tooth,” and it became my very first literary masterpiece.

Writing is a special gift that I have never taken for granted. It allows me to put my thoughts, creativity, feelings, and beliefs into words on a page for the world to read. Many people struggle with putting their thoughts into words, and I understand that it can be difficult to figure out the “right” words to write. When I am tutoring at UNA’s writing center, students often tell me, “I don’t know how to put what I want to say into words.” I then ask them, “Well, what is it that you want to say?” They begin explaining what it is they want to write about and, at times, go into detail. As they finish their explanation, I smile at them and say, “Write that. Write down every word that just left your mouth. Write it exactly as you said it. You can ‘clean it up’ afterwards.” Writing begins with the heart, then the mind, and ends up on the page until it reaches the heart of another. My mother commented on my writing and said, “Everything you write comes from the heart. It is always about ‘feels’ and detail but more about the ‘feels’” (D. Roden, personal communication, January 26, 2020). If there are no emotions, positive or negative, behind something that is written, then what is the point of writing it?

I find that writing is a powerful thing. When I write, I am not writing just for the grade, I am writing for the reader. This is something that took time for me to learn, as my English 101 and 102 professor, Dr. Christie Burney, notes, “While your writing was strong in the beginning, you seemed to be writing for an audience of one, the teacher” (C. Burney, personal communication, January 27, 2020). This is true, as I did find myself catering to my instructor rather than a larger audience, wanting to impress the authority who possessed the power to pass or fail me. Dr. Burney noticed a gradual change in my writing during the time spent in her class, saying, “… you started to get a sense that your writing could really make a difference… Once

you recognized [this], your confidence grew, and your writing soared” (C. Burney, personal communication, January 27, 2020). I believe that is exactly what writing is all about, finding the confidence in knowing that words are not empty and make an impact on others and the world.

Sitting at my desk, I closed my notebook that held the pages where Tokia’s adventures were written. My friend tucked his test paper into his binder, as the ninety eight on the top of the page laughed hysterically at my sixty four. My math teacher concluded the lesson, and the bell rang, signifying the end of another long and dreadful day in the 7th grade.

“You know, you could make a better grade in this class if you took notes instead of writing your story,” my friend lectured me as we slung our fifty pound bags onto our backs.

“Yeah, I’m sure I could,” I agreed. “I just don’t really care for math. You know that I want to write, so lay off, would you?”

He shrugged his shoulders, and I noticed his eyes met the notebook in my hand. I began to tease him while laughing, “You’re right. I shouldn’t have been writing during class, but, man, I just wrote a great chapter. I suppose you don’t want to read it, eh?”

“I-I never s-said that! Give it here!” he stuttered as he opened the notebook and began reading the chapter where Tokia and the gang finally reach Wasabi’s castle. “This is getting better and better, Corey. What happens next?”

I told him that he would just have to wait until I finished the story, as I only had one more chapter to write. When I shared the finished product with him, he loved it and so did everyone else who read it. Everyone kept asking, “What are you going to write next?”

The question has echoed in my mind throughout the last nine years, keeping me motivated to continue putting my ideas to paper. I come up with a new story idea in my head at least once a month, but only a few of them make it to a word document. I’m still waiting on my book series (that will eventually become a global phenomenon) to come to mind, but until then, I’ll just keep writing. I know that everything I write is worth something because the one who wrote it is as well.

“These are goals that I always have for my students, but they cannot be pushed. Most students will develop them if given the opportunity and the space. I think this is what I always tried to do… I wanted you to be the writer you were born to be” (C. Burney, personal communication, January 27, 2020).

References

Burney, C. (2020, January 27). Personal interview.

Roden, D. (2020, January 26). Personal interview.

Reflection: English 310 and the Paper that Changed My Major

Before coming to UNA, I spent nearly two years deciding what I wanted to do with my life. Due to my love of writing, I landed on English Teacher. It makes sense, right? Writing is connected to English and English to teaching. I started researching colleges in Alabama that would be a good fit for me, and almost every suggestion I received from people was UNA, only after they heard the word “teacher.” They sang UNA’s praises, calling it “the best college for Education majors in Alabama.” Well, that is where I needed to be, so that is where I went, and I’ve enjoyed the time I have spent there ever since.

Logging onto Canvas, I knew the Spring 2020 semester was going to be a breeze. It was the first semester full of classes pertaining to my major. I was particularly excited for one class English 310, my first writing class since English 101 and 102 at Calhoun Community College. I was prepared for the writing of discussion posts and papers galore, but I cannot say I knew that I would be changing my major by the end of it. All it took was a single assignment, a teacher who I have never met, and a realization of who I truly am.

The very first paper that was assigned for the semester was an Autobiography on our history as a reader and a writer. I had been writing for a long time, and there was plenty to write about. I told the story of the time I wrote my first short story and the time I wrote my first book as a middle schooler. I love telling these stories, as they mark the beginning of my life as a writer and sharing them was just so natural for me. There was one parameter to the assignment that required me to turn to someone other than myself and my own experiences an interview. Thinking back to the people who knew the most about my writing journey, I turned to Christie Burney, my EN101 and 102 professor from community college. She was ecstatic to hear from me and was more than willing to share her thoughts on the subject. She told me that during the course of having me as a student, she watched me grow in my writing. She pointed out my strengths and even my weaknesses. She concluded by claiming that she wanted me to be the writer that I was born to be. Her words stuck with me, and I kept repeating them to myself throughout the rest of the semester, “be the writer you were born to be.”

I had always considered myself to be a “good writer,” but I also believe that no matter what someone is good at, they can always improve. EN310 has given me more opportunities to improve my writing than any other class, and I give credit to my professor, Christa Raney, for encouraging that improvement and growth. Throughout the semester, she gave me nothing but compliments, encouragement, and guidance on my writing. Through her work as a professor, I can see that she cares for her students and wants them to succeed. From her comments on my discussion posts and papers to our witty back-and-forth through email, she has made me feel much more confident in who I am as a writer and a person. Oh, I forgot to mention that EN310 is an online class, so I have never met Professor Raney face to face. How could someone I hardly know impact me so much? Throughout the semester, we have been communicating through writing alone, and I see that as evidence behind the power that writing has the power to impact, influence, and change someone’s life. I’m sure the two of us will meet eventually, and when we do, I’ll be sure to thank her.

For the past two semesters, I have been working as a writing consultant at UNA’s writing center, helping students with their writing while receiving help with my own. During each shift, I feel as if I learn something new about others, writing, and myself. The job has made me realize

just how important writing is to me. After writing my Autobiography paper, the realization was strengthened to the point where I thought, “I wish I could write as a career.” That is when my Secondary Education advisor asked, “Then why don’t you? If that is what you want to do, do it. My job is to help you find what makes you, you.” That is when Dr. Burney’s words came rushing back into my mind, “be the writer you were born to be.” I looked at my advisor with a troubled look, as I was worried about changing my major. She smiled at me and said, “You need some time to think about it, I’m sure, but I think you’ve already made up your mind.” I think I might have teared up a little when I nodded my head and left her office. As I walked to the English Department in Willingham Hall, I continued to repeat to myself, “what makes me, me.” I sat down in Dr. Burkhead’s office and that’s when I said, “I want to be a writer,” and that’s when I changed my major.

I began the semester as a Secondary Education English major and finished as what makes me, me a Professional Writing major. In Fall 2020, I will begin my new major classes and my journey to a career in writing. I’ve always been a writer, from my first short story in the 3rd grade to my most recent paper about Fanfiction. I had always connected writing with teaching instead of writing with, well, writing. When COVID 19 struck the world in March, I was required to move from Florence, Alabama back home to Huntsville, Alabama. Much like everyone else, I was devastated and worried that my academic performance would suffer due to situational difficulties and the pure lack of motivation. I sat down to write my final paper of the semester, and suddenly, I was motivated again. As cheesy as it sounds, it felt as if the world around me paused for a moment. It was just my words and I. Writing is an escape for me, and I can’t believe it took me so long to realize it. It was bound to happen inevitably, but I owe so much to an Autobiography, an online professor, and a realization of what makes me, me the writer I was born to be.

Corey Likes Old Stuff

Sitting in my seat, I waited anxiously for the show to begin. Gripping my bag of popcorn tighter, I watched as the room darkened and a spotlight revealed a man on the stage. There he was, dressed up in his finest suit and his famous gold shoes− my granddad.

The band behind him came to life, as my granddad performed “Great Balls of Fire,” a song that had been made famous in the 60’s by Jerry Lee Lewis (My granddad would always tell me the story of the time he had shared a stage with him). I had always known that my granddad could sing, but I had no idea that he was a rock ‘n’ roll star. It was the first and last time that I would ever see him perform.

People tend to put a lot of emphasis on “first times” our first words, our first steps, a first dance, a first kiss. Boy, do I remember my first time, the most important “first” of all “firsts” − my first Beatles song. My granddad introduced me to The Beatles when I was in middle school, letting me listen to the album Please Please Me while he sang along. So of course, the first song I heard was “I Saw Her Standing There.” While Paul McCartney sang, “She was just seventeen, if you know what I mean,” I had absolutely no idea what he meant. What I did know is that I was then, and forever would be, obsessed with the band.

The first day of eighth grade came quickly, and I had spent the entire summer before listening to every Beatles album, learning their songs, history, and of course, choosing my favorite Beatle (It will always be John. No contest). Wearing my new Beatles shirt, I was ready to take on whatever the school year tossed my way. But nothing could prepare me for the one thing I still dread to this day− class introductions.

When called upon, I stood up and nervously began my spill, “Um, I’m Corey, and I like to play the, um, drums. Uh, I’m a fan of music like The Beatles, The Doors, and, um, The Ramones. I also, um, like TV shows like I Dream of Jeannie, Bewitched, and The Andy Griffith Show.”

A student shouted out from the back of the room, “So basically, you like old stuff?”

The rest of the class began to quietly giggle, whispering things like, “Who likes that kind of music?” and “How old is this kid?”

My teacher hushed the growing, chattering sea of voices, “Now class, there is nothing wrong with being an old soul. Thank you for sharing with us, Corey.”

I sat back down feeling uncool, and while opening my notebook, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around to a boy wearing an Abbey Road shirt and Beatles notebooks laying on top of his desk.

“Um, do you think I went a little overboard with the whole Beatles thing?” he asked, pointing at his shirt and then to his notebooks.

I pointed to my own shirt and smiled, “Not at all.”

Referring to him as my “Beatles Friend,” I introduced my new pal to my friend group, and for the rest of the year, we shared some amazing times together all thanks to our love for “old stuff.”

My “Beatles Friend” and I ended up starting a band together. Of course, we would cover plenty of Beatles songs, and I would practice the drum solo from “The End” as often as I could, tapping on my desk with pencils during class. My favorite song to play with him was “Octopus’s Garden,” only because he could play the guitar solo so well. I was amazed at our talents, and when we were finally getting good, the news came.

“I’m moving this summer.”

I knew that he came from a military family and was used to moving around often, but I didn’t think he would have to come and go so quickly. We were only eighth graders, but we had planned out our entire career together. We were supposed to be stars like The Beatles… like my granddad. I begged him not to leave, even coming up with a brilliant plan that had him living at my house. Of course, that wouldn’t fly with my parents or his. We were defeated.

“Hey, just because I’m leaving doesn’t mean you have to give up the dream,” he told me on the last day of school. “You and the other guys start a new band and get famous. Then, someday down the road, we’ll have a reunion. The lights will go down, and that’s when I appear on stage! Then we’ll perform together again.”

“Are you sure? It’ll be weird without you.”

He put his hand on my shoulder, “I’m positive. You have really awesome and talented friends. You guys are gonna to be great.”

“But,” I began to tear up, “None of them will be as great as you.”

That’s when my “Beatles Friend” gave me the last hug he would ever give me. He pulled me into an embrace and said, “Ever since I moved here, I have met a lot of cool people. I’ve made so many great friends. But believe me, I’ve never had a better friend than you.”

We left school for the summer, and it saddens me to say that I haven’t seen my “Beatles Friend” since. But I can assure you that there isn’t a day that goes by where I don’t reminisce about the times spent laughing, jamming, and listening to Beatles albums. We really were the best of friends− just two old souls.

Eleventh grade year, I had my first Creative Writing class, and one of the first assignments was to write a third person autobiography. Instead of going around the room and awkwardly introducing ourselves, telling the class a “fun fact” or whatever, we just read what we had written for our autobiography assignment.

Of course, I wanted to include that I was a drummer in a band and that my grandfather was a singer. I also made sure to include a section about my favorite shows, movies, music, and

video games. I had about half the paper written when I decided to restart it, finding there was a better way to talk about myself without having to write as much.

I made my way up to the front of the class and began reading, “Corey likes old stuff. Whether it be TV, music, or video games, if it is old, he probably likes it.”

Thursday was your favorite day of the week. It was basically a pre Friday, and who doesn’t love Fridays? After school, you would hang out with your best friends until your parents called you home where you would go out for Mexican food. Your parent’s pay day alternated every Thursday, so it was a weekly treat to go chow down on tacos, and of course, chips and queso. Taco Tuesday was unheard of in your household; you were more of a Taco Thursday kind of person. Nothing could beat a Thursday− your favorite day of the week.

After spending a few hours eating snacks, playing video games, and jamming to your friend’s new vinyl, you gave your pals a farewell and got into your car to head home. As you drove, you were still thinking about that hilariously offensive meme that your friend showed you. You knew that every moment spent with your friends was special, and you knew that those days wouldn’t last forever. But still, in that moment, you were happy. Pulling over, you sat in your car and began to cry. Why were you crying? Were you not happy? Of course, you were happy. You just hung out with your best friends, but the tears still poured down your face. “Stop crying,” you said to yourself “Dry it up before you get home, or mom and dad will think something’s wrong.” Was something wrong? Certainly, nothing was wrong because after all, it was a Thursday− your favorite day of the week.

That night, you ate your tacos in silence, spaced out and ignoring your parent’s questions, “What did you do at school today?” and “Did you have fun hanging with your friends?” You told them you were fine, and cracking a slight smile, you finished up your tacos just in time for fried ice cream. The ice cream was a sweet ending to the day, but the night had just begun. That night, you sat in your room and that strange feeling flooded your head again, cutting off all your senses. You couldn’t breathe, and for a moment you heard a soft voice whispering in your ear. The voice was familiar, almost like your own, but you knew that it couldn’t be because in that moment, your thoughts were blank. You answered the voice, “I can’t do that. Think about how upset mom and dad would be.” They would be upset for sure, hurt even. You knew that it would ruin a perfect Thursday night, and those always were your favorite because you knew that nothing could beat a Thursday− your favorite day of the week.

You went a little too deep, and the thought of what could happen next terrified you. How could you have been so stupid? You grabbed tons of old kitchen towels, knowing that mom would kill you if you used her new ones. The tears from earlier never ceased, and you didn’t realize that you had been dry heaving a bit louder than you thought. Your mom rushed into the room, and without saying a word, she ran to wake up your dad. “Don’t get dad,” you thought, “He has to work tomorrow and needs rest.” Your parents were questioning you, and in between your cries and theirs, you thought for a moment that you heard that same voice again. This time, it was laughing at you. Your dad called his boss and told them that he wouldn’t be going to work the next day. Your mom sat at the end of your bed, holding your hand, and praying out loud. You, on the other hand, quietly looked around the room, trying to find the body behind the voice− the voice that told you to do what you did. You didn’t know who it was or what it was, but you knew that Thursday was trashed. Despite hanging with your friends and eating Mexican food, you ruined your Thursday− your favorite day of the week.

A week later, you sat on a couch in a dimly lit room where you would be meeting a therapist. When they walked into the room and introduced themselves, the first thing that slipped out of your mouth was, “I’m not crazy, you know.” The therapist assured you that they didn’t think you were crazy, and that they were going to help you. You were unsure at first, but you remembered what your mom had said, “Try this for me.” You loved your mom, and you would do anything for her. Visiting a doctor every Thursday was nothing, and after a few weeks, you started to enjoy your weekly chats. You and your therapist would talk about your friends, your dreams, and your future. They seemed surprised to hear how optimistic you were. “No matter what it is that you dream to do, I know you will be great at it,” they said, giving you a wink. Your therapist scribbled down some last minute notes and sent you on your way, “See you next Thursday,” they said. You smiled at them, nodding, “Next Thursday” − your favorite day of the week.

Getting better and better each day, you started participating in events with friends again. You all went to a local convention, and you even felt brave enough to meet and mingle with new faces. While in a panel about your favorite tv show, you met someone who took your breath away. They were beautiful inside and out, and you knew that you weren’t going to let your mental health stop you from meeting your soulmate. You took a shot, and believe it or not, you got their number. Within the next week, you went on your first date. Between intense make out sessions and even more intense UNO games, you knew that this individual was your forever, and you couldn’t wait to tell your therapist about them. When you finally got the chance, you dumped as much information about your new partner as you could to your therapist. You talked about how much fun you and your partner were having and how you really thought they were “the one.” You were happy, and you thought your therapist would be happy for you. With a straight face, your therapist picked up their clipboard and began writing down notes. “Let’s talk about the negatives. What happened that made you upset this week?” Your heart fell to your stomach. Maybe you were wrong. Maybe your therapist wasn’t happy for you. Why the negatives? Why didn’t they want to hear about the positives? That was the first Thursday in weeks that you were happy. For once, it truly was your favorite day of the week. You went to church that next Sunday, and while sitting on the pew, you looked around to see faces of strangers. Your preacher had invited another church congregation to visit yours, and being unaware of that, the sheer amount of people surrounding you began to feel like an impermeable wall. Along with the strangers, the voice was also present, whispering in your ear, “You shouldn’t be here.” As always, you listened to the voice, running out of the building and to the car until the service was over. The next Thursday, you brought exactly what your therapist had been wanting− something negative. After talking for a moment about the event, your therapist told you to lie down on the couch. They said that they were going to do some kind of exercise. You were hesitant, but you lowered your body onto the couch, and your therapist sat down next to you. “What’s wrong?” they said. “You seem like you don’t want to do this.” You shook your head, “Not really,” you responded, “I think that it’s a little weird.” You heard the clipboard hit the ground. Your therapist had thrown it across the room, and for the first time ever, they raised their voice at you. “Weird? I’ll tell you what’s weird. What’s weird is when a couple of strangers are in the same room as you, and you get scared and decide to cry like a baby.

THAT’S what’s weird!” You felt the tears well up in your eyes, but you didn’t dare to let them leak. You cooperated and went home just like any other Thursday− your favorite day of the week.

That night you sat in your bedroom, talking to your partner on the phone. You told them everything that had happened and mentioned that you wouldn’t be going to counseling anymore. They told you that it was best that you do go to ensure that you received “proper care.” You began to be a crybaby again saying, “I don’t need a therapist. I just need you to take care of me.” There was silence on the other end, and your partner responded quietly, “I don’t think I can deal with that.” After hanging up, you heard the voice laughing and mocking you once again. You walked to the kitchen to grab a few old towels and brought an end to your Thursday− your favorite day of the week.

Poetry

Before diving into this section, I have a confession to make. I have never been a fan of poetry. An analytical person like myself has never had any trouble “finding meanings/emotions” from the poems that I have read, but I have always found intimidation in writing some myself. Thanks to a little push from Jason McCall, I shortly found that I was “a poet and didn’t know it.”

Pulling from my experience as a musician and songwriter, I find it pretty natural to put passion into poetry. Poetic language has a way of expressing feelings that can be difficult to put into prose, and there are a few poems that explore my own. This section includes poems of love, memory, and reminiscing, but I also wanted to tell stories.

While my forte may be traditional storytelling, I found that some stories are able to be told within the expansive confides of a poem. Some of my poems are driven by narrative, while some rely on imagery and reader interpretation. One of my favorite aspects about poetry is that while reading it, any interpretation is valid. Sure, there may be an “intended meaning” behind each poem, but as long as my readers are able to feel or conclude something, I feel that my poetry has succeeded.

So, whether it be a love poem dedicated to my wife or a poem about falling in love with an extraterrestrial, I hope that reader’s find a sense of puzzlement, a sense of wonder, and a sense of enjoyment from these selected poems.

Loose-leaf

The student writes the date in the left-hand corner of the paper

It has been done before, but this time it feels special, jotting down

The days, the weeks, the months, even the years. Each date brings

A new venture, a new joke, a new comfort, a new outlook

The student shoves the paper into their binder that is full of several other papers

Each one of them holding a complete record of the most important things

The events, the conversations, the secrets, the milestones, the growth. The times

Of delight, of sorrow, of excitement, of concern

The student drops their bag on the walk home, and the papers

Scatter onto the concrete, as the wind picks up each piece and carries them off

Into the sky, into the street, into the trees, into the river. The student

Reaches out, catches, and holds on to as many as possible, but some of

The papers are lost forever

Skeletons

Why do we focus so much on skeletons?

When I was in the 4th grade, I broke a bone.

Good. I hate skeletons.

Why do we glorify skeletons each October?

People hang skeletons from their porch and surround them with fake spiderwebs. Good. I hate skeletons.

Why are there so many skeletons in horror films?

The skeletons in Poltergeist were just props, right? Only a bit of movie magic. Good. I hate skeletons.

Why do we study skeletons in our biology class?

Mary bumped the Anatomy Skeleton in the corner of the classroom. It shattered into 206 pieces.

Good. I hate skeletons.

We each have skeletons in our closets

So, why are some skeletons considered more valuable than others? They’re all the same, but I guess it’s what’s on the outside that counts.

But why do we focus so much on skeletons? They die and eventually deteriorate into nothing. Good. I hate skeletons.

The Lady Came to Check on Me

The lady came to check on me last night. Her head peered into my room, her hands lightly resting on the doorframe. Her white nightgown was radiant, as the luminous light from the hallway reflected off her delicate physique. She looked at me with sunken eyes behind strands of greasy dark hair. Her lip began to quiver, and I saw her wiggle the toes of her bare feet on the carpet. I think she was crying, so I cried too.

The lady came to check on me last night. She peeped her head into my room and ventured closer to my bed than the night before. Her pale features were gorgeous, and she fiddled her fingers at her waist. She glanced down at her bare feet. Her toes squirmed and she smiled at me, so I smiled too.

The lady came to check on me last night. Her bare feet tiptoed across the carpet until she paused in the center of my bedroom. She must have not wanted to wake me, but I was anticipating her arrival. She reached out but drew her hand back and brushed her greasy dark hair away from her sunken eyes. She closed them and I saw that despondency decorated her face. She stared at me and faded into the darkness of the room, so I just stared.

Jobs

When my work is done,

I clock out to view my worth.

The screen reads: Worthless.

Therapy Session

why did you do that?

i didn’t. it was him, he’s behind this entire operation in fact, he controls everything why did you do that?

i guess i just got bored, you know how boring life can get, and sometimes you need some excitement why did you do that?

you see, some nights, i transform into a werewolf, and last night in particular, i got into a fight with another werewolf they’re battle scars, dude why did you do that?

i don’t know

why did you do that?

i wanted to make art, and my body just seemed to be a

suitable canvas and razors make good brushes why did you do that?

the weather has been pretty cold lately, don’t you think so? man, i should probably get a heavier jacket. brrrrr why did you do that? i’m sorry

Connie’s Café for Family Fun

I think it’s Connie’s big green eyes that I admired the most The way she looks left and then right and then left again Like clockwork, she sings her song and dances her dance A song about grazing in the grass and hanging out with friends Sometimes she locks ups and shuts down as if she were dead Then a café worker has to jump up on stage and reset her

Two more robotic bandmembers get on stage to greet her There’s a horse and a pig, but the kids love Connie the Cow most The way Holly the Horse plays the fiddle will make you drop dead The way Pete the Pig drums, you’ll want to hear it again and again Connie’s Café even sells little plush toys of Connie and her friends I always had fun playing with my plushies, making them sing and dance

I’m grown up, and gone are the days where I used to sing and dance But every once in a while, I still stop by Connie’s Café to visit her It’s been ages, but I know that Connie and I will always be friends She said so in her famous song, “I love grass, but I love you most”

My parents tell me it’s time to stop visiting the café, but I go again This time, to interview for a crew position, a dream I thought was dead

“It’s a dangerous job. After a week the last guy we hired was found dead” Connie was worth it. I would do anything for the job, even relearn to dance The manager slid me a nametag, and said with a worried look, “We’ll try again”

From then, every night without complaint, I would flip burgers just for her I absolutely loved my job, but I loved seeing Connie every night the most

One shift, her big green eyes met mine… Did she want to be more than friends?

I needed to speak with her alone and slip her away from her animal band friends But if my manager saw me tampering with the animatronics, I would surely be dead

Being sneaky was the only way to achieve the one thing that I wanted most

At 10pm, my manager left, and Connie was finishing her last song and dance Clocking out and pretending to leave, I climbed onto the dark stage with her Time stopped briefly, and I knew I would never be this happy again

I had to make my confession quickly. There’s no way that I could do this again After bearing my heart, Connie smiled and said, “We always were the best of friends”

Moving her great big mechanical arms, Connie reached out, pulling me close to her The moment was like no other. It was so unreal as if I were dreaming or dead “It’s been so long since I’ve had a human,” she whispered, as we began to dance Her grip tightening, I felt my bones snap. I cried quietly, but she cried the most

Reportedly that same night, the police found another café employee dead Now I spend every night together with Connie, and as one, we sing and dance Out of big green eyes, I look to the crowd and sing, “I love grass, but I love you most”

Space Cowboy Part II: The Return

1

The cowboy is riding to town.

They say that he will arrive on a horse made of stars, shimmering brightly, and galloping through the night. When he crosses the town’s rolling river, it’ll shine with the stardust that the steed kicks up.

The people will rejoice to see their savior, and as he salutes the townsfolk, he has no time for idle chitchat− there’s work to be done.

Who are these extraterrestrial invaders that have been terrorizing the pure, corrupting and damning the poor inhabitants of our worlds?

Was he not dead? Did they not bind him to a tree and slaughter our bold buckaroo?

Prayers go out to the galactic ranger and his triumph over these demons.

With a ray gun fastened to his belt and a cigarette in his lips, the cowboy will mosey on to the alien fortress underground. They say that like a thief in the night, he will vanquish the vile filth of the earth with a lone blast.

With the otherworldly devils destroyed, the redeemer will refuse the town’s payment, for he is too humble to accept a reward for a blessing. Instead, he rides the mystical mare through the streets, turning the dirt roads golden. He’ll tell his people to enter his fellowship saying, “Saddle up and follow me.”

2

Ride on, Space Cowboy, ride on…

Galaxy Girl

“Promise?” That’s what you said to me the night I met you and told you it wasn’t a burden to Take you in and shelter you from the storm The vivid blue and purple streaks in your hair Were darkened by the pouring rain, as I held my Stupid polka dotted umbrella over your head When you looked up at me, our eyes met and Deep within them, I could see planets, I could see You, my Galaxy Girl

“Amnesia,” That’s what you said to me the next Day when I asked you your name, where you Were from, and how you ended up in a campus ditch The tears fell down your cheeks, pouring over a sea Of freckles, each carefully and intricately placed by God I swore to you that I would help you to remember, but You just smiled at me and said you didn’t want to, and In that moment, I felt the harsh darkness looming over You, my Galaxy Girl

“Sorry,” That’s what you said to me after three months of Living a lie, knowing that the truth would only hurt me But I only wished for your happiness, and when you told me that I was, you broke down, clinging to my shirt, as the tears fell again No matter what happened before, no matter the situation you were In, I won’t abandon you now, for if you were to leave my side, I’d be Lost without the light that you provide, and this star you have given me, No matter if they are mine or not, with open arms, I will love them and You, my Galaxy Girl

Alien

Her body is out of this world, well maybe Because she isn’t from this world

You see, I love the way that she talks but I can’t understand her language But I know that when she says, “Glorp” It surely means that she likes me, right?

Oh, my stars, I’m in love with an alien

I think she needs to be thankful that I decided To steal her away from her dry and barren planet Besides, she’s going to love her new home because On earth, there are shopping malls, burgers, and taxes, and Who doesn’t love burgers? She can’t wait to try one since All she ever eats is a strict diet of rocks and human flesh

Oh, my stars, I’m in love with an alien

People are going to love her, and she’ll be Turning heads while we’re walking down the street

And in the sheets, she’s a cosmic lover, even if I think It’s a bit odd how she sucks on my neck until it bleeds But she really likes it when I touch the antennae on Her head because they start to glow, and I feel dizzy

Oh, my stars, I’m in love with an alien

Her Ocean

Whenever my love looks at me, I am lost in the sea that is her eyes, The blue turns grey and then the grey to green. The water changes depending on the weather Or what she is wearing, but the dress with the floral pattern, the one that sits at the thighs, Is one that I adore most. The current takes me to her arms, where we hold our bodies together.

It is warm. Her body against mine feels like a house that I could never live in alone.

Without her, it is nothing but a baren studio apartment. One that I have lived in for years But she knocked at my door, and after letting her in, she started to build a home That would last a lifetime. Forever is what we promised that day through hiccups and tears.

But we take deep breaths. My fingertips dance around hers, and our hearts meet Each other’s, while each exhale is in sync. She inhales much deeper, and I know That this is a sign of her love because she holds me tighter. Though she is weak Her grip is strong enough to transmit the love throughout my bones and let it flow.

My love continues to grow for her, and I know that she will never see Just how much I love her and her ocean, even though she married me.

Short Stories

From a young age, I was always set on a dream of writing a novel. My earliest attempt goes back to middle school where I had filled an entire spiral notebook with a handwritten story (As mentioned in “The Writer You Were Born to Be” in the Personal Pieces section). I know that if I were to go back and type this adolescent narrative, it would only take up about 20 to 30 pages. Even back then, it was incredibly clear to me that I had a long way to go before I would ever write a novel.

Years later, that dream has yet to become a reality, but my mind is always swimming with new ideas for a potential full length story. For now, I have found a craft in writing pieces that are much shorter and self contained.

This section includes two “one-page stories,” and two longer ones. As one would come to expect, they all can be categorized within the horror/thriller genre. The stories have closure, but I have noticed the growing habit of writing ambiguous endings. Isn’t that what horror is supposed to do- keep one up at night?

The few that are presented in this section were written in my Advanced Creative Writing courses, and though they may have been “written for the grade,” I find them to be the perfect practice for a project that is much longer. Who knows? My very own novel may line store shelves one day.

The Crow

I HELPED MY WIFE clean up the dishes on the first night I had spent with her since she returned home from the village at the peak of the mountain. She placed a white porcelain plate which she received forty years ago at our wedding that had been a gift from her recently deceased aunt. We’d been staying in the mountains since the belligerent local police department kept knocking on our door almost nightly. My wife sat down at the fireplace, in a rocker. She often sat there thinking about the old house. She would give a look, as if craving death.

There was a crow with a snake in its beak sitting outside the window. She acted as if the arriving of the crow was a ghostly guide inviting her to leave, but we knew that would be too simple of an exit. We gathered by the closed window and kindly welcomed the night’s guest, waiting for the moment they would ask to be permitted into the home, the instant we would raise the window to our end. They were becoming restless up until we agreed to let the night in, and they entered too.

The crow began to observe, and my dear decrepit wife, I could tell that she was becoming anxious. The crow made its way through to perch in the kitchen, their place of rest. My wife moved quickly to the icebox in the corner of the room. The crow just glared and cawed at her sin. She threw her hands over the freezer, and I watched the crow dart at her eyes.

Crows peck at the dead. I watched, but I knew who to blame. We had moved to the mountains, a new fresh start. I wanted to forget the things that we had put behind us. After it left, my wife turned her blood soaked eyes to me, “Do you think that the crow was meant for you because you were the one, and I was only struggling to help my darling husband out of a vile situation, just as you would for me? Why did it visit me? Wasn’t it you?”

The Embalmer

Each afternoon he would embalm bodies infants, youths, adults, and old folks. In the morning, just before he clocked in at the town’s mortuary, the embalmer would check the records, grab a coffee, and head to his office. The new bodies would be arriving by midmorning. He’d wait patiently. And when they would arrive, he’d be there, observing the different body bags, his glasses sliding down his nose, and his eyes wandering wildly over the freshly deceased. Bodies were rolled into the dim preparation room, with the embalmer following after.

He would receive phone calls from the bodies’ families. Young mothers cried dramatically, the tears pouring from the phone like a faucet, and the embalmer listened to their pleas to do a good job.

“Oh…I will.” the embalmer would ensure. Or, if the mothers were hysteric, hyperventilating their demands through sobs, he’d simply respond, “I’ll take care of them.”

The body bags sat waiting on the cold stainless steel table, and when the embalmer unzipped them, his glasses fogged like thermal windows. His patients were always cold, no matter their age. The embalmer would stare into their eyes and ponder the history behind their ended lives the reason behind it. After his work was done, he wiped the sweat and tears from his face, taking a moment to recover before moving to the next one.

One late night when the mortuary’s staff had left early, leaving the embalmer in the building alone with his work, the embalmer’s wife of ten years entered the preparation room to surprise him with a spontaneous work visit. The embalmer’s wife was dressed in a black well fitted cocktail dress. She must have known that the dress in particular was the embalmer’s favorite and had worn it to spark his reaction. She had even put on makeup. The embalmer brought his wife close into a tight embrace and began to kiss her hardened lips, as he dropped her silk dress to the floor.

The embalmer lifted his wife onto the stainless-steel table and caressed her nude body. His glasses fogged up, and once he moved to get inside of her, his sweat rained down onto her cold pale breast. The embalmer stared deeply into his wife’s eyes, deliberated her love for him, and began to cry profusely as he finished.

While he worked, the embalmer’s wife laid motionless on the cold stainless steel table, as if she was paralyzed by his deep and eternal love for her. He took off his glasses. The embalmer wistfully wiped the sweat and tears from his face and then, with a smile, kissed his wife’s icy cheek. Only after she was fixed up and dressed in her well fitted cocktail dress did the embalmer, who had remnants of tears in his eyes, put his wife into her new bed made of bronze while he quietly whispered, “If only you were still here.”

The Washing Machine

1.

The concrete sidewalk glowed red and blue as Mr. Rooney stood on his porch, watching the police cars pull into his neighbors’ driveway. His chihuahua, Yippie, squirmed around, trying to break loose in order to protect Burlington Street from the invaders in blue. Mr. Rooney tightened his grip as a cop walked up the porch steps.

“Mark Rooney? You made the call?”

“I did,” Mr. Rooney replied, his face whiter than his front porch swing. “I heard what sounded like a shriek just beyond that fence over there.”

The officer, Hopkins, nodded his head and patted Mr. Rooney on the shoulder (met by Yippie’s disapproving growl). “You did the right thing by calling. My partner is over at the house now, scouting the scene.” And with that, Officer Hopkins gifted Yippie relief by walking down the porch stairs and to the sidewalk to meet his partner, who stood at the fenced entrance, motionless.

“Hunter, you okay, kid?”

“Um, well,” Deputy Hunter motioned towards the front steps of the house, shining his flashlight on the horror in front of them. There was a young girl dead at the bottom of the stairs. She was lying on her stomach, but her head looked up towards the stars. She was splattered with what seemed to be beige paint that also covered the stairs leading to an open doorway.

“She must have slipped and fell down these stairs. Is she the one who lives here?” Officer

Hopkins knelt and examined the body a bit closer. His eyes widened at the sight of blood on her hands and shirt. Shivering, he stood up and instructed Hunter to advance into the house.

Walking through the door, the duo was surrounded by a nearly barren living room. There was a couch, floor lamp, rug, bags of groceries, and a dozen cardboard boxes. A few feet away from the rug, the officer and his deputy found their next clue− a large crosscut saw, covered in the same familiar color that had been found on the dead girl’s hands.

There was a trail leading through the hallway and into a backroom, and the decision to follow it led not only to the true victim of the case, but to Officer Hopkins’ retirement.

2.

Ruth was a hardworking girl, a straight A student, and a perfect daughter. Her only flaw was her tendency to be a people pleaser. Ever since she was young, Ruth had made it her duty to ensure that everyone she met liked her. They didn’t need to be her best friend or anything, she had only one of those, Emilie was her name, but they could at least refer to her as “the sweet girl” when discussing her with others. She had a reputation to protect, and when she started her position at the local hardware and appliance store, she was prepared to give it her all to ensure that protection.

Every day after her college classes, Ruth would clip on her name tag that read: “appliance associate” (along with her name, of course). The position had been given to her by Burt Borkin, a round faced man with a rather round body. Burt was the owner of Borkin’s Hardware and Appliances and had been for the past 40 years.

“It’s so cool that you got the hardware store job. That’s way better than my job at the daycare,” Emilie said, walking next to Ruth as they made their way across the college campus.

“Sure, but at least your job is actually preparing you for your future as a teacher.”

“Wait, so you don’t want to be a hardware salesman for the rest of your life?” Emilie began to giggle, and Ruth joined in. Of course, she didn’t want to sell tools and appliances for the rest of her life. She had dreams just like every other girl her age, and a girl like her was guaranteed to reach them.

“At least you have a house,” said Ruth. “You’re one step closer to your future than I am.”

The girls ended their walk together to part ways for class, and Emilie remembered that she had planned to pick up some paint after work.

“Speaking of my new house, I actually need to run by your work today and pick up some paint.”

“You just moved in, though. Do the walls already need to be painted?” Ruth asked, though she was happy to hear that Emilie would be visiting her at work.

“Yeah,” Emilie replied, “but they’re a depressing gray color. I need something different. I’m thinking beige.” 3.

“SON OF A BITCH! RUTH! MY OFFICE! NOW!”

Ruth rushed to the office at Borkin’s Hardware and Appliances to find her boss’ round face red with anger.

“Mr. Borkin, are you okay?” Ruth quietly asked, hoping that he didn’t hear her, just in case she was adding fuel to his fire.

“Am I okay? Why don’t you ask these sale numbers from last month if I’m okay!” Burt clenched his fist around a rolled up stack of papers, threw them on the ground in front of Ruth, and then stomped his feet in an odd rhythm, shouting, “This is your fault! It’s the appliance sales! No one wants to buy a new washer or dryer! Does everyone in this freakin’ town own one already? It’s the competition, I tell you. Lowes is going to put us out of business with their LG’s and Maytags.”

Ruth looked down towards the floor and examined the papers. He was right, washer and dryer sales were down, and she hadn’t sold a single one in about two months.

“Sir,” Ruth spoke up, despite her fear. “What if I sold a washer and dryer? I have a friend who just moved into a house, and I’m sure that she needs one.”

Burt’s face glowed, and Ruth was unsure if that meant he was happy or more upset.

“I don’t give a damn if it’s your friend or the president of the United States. You get out there and sell some appliances!”

Emilie’s visit couldn’t have come at a better time, as Ruth needed her best friend now more than ever. When Emilie walked in, still wearing her stained work apron (Emilie swore it was applesauce), Ruth immediately bombarded her with her issue.

“Please, I need your help,” Ruth was gripping the stained apron with tears in her eyes.

Emilie wrapped her arms around her best friend and asked what the problem was. After Ruth explained the situation, Emilie began to tear up. “Ruth. I’m sorry. My parents already bought me a new washer and dryer.”

Ruth looked out of the corner of her eye and saw Mr. Borkin watching the whole scene. She gripped her hair and began hyperventilating. What am I going to do? I HAVE to make Mr. Borkin happy. He is my boss What will he say? Oh God. I NEED to sell a washer and dryer TODAY. Emilie was my only hope. She already has a washer and dryer. Will Burt be mad at me? Oh God. What if I lose my job because of this? I’m a hardworking girl. My parents will be so disappointed. Oh God. This is Emilie’s fault. Her parents bought her a washer and dryer. Oh God. It was probably bought from Lowes. It was bought from the competition. It’s a LG, a Maytag, an Amana. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

“Ruth!” Emilie gripped Ruth’s arms tighter, releasing her from her panicked state.

“I I’m sorry,” Ruth stuttered, wiping her eyes. “I’ll go get your paint for you. Beige, was it?”

4.

After purchasing paint from Borkin’s Hardware and food from the grocery store, Emilie pulled into her driveway on Burlington Street. She carefully made her way up the stairs when a plastic grocery bag broke, causing her paint can to slip from her fingers and begin bouncing down the stairs, splattering paint on each step. Emilie bent down to pick up her spilled groceries when she noticed that her stained apron was now covered in paint.

“I planned to wash this anyway,” she sighed, reaching above the doorframe to find her spare house key to unlock the door. She had put it there for emergencies and times like this when she was unable to dig through her purse. She, her parents, and Ruth were the only ones who knew about it, as they were the ones Emilie would be calling during an emergency anyways.

She walked into her living room and dropped her groceries on the rug next to her couch and floor lamp. Other than those few pieces of furniture, her living room was filled with about a dozen boxes. Many of them were still filled with Emilie’s belongings. She walked around the boxes and to the back room where she did her laundry. She untied the stained apron and dropped it into her brand new Maytag washer, a housewarming gift from her parents. She was pleased to hear that they purchased both the washer and dryer on sale from Lowes. She would have felt bad otherwise, knowing that they had spent so much money on her.

As Emilie poured lavender scented detergent over her load of clothes, she felt a sudden sharp pain in the back of her neck. She dropped down to the ground, screaming and holding her neck in pain. Things went dark, and she felt as if everything was spinning. ***

Tears streaming down her cheek, Ruth collected her items from the breakroom of Borkin’s Hardware and Appliances. She had failed to sell a washer and dryer, and just as she had feared, Burt’s temper exploded directly towards her, as he told her to pack her things and turn in her nametag.

Ruth had initially blamed Emilie for this incident, but she knew that it was her own fault. Maybe she really wasn’t the hardworking people pleaser that she had always strove to be. Or

maybe, people just make mistakes. Emilie had always been an understanding friend, and that’s what Ruth liked about her.

Ruth had messed up and needed her friend, so she dried up her tears and made her way to Emilie’s new house. When she arrived, she noticed that Emilie hadn’t made it home yet, as there was no sign of her car. It was chilly outside, and Emilie’s front door was locked. Luckily, Ruth knew where the spare key was.

5.

Officer Hopkins opened the door to the backroom and found a Maytag washer and dryer running their cycle in the corner of the room. In front of the machines, he found a puddle of blood surrounding a dead body. Deputy Hunter followed in behind him and held back his dinner, as he got down on the ground to get a closer look at the body. Sadly, he couldn’t make out who it belonged to, as the head was missing. It looked as if it had been sawed off, and Hunter could see bits of flesh, blood, and bone in the place where the head should have been.

“Sir,” Deputy Hunter whispered, “I’m not gonna be able to identify it. The head… I dunno where it is.”

Officer Hopkins released the smell of lavender in the air as he opened the lid of the washing machine. He reached in and shuffled around the load of clothes, taking out shirts, shorts, panties, and work aprons. He kept throwing out clothes until his hand felt something hard and slimy. He pulled out a pale white mass, about the size of a pumpkin. It was a mix of sticky flesh and hair, but it didn’t smell. Instead, it smelled clean. It smelled like lavender.

Officer Hopkins held the mass up so his deputy could see it.

“Kid,” he croaked, “I think I found it.”

Two Thumbs Up

As the car got closer, the smell got stronger. Dan whiffed the cotton candy scented air that was pouring itself into the passenger side window of his mother’s old station wagon, the only thing that his father had left her besides heartbreak. Sitting in the back seat, Dan’s best friend, Mathew, was too busy smashing his thumbs on a Gameboy to look out the window to see the approaching lights of the carnival.

“I don’t know why you boys wanted to visit this dump. You know it’s no good, don’t you?” Dan’s mother was smearing on what seemed like her fiftieth layer of lipstick as she pulled into the parking lot of the town’s annual carnival and circus. “There’s nothin’ but creeps and pervs around this part of town.”

Dan’s mom wasn’t completely over her divorce, but the amount of makeup on her face and the pushup bra she was wearing said differently. And as she walked the boys to the ticket booth, Dan tensed his hand in pain.

“Ouch! I think something stung me,” he hissed through clenched teeth, examining the back of his hand.

Mathew shoved his Gameboy in his pocket and began rapidly tapping Dan’s shoulder. “Dan! Look over there! Look at that clown!” Mathew pointed to a large colorful tent and standing outside its entrance was a clown in a bright green suit, handing out flyers to passing families.

“You know I hate clowns,” said Dan, still rubbing his hand. He stared at the clown, observing his over the top mannerisms and expressive face.

Dan’s mother gave the boys a wad of tickets and a bit of cash for food. Dan couldn’t wait to grab some popcorn and a corn dog, avoid the clown, get on some rides, avoid the clown, and play a few games, while avoiding the clown, of course.

Dan’s mom tugged on her bra straps and applied one last layer of bright red lipstick. “Now then,” she said. “I have a date, so you boys go have fun.”

“Wait, I thought you said the guys around here were creeps and pervs,” Mathew stated.

“And my ex husband was a complete clown,” she laughed. “I’ll take my chances.” She kissed Dan’s cheek and patted Mathew on the back. “Now, let’s see which one of these creepy pervs wanna buy me a funnel cake.” She strutted away like a model, her demeanor begging for attention.

“Is that what she calls it?” Mathew chuckled, grabbing Dan by the wrist. “C’mon! Let’s go see the clown!”

Dan tugged his arm away from Mathew’s grip. “Can’t we go on a few rides first, or maybe we can play a few games of ring toss?”

“Ring toss? We don’t have time for ring toss. Look at the schedule. There are only two shows tonight. If we don’t go now, we’ll miss ‘em.”

Mathew was right. The sign that was sitting outside of the clown guarded tent listed the show times, and there were only two shows scheduled for the night. Dan wouldn’t mind missing them, but he knew that Mathew was dying to see the performance. Either that or he just wanted to see Dan piss his pants.

“You’re afraid of the clown, so what? There are other cool things about the show. I bet there’s a guy who can swallow swords! OH! Maybe there’s a contortionist or even a bearded lady!”

Mathew was pretty convincing, though Dan could see a bearded lady any day in the cafeteria of their junior high school. But seeing someone down a whole sword might be interesting.

“Okay, okay,” Dan sighed. “Let’s go see the show.”

“That’s the spirit!” Mathew slung his arm around Dan, and they headed towards the rainbow big top. ***

“Ladies and gentlemen,” a man in a shimmering red outfit was standing in the middle of the ring. “What you are about to see will change your lives! It’s brilliant! It’s fantastic! It’s stupendous! It’s the best show in the universe!”

Dan looked around the stands. For the “best show in the universe,” there definitely wasn’t a full house. Mathew was watching the ringmaster with wide eyes as he began his peanut pitch. After telling the audience where to buy their concessions and souvenirs, the show began to roll into its first act: a couple of jugglers on unicycles.

The acts went by, and to Dan’s comfort, there was still no sign of the clown. Maybe he wasn’t part of the show. Maybe he was only used for advertising, handing out flyers, and luring oblivious children to their demise. Dan jumped out of thought as the ringmaster announced the next act: Sword Swallowing.

From the back curtain, a thin man walked to the center of the ring, two swords in his hands. He lifted the first sword in the air and tilted his head back, pointing the tip towards his open mouth. Dan watched as the blade slid smoothly down the man’s throat. A few audience members gasped when the blade stuck out through the front of the man’s neck.

Pulling the blood covered sword out from his agape mouth, the thin sword swallower grasped at his neck and ran backstage, leaving a red trail behind him. A few people in janitorial outfits walked onto the ring with mops and quickly rid the ground of the incident’s evidence.

Dan’s heart was pounding, and his face was bleached as he looked around at the audience, all remaining in their seats as if nothing happened. He tapped on Mathew’s arm in distress, but Mathew pushed his hand away saying, “Don’t worry, it’s all a part of the act.”

“And now,” the ringmaster shouted to the crowd. “We need ourselves a volunteer!”

A dozen hands shot up in the air, and Dan squinted his eyes when a spotlight shined in his direction. Mathew slapped Dan on the back in excitement. “Get down there! Man, you’re so lucky!”

Dan stood up, his legs shaking from nerves. The ringmaster shook Dan’s hand and asked his name.

“Dan, huh? Well, Mr. Dan. You’re in for one cool trick!” The ringmaster pointed to the curtain and called out, “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, put your hands together for Snips the Clown!”

Dan’s heart hit his stomach, as the clown in the green suit skipped happily to the ringmaster’s side, waving to the cheering audience. Snips smiled at Dan and waved ecstatically at him. One of the janitors brought over a small podium and sat it in front of Dan, nodded at him, nodded at the ringmaster, and then nodded at Snips. The two nodded back, but Dan stood frozen, looking Snips up and down. Snips’ nose was bright green like his outfit, his hair was the color of the tent, and his shoes were the size of the tent.

Snips reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a comically large pair of scissors. And giving Dan a wink, Snips snipped his own thumb right from his hand. It landed on the podium and a small pool of liquid, redder than Dan’s mother’s lipstick, began to expel from the end of the severed thumb.

The ringmaster beamed and Snips began to laugh mutely. “Wow! What a trick! That was positively spectacular!” the ringmaster applauded.

Someone grabbed Dan’s wrist, and turning around, he saw that it was Mathew. “Don’t worry,” Mathew said. “It’s all a part of the act.”

Snips placed the two blades of the scissors around Dan’s thumb and with a little force, they met each other. Dan watched his thumb fall onto the podium next to Snips’. The audience began to roar with applause and laughter as Snips took a bow, tears filling his eyes. The ringmaster wrapped his arm around Snips and bowed with him. “Now you know why critics give us two thumbs up!” he laughed, and Snips continued to crack up inaudibly.

Dan examined his hand as blood continued to run down his arm. Things began to go fuzzy, and as he looked up into the stands, he swore he saw his mother eating a funnel cake, sitting next to a clown who inexplicably looked like his father.

Dan tensed his hand in pain.

“Ouch! I think something stung me,” he hissed through clenched teeth, examining the back of his hand.

Mathew shoved his Gameboy in his pocket and began rapidly tapping Dan’s shoulder. “Dan! Look over there! Look at that clown!” Mathew pointed to a large colorful tent and

standing outside its entrance was a clown in a bright green suit, smiling at Dan and waving a thumbless hand.

Film Analysis

When compiling my work into this portfolio, I had only intended on including creative work. Taking my minor in film into consideration, I wanted to show a more academic side to my writing through various film analysis papers that were written in Brenna Wardell and Cynthia Burkhead’s courses.

My love for cinema has created a desire to analyze it and find greater themes and facets that may go unnoticed to casual filmgoers. This skill has helped me not only to find a deeper understanding of a film’s writing but has also inspired my own. When choosing a minor, I had intended to use my teachings to become more critical of the films that I watch. The intention is to pursue critical writing about those films or to review them.

I have teetered on the idea of combing my writing ability with my love of film to write one of my own. Whether or not that becomes something that I decide to attempt, I will continue to find appreciation in these academic papers for giving me a skill that would be so influential on my work.

Pulp Fiction: Tarantino’s Formalistic Approach to Narrative

It is nearly impossible not to associate particular stars with their most famous roles. Mark Hamill will always be Luke Skywalker, just as Robert Downey Jr. will always be Iron Man. The same idea applies to directors, as many filmmakers are given much, if not all, credit for the films that they direct. When someone watches a Stephen Spielberg movie, they are very well made aware that they are watching a film in that auteur’s filmography. There once was an era where directors were held on a pedestal and putting out a “bad film” could very much tarnish or even ruin their career. By 1995, Quentin Tarantino had written four films (directing two of the four), a large feat for a short career at the time (Groth 33). At the mention of Tarantino’s name, film casuals and enthusiasts alike turn their minds to Pulp Fiction (1994), a movie that remains on many listings as one of the best films of all time. The film’s plot follows “three stories which overlap… each of them premised on a genre cliché: the hit man taking the boss's wife out on the town; the boxer who refuses to take the fall; the gangster who wants to make good but can't escape badness” (Dowell and Fried 6). The film commonly falls under the American Neo Noir, Black Comedy, and Crime genres, but Tarantino has been quoted as being against calling the film a comedy saying, “I always stop short of calling my work comedy… because as funny as [Pulp Fiction] is, there are things you're not supposed to be laughing at. It takes the seriousness away from it if you describe it as comedy or black comedy” (Groth 37). Though the film’s genre is difficult to categorize, one thing is certain: The film has made an impact as a staple in film history due to some of Tarantino’s formalistic decisions.

When analyzing a film, audiences can choose to utilize a formalistic approach “to theorize and draw attention to the way narratives are constructed” (Doughty and Etherington Wright 66). This is especially helpful in Pulp Fiction’s case, as the film is told in an unchronological way and “requires an active audience to construct and interpret the chronological order of the story” (Doughty and Etherington Wright 74). Actively viewing the film is essential to understanding the plot, its order, and the meanings that Tarantino intended. The film begins with a couple named Pumpkin (Tim Roth) and Honey Bunny (Amanda Plummer) attempting to rob a diner. As the two begin their holdup, the film cuts to a title card along with the popular surf rock tune, “Misirlou” by Dick Dale and His Del Tones, setting the overall tone for the film. After opening credits roll, the film focuses on its most famous characters− Vincent Vega (John Travolta) and Jules Winnfield (Samuel L. Jackson), as they prepare to retrieve a mysterious briefcase for their boss from a couple of college aged youths, killing two of them in the process. When returning to their boss named Marcellus Wallace (Ving Rahmes), the audience is introduced to Butch Coolidge (Bruce Willis), a boxer who accepts a bribe to throw his next match. Audiences are then treated to the first of the three stories within the film, as Vincent is tasked with taking Marcellus’ wife, Mia (Uma Thurman) out for the night. They go to a place called Jack Rabbit Slims where they hit things off and even share a dance together in order to win a large trophy. After mistaking heroin for cocaine, Mia overdoses, and it is up to Vincent to save her or else he dies at the hands of his boss. After the story concludes, the audience is treated to a dream sequence in which Butch is dreaming about his childhood where he was given a gold watch by his father’s military friend (Christopher Walken). That night, Butch lets his pride get the best of him, as he wins the fight and plans to flee with his girlfriend

named Fabienne (Maria de Medeiros). Butch finds that his watch is missing, having been left at his apartment, so he leaves to retrieve it. After collecting his father’s watch, he meets Vincent, who had been sent by Marcellus to kill Butch, and Butch kills Vincent as he is exiting the bathroom. Leaving the apartment, Butch encounters Marcellus in the street, and they begin fighting. After bringing their deadly tussle into a local shop, the two are taken prisoner by two perverts. Butch escapes and decides to go back for his enemy, killing one of the perverts and helping Marcellus. Receiving freedom from his debt, Butch leave Marcellus to deal with the remaining pervert and steals their chopper. He picks up Fabienne, and they drive off. The film returns to an earlier scene, where Jules and Vincent are retrieving the briefcase. The scene plays out as it did before, but in a new discovery, another youth emerges from the bathroom, shooting at Vincent and Jules but missing them. They kill the youth, and Jules claims the bullets being fired at them had missed due to “divine intervention.” While in the car, Vincent accidentally shoots the last of the youths, and the two must find a way to dispose of the body. Jules calls his friend Jimmy (Quentin Tarantino), and they take the bloody car to his house. With help from a man called “The Wolfe” (Harvey Keitel), Vincent and Jules are able to get out of the mess they had made, just in time for Jimmy’s wife to come home. They decide to get some breakfast and end up at a diner where a couple attempts a robbery. The couple is Pumpkin and Honey Bunny, bringing the film full circle.

After watching the film, audiences can piece together when each scene actually took place. When doing so, it is discovered that “almost the entire plot of the film the events as we see them unfolds between the commencement and conclusion of the robbery” (McGowan 38). The film can then be reordered into a chronological order, leading to the discovery that the film in its entirety takes place within two days. In the correct order, the film begins with Vincent and Jules retrieving the briefcase, only to end up killing the youths with one becoming a bloody mess in the back of their car. They fix the issue with “The Wolfe’s” help, and after that, they head to the diner where they encounter the robbery. With “divine intervention” on his mind, Jules chooses not to kill Pumpkin and Honey Bunny and lets them go, giving them $1,000 from his own wallet. Late that afternoon, Jules and Vincent return to Marcellus, who is talking to Butch about throwing his fight. Before the fight, Butch dreams about his father’s watch. That evening, Vincent buys the heroin before taking Mia out to dinner at Jack Rabbit Slims, and later that night, Mia overdoses. Late at night, Butch wins his boxing match, setting up the next day of the movie. When Butch wakes up, he discovers that his watch is missing and goes back to get it. He kills Vincent at the apartment and runs into Marcellus as he is heading back to Fabienne. The two men fight and end up captured by perverts, and after saving Marcellus, Butch drives the chopper to pick up Fabienne. They drive away to begin a new life, thus ending the film chronologically.

When a film’s narrative timeline is not in chronological order, it can confuse an audience to the point of unenjoyment. Luckily, this is not the case with Pulp Fiction because by watching the film actively, one should have no issue putting the film in its correct order. The question then arises, “Should it be the viewers job to correct the chronology of a film?” With Pulp Fiction, Tarantino encounters questioning regarding his decision for the narrative’s form. Tarantino could have ended the film with Butch and Fabienne’s happy ending, but instead he decided to create a

split in the film’s beginning and bring it back at the end. The film is then broken into segments, and it is “the positioning of these breaks from linear chronology [that] draws attention to the events that [the audience] anticipate and reveals the thematic link between each of the events” (McGowan 38). There is a satisfaction in a narrative that ties up its loose ends when the audience is left in anticipation. During their first viewing of Pulp Fiction, one might question the purpose of the opening scene with Pumpkin and Honey Bunny, assuming that the scene would not be explained or that the movie would not refer to it again. There is an “oh” moment when the film finally returns to Pumpkin and Honey Bunny after spending at least two hours away from them. When watching the film for the first time, it is the opening scene that sets up a viewer’s expectations, “and the conclusion defies any expectation that the spectator might have when watching the opening scene” (McGowan 38). Because of the narrative structure, the experience of Pulp Fiction is like watching multiple episodes of a television show, with each story having a connection to each other or each episode existing in the same world. It is as if the viewer is watching an episode about a couple robbing a diner, only to flip the channel a few times, experience a different story with each channel change, and then returning to the first channel once again to watch the conclusion of the diner’s robbery. “Pulp Fiction not only incorporates the structure of watching television… but it reproduces the everyday experience of living in a fragmented society, in which each of us must stitch together a coherent narrative” (Dowell and Fried 5).

Though told through multiple short stories, with a runtime of 2 hours and 34 minutes, Pulp Fiction is not a short film by any means. It is also worth mentioning that the film’s script is lengthy in the amount of exposition and dialogue between characters. From a quarter pounder’s name in Paris, France to the ethics of a foot massage, the characters seem to constantly be talking. This does not present itself as a negative, as not only has the film produced a plethora of quotable lines, but it has also produced some well acted performances. It can be argued that Pulp Fiction relaunched John Travolta’s career after his days dancing away Saturday nights to Bee Gees songs in the 70’s. Credit is also due to Samuel L. Jackson’s performance, as he delivers his iconic but powerful “Ezekiel 25:17” Bible verse so many times in the film, one could probably quote it themselves after hearing it so many times. The characters certainly fill up the film’s run time, and it is important to note that Tarantino wrote the film in a way to go “further than almost any other film in its effort to hide repetition” (McGowan 41). Due to the variation the stories bring and the order that they are told in, the movie continuously stays fresh and interesting. This is especially important when the film throws out a “bombardment of information and drama” for viewers to piece together (Dowell and Fried 5). It is the formalistic decisions made by Tarantino that keeps Pulp Fiction’s audience active and invested throughout its lengthy narrative.

Pulp Fiction can be viewed as a piece of art, and through the lens of formalism, art can be viewed “as a system of signs and conventions rather than as inspiration and aesthetic style” (Doughty and Etherington Wright 67). That is not to say that the film does not sport its style, as it does so with confidence. But in order to understand the meaning behind the film, one needs to focus on the signs, symbol, and “stuff” that they are shown. Tarantino has been accused of being “an American who doesn't merely love junk, but who proselytizes on its behalf every chance he gets” (Groth 33). This can be seen in his film, as Pulp Fiction puts a big emphasis on the

meaning of things, theoretical and physical. As mentioned before, the characters in the film like to talk a lot, and when they are doing that talking, much of it is spent giving or questioning the meaning behind the most simplistic or downright unimportant things. In the beginning of the film, the audience is given the dictionary definition of the film’s title. In the first scene that follows, another word is defined for the audience, with the waitress’s line “Garcon means boy,” after being called the word by Pumpkin. When audiences first meet Jules and Vincent, they discuss what a quarter-pounder with cheese is called in Paris− “Royale with cheese.” Just moments later, Jules explains to Vincent what a “pilot” episode is, going into a full definition of the word. They get into an argument about the ethics of a foot massage and whether a man deserves to die for giving another man’s wife one. There is a focus on more than just the meaning of words or reasonings, for the film also puts emphasis on physical items. Fabienne tells Butch that she wants pancakes for breakfast, but she emphasizes that she wants them to be blueberry. And when Butch comes to pick Fabienne up, it is revealed that she did not get her blueberry pancakes and had to settle for buttermilk instead. In the same scene, Fabienne calls the chopper a “motorcycle,” just to have Butch correct her saying, it is not a motorcycle but a “chopper.” There is also a focus on what is good and what is not good. Fabienne wishes for a “pot belly,” saying that women look good with them, but when Butch asks her if he should have one, she says that men should not have them. Before his date with Mia, Vincent picks up heroin that his dealer ensures is the good kid. While on his date, Vincent emphasizes how good Mia’s five dollar shake is. Later in the film, Jules comments on Jimmy’s coffee, telling him how good it is. It seems that throughout the movie, there is careful attention when labeling different things, whether that be a word or an object. There is even irony along with some examples such as Butch’s father’s gold watch that had been carried around rectum to rectum before finally making its way to him. Though this is the case, the watch means the world to him, even enough for him to put himself in danger for it. When writing his script, Tarantino made the formalistic decisions to give emphasis to meaning and definitions, creating a whole new meaning for the film− meaning in the most simplistic things.

Pulp Fiction is a film that will continue to be studied throughout history, as it plays such a large role in the history of film as a whole. When writing the film, Tarantino had to make decisions that would affect the film’s formalistic aspects, requiring an active audience to get the full experience being offered. It was these decisions that made the film more in depth, more enjoyable, and created meaning for the film overall.

Works Cited

Doughty, Ruth and Christine Etherington Wright. Understanding Film Theory. Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011. Print.

Dowell, Pat, and John Fried. “Pulp Friction: Two Shots at Quentin Tarantino's ‘Pulp Fiction.’” Cinéaste, vol. 21, no. 3, 1995, pp. 4 7. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/41687375.

Groth, Gary. “A Dream of Perfect Reception: The Movies of Quentin Tarantino.” The Baffler, no. 8, 1995, pp. 33 40. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/43556247.

McGowan, Todd. “Temporality after the End of Time in Pulp Fiction.” Out of Time: Desire in Atemporal Cinema, NED New edition ed., University of Minnesota Press, Minneapolis; London, 2011, pp. 35 58. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/10.5749/j.cttttprf.6.

Response to Psycho

Directed by Alfred Hitchcock and released in 1960, Psycho is a film adaptation of Robert Bloch’s novel of the same name. The film follows a woman on the run, Marion Crane (Janet Leigh), after stealing $40,000 and intending to run away with her boyfriend, Sam Loomis (John Gavin). Halted by a rainstorm, Marion is forced to check in to the Bates Motel, a small quaint place ran by a polite but odd young man, Norman Bates (Anthony Perkins). Marion finds out that despite his kindness, a darkness is looming over Norman, as his difficult relationship with his mother is clearly harming him, or will it harm her?

Though later in his filmography, Psycho is one of Hitchcock’s best works, as it truly captures the suspense, thrill, and narrative building of Bloch’s original story. Many will note that the film was a first of its kind and even credit it for creating the slasher genre, forming a path for the most well known Horror icons to date. With its form, genre bending, and intertextuality, Psycho finds itself as one of history’s most iconic films.

When it comes to technique and narrative theme, Hitchcock can be noted as an expert. Hitchcock is well versed in creating suspenseful moments in his films through the creative and technical decisions made. One notable technique is Hitchcock’s use and manipulation of camera angles, as many of the cinematic shots in Psycho were so intricately mapped out. An example of this is the “high angle” shot in the scene where Marion steps into the secrecy of the car dealership’s restroom in order to count out the required cost for her car trade-in from the huge stack of stolen money. With the use of the high angle shot, it is as if the audience is “looking down” on Marion, not only physically but in a moral sense, knowing that what she has done and will do is wrong.

The high angle shot is notably used two more times in the film in the form of a “ceiling shot” where it seems as if the camera is on the ceiling itself and is looking down on the room. When the private detective, Milton Arbogast (Martin Balsam), intrudes the Bates house, he makes his way up the staircase, looking for Norman or his supposed sickly mother. Once he makes it to the top, the camera angle switches to an overhead shot, as “mother” runs out of the bedroom and attacks Arbogast. The audience is then treated to another unique shot, a close up, as Arbogast falls backwards down the stairs and to his death. The major difference in these two shots, from high to close up, sparks an emotional response from the audience, as they process the intensity of what just happened. This exact same overhead shot is used again when Norman carries his mother out of the room and down the stairs. I believe that this shot was used in order to not only spark emotion, but to also create a sense of curiosity, as the audience is never able to get a clear view of “mother,” creating a mystery to her appearance and making her reveal in the final moments of the film much more effective.

Theme is another aspect of Hitchcock’s auteur, as his films often deal with similar content in regards to the narrative structure and the building of it. Notable Hitchcock themes present in Psycho are loneliness, illness, and misogyny. The first two mentioned themes are present through the character of Norman Bates, as it is revealed that he grew up without a father (who died when Norman was five years old), was sheltered by an overbearing mother, and when

she died, Norman dealt with the situation of living by himself. The theme of loneliness becomes even clearer when he is called a “hermit” by Sheriff Al Chambers (John McIntire). When it comes to Norman’s illness, the audience is given a full run down of his mental condition in a monologue by Dr. Fred Richman (Simon Oakland) in which he explains Norman’s personality disorder and his act of matricide. It is a creative decision made by Hitchcock to have Dr. Richman explain the conclusion to the film rather than to show it in say the form of a flashback or any other visual scene. This choice enables audience to go wild with their imagination, as they create the image of Norman’s backstory and his eventual breakdown leading to the cognitive reign of “mother.”

Looking at Hitchcock’s films, one can find the reoccurring theme of misogyny in his depictions of female characters. There is a sense of sadism as beautiful heroines often meet their demise. These themes are instantly recognizable in Psycho from the very first scene, as the film opens with Marion Crane in her lingerie, something that was viewed as a “scandal” for the time. It is revealed that she is meeting with her lover on her lunch break, and as the camera shows the audience an untouched lunch, it is obvious that the afternoon had been spent on other things. The film does not shy away from sexuality, and this becomes clearer with scenes such as Norman peeping on Marion as she undresses, using a hole that was meticulously hid behind a painting, and, of course, the infamous “shower scene.”

Psycho’s genre is evident from the beginning of the film, as the choice of an intense score introduces the title and following credits. When the audience hears the iconic theme, they can be sure that they are in for a thrill and categorize the film as “Thriller” right off the bat. As the film progresses, the genre becomes uncertain. Many films in history do not follow a “pure” genre, as hybridity is utilized to bring more depth to stories. During the first scene in Psycho, one may believe that they are in for a romance film, as Marion and Sam embrace each other saying, “Let’s get married.” When Marion steals the $40,000, packs her bags, and begins driving out of town, one may believe that the film is moving in the direction of a crime flick. Of course, when “mother” kills Marion (the “main character” that the audience had been following for more than half the film), her lifeless body hits the bathroom floor and her blood runs down the shower drain, it is easy to simply throw the film into the “Horror” category. The film begins to feel like a mystery once Detective Arbogast becomes involved, as he leads his intense interrogations with Norman. The point is that Psycho does not simply follow a single genre, and it is its use of hybridity that keeps the film interesting and keeps viewers on the edge of their seat.

As mentioned before, Psycho is an adaptation of Robert Bloch’s novel. By adapting the novel into a film, Hitchcock needed to take liberties and make creative decisions to bring the story from page to screen. The use of intertextuality can bring a better understanding to a text and the other text that is being alluded to. Psycho has been referenced in many different media texts since its release in 1960. The “shower scene” alone has to be the most parodied scene in the film. This is definitely due to its iconography in pop culture, as even if someone has not seen the film all the way through, they are aware of the iconic scene. Even the musical score alone has been referenced in popular shows and films. Who hasn’t heard the classic ree ree ree ree of the music’s screeching violins? Since the release of the film, people have never been able to view

showers the same. The film has even been referenced in music. In the song “Somebody’s Watching Me,” American singer Rockwell states:

When I'm in the shower I'm afraid to wash my hair 'Cause I might open my eyes and find someone standing there

People say I'm crazy, just a little touched

But maybe showers remind me of Psycho too much (Rockwell)

The lyrics perfectly capture the thoughts and emotions that the scene influences, as anyone who has watched the scene can picture themselves in Marion’s position, opening her eyes to see a silhouetted figure with a kitchen knife shining above them.

In 2013, the television series Bates Motel was released, acting as a prequel to the film Psycho. The show featured a younger Norman Bates (Freddie Highmore) and his mother (Vera Farmiga), as the two move into and run the motel, and we see Norman’s teenage years, his sheltered mother son relationship, and his slow slip into madness. Where the show could originally be seen as a prequel, the last season acts as a retelling of Hitchcock’s film. The show even features a shower scene, but in a twist of events, Norman kills Sam Loomis instead of Marion Crane. Side by side, the show’s scene takes its inspiration from Psycho, as when Sam slides his back down the shower wall, he reaches out the grab the curtain, pulling it down with him. Different from the film, “mother” is not the killer, but it is Norman himself. As Sam’s lifeless body hits the bathroom floor, a blood covered Norman Bates stares down at the body saying, “Oh mother, what have I done?” In relation to the film, Bates Motel gives fans of Psycho an in depth look into the backstory of Norman Bates, one that was only told through dialogue in the film. This brings new light and life to the film’s characters and helps audiences to understand Norman and his mother’s life and situation before the events of Psycho. Audience reception of the show was positive, and the show currently sits at an 8.2 on IMDb compared to Psycho’s 8.5 (As of 27 January 2021).

Psycho is a steppingstone for future films in the Thriller/Horror genre. Hitchcock was able to adapt Bloch’s story and bring Norman Bates to life through his masterful camerawork, film techniques, and narrative decisions. Not only is the film an icon in its genre, but it is an icon throughout pop culture. Whether it is Anthony Perkins or Freddie Highmore filling the shoes of Norman Bates, audiences praise the world, story, and characters that Bloch built, and Hitchcock brought to life.

Works Cited

Bates Motel. IMDb, https://www.imdb.com/title/tt2188671/?ref_=nv_sr_srsg_0

Psycho. IMDb, https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0054215/?ref_=nv_sr_srsg_6

Rockwell. Lyrics to “Somebody’s Watching Me.” Motown. 1984.

Intertextuality in Sam Raimi’s Adaptation of Spider Man

A prominent argument in Hollywood is that moviemakers have simply ran out of ideas and are no longer able to create fresh and original works. This proves to be the drive behind the emergence of remakes and adaptations as opposed to new narratives that have never been written before. The belief that “if it worked once, it will work again” seems to be enough to justify the creation of a new text using old content. There is a difference between recycling an old narrative versus adapting a piece of media to the film medium. For years, adapting bestselling books has been commonplace, and as expected, the results differ when it comes to faithful recreations, as “film adaptations were evaluated based upon how faithful they were to their source texts. An adaptation that hewed closely to its literary parent was assessed favorably; an adaptation that strayed was judged harshly” (Olney 169). Despite the overall success of book to film adaptations, film finds itself in a post modern world where books are not the only candidate for adaptation. We have now entered a world of “post literary adaptation in which movies are increasingly based on visual rather than written texts: TV shows, comic books, video games, theme park attractions, board games, and even children's toys” (Olney 167). The clearest example in recent years is the adaptation of comic books and the heroes that live within them. Hollywood has found major triumph in the Marvel Cinematic Universe, beginning with Iron Man (Jon Favreau) from 2008. But the one film that found its success prior to Iron Man is Sam Raimi’s Spider Man trilogy (2002, 2004, 2007). Using intertextuality, Raimi was able to bring a fan favorite comic hero to the big screen.

Intertextuality is “generally understood to connote the structural relations between two or more texts,” and is a necessity when creating a faithful adaptation of a text (Landwehr 2). It is not enough to just simply copy what is being adapted, as the true definition of adaptation is not

that. Instead, intertextuality serves as an influence for adaptation. Spider Man succeeds thanks to its use of intertextual allusion to other works, auteur, and source material.

It is not unusual for films to make references to pop culture for audiences to pick up while watching, and sometimes it takes multiple screenings to catch them all. Raimi alludes to other successful films in Spider Man 2 (2004) alone. Those connections include Peter Parker/Spider Man (Tobey Maguire) opening his button down shirt to reveal the spider logo, recalling Clark Kent doing the same in Superman, Doctor Octavius (Alfred Molina) scaling a building with a screaming woman in his clutches like that of King Kong, and the final sequence of Peter and Octavius bears resemblance to Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader in Return of the Jedi (Johnson 162). These instances of intertextual reference are not the sole force behind Spider Man 2’s success, but it is a distinctive way that Raimi calls attention to the popular films of the past that helped influence his own work.

As an auteur, there are expected elements in a film directed by Raimi. A major occurrence of intertextuality is Raimi’s nods to his first film The Evil Dead (1981). Being the film that landed Raimi success in the first place, he often places allusions to it throughout his films. Sam Raimi’s brother, Ted Raimi, is almost always guaranteed a role in Raimi’s films, and the Spider Man trilogy is no exception. Ted portrays the character of Hoffman, J. Jonah Jameson’s (J. K. Simmons) assistant at the Daily Bugle, in all three films. Another actor worthy of a role in a Raimi directed film is Bruce Campbell, a longtime friend. Campbell’s short cameo in each film (as a different character each time) is almost as iconic as the cameos made by Marvel’s founder Stan Lee himself. Another allusion to The Evil Dead is the 1973 Oldsmobile Delta 88 Royale, driven by Campbell in the Evil Dead series, parked on the streets of New York

City. It is common for Raimi to include callbacks to his 1981 horror classic, and though it was his first hit, the Spider Man trilogy proved that it would not be his last.

Adapting a well-known comic story into live-action format can be a daunting task, with fans of the comic expecting direct influence in narrative and style. Raimi incorporates many explicit moments from the classic comic series without directly copying from page to screen. The Green Goblin (Willem Dafoe) dropping Mary Jane (Kristen Dunst) off a bridge is in direct reference to the comic iteration of the character doing the same to Gwen Stacy, killing her in the process (though the character of Gwen would be included later in Spider Man 3). Though Raimi has the hero save the girl without death, The Green Goblin’s fate remains the same as in the comic book. One of the biggest references to source material derives from the line, “With great power comes great responsibility,” a direct quote from the film’s comic counterpart in Amazing Fantasy #15. The quote became the film’s tagline and is the most infamous quote in relation to the character. It has been used in many other iterations since but was popularized thanks to its inclusion in Raimi’s adaptation.

Intertextuality is not a new concept, but as more and more stories are being written, it finds itself being utilized more frequently. As intertextuality moves from literary to digital media, its use brings connection between what worked in the past and what continues to work today. The clever reuse of media elements keeps audiences coming back for more. Raimi’s Spider Man trilogy may have ended nearly 15 years ago, but it still stays relevant through intertextuality. As revealed by trailers for the newest Spider Man film, Spider Man: No Way Home (2021) will utilize intertextuality by bringing characters from Raimi’s series of films into the modern Spider Man franchise. Fans of Spider Man and the Raimi films anticipate the

inclusion of these characters, and it will potentially lead to an immeasurably successful film release, proving the effect and necessity of intertextuality in adaptation.

Works Cited

Johnson, David T. “Editorial: Peter Parker, Mary Jane, and Adaptation Studies.” Literature/Film Quarterly, vol. 37, no. 3, Salisbury University, 2009, pp. 162 64, http://www.jstor.org/stable/43797696.

Landwehr, Margarete. “Introduction: Literature and the Visual Arts; Questions of Influence and Intertextuality.” College Literature, vol. 29, no. 3, Johns Hopkins University Press, 2002, pp. 1 16, http://www.jstor.org/stable/25112655.

Olney, Ian. “Texts, Technologies, and Intertextualities: Film Adaptation in a Postmodern World.” Literature/Film Quarterly, vol. 38, no. 3, Salisbury University, 2010, pp. 166 70, http://www.jstor.org/stable/43797653.

Beyond the Remake: How del Toro Reimagines a Noir Classic

The quote, “Hollywood has run out of ideas” is a bold but also incredibly true statement. In modern cinema, it seems as if audiences are hit with remake after remake, and film critics will be swift to attack them in their reviews. Where remakes can be seen as a “lazy cash grab,” many seem to agree that adaptation is an acceptable approach to stories that have never made the jump to screen. Adaptations are nothing new, as directors regularly used books as the inner skeleton for what would become their own cinematic masterpiece. I.e., Hitchcock’s use of Robert Bloch’s book for his film Psycho (1960) or Victor Fleming’s use of Frank L. Baum’s beloved children’s book for the family musical The Wizard of Oz (1939). The two films have become staples in cinematic history for their originality, despite the stories being taken from an already existing medium. Moviegoers would often see a film adaptation of a novel within a few years of its publication. After being published in 1946 by William Lindsay Gresham, Nightmare Alley would see its first film adaptation only a year later in 1947, directed by Edmund Goulding. Setting its place as a cult classic Noir, the film would much later be remade in 2021 by director Guillermo del Toro, his previous film being the award winning The Shape of Water from 2017. After its post-pandemic release, Nightmare Alley (2021) would be harshly judged, all while critics closely compared it to its predecessor from 1947. Wanting to bring the original source material to life, del Toro has gone beyond that of a simple adaptation and instead reimagines the story that Gresham wrote. Through his rewriting of characters, his major narrative decisions, and his own signature touch, del Toro’s Nightmare Alley is a fresh new look at an old classic film.

It is worth noting that Nightmare Alley is a significant departure from the films in del Toro’s filmography. With a usual focus on Fantasy with Horror elements, del Toro takes a stab at a dark Noir story. In their article, Muriel Zagha makes note that the film “marks a significant

departure for the Mexican director: the story contains no supernatural elements. Whereas in previous works, from Cronos to Pan's Labyrinth and Pacific Rim, Del Toro had conjured up vampires, fairies and sea monsters, here the monstrosity of character and behaviour on display is wholly human” (Zagha). This is nothing new as del Toro had always tried to show who the true “monsters” in his films were, shining light on the sins and behavior of man when compared to the supernatural or monstrous. Nightmare Alley is a Noir first and foremost, but the fantastic and horrific are still present in a very “del Toro like” way. It is said that del Toro “knows how to deliver commercially appealing material with his patented penchant for dark themes and tones and his latest film, Nightmare Alley plays like a macabre period-piece horror thriller” (Poulos). Calling it a “horror thriller,” the reviewer, Mike Poulos, never mentions Noir, as if that particular genre takes a backseat while del Toro’s signature genre work takes the wheel. In another review, Joe Morgenstern claims that the film gave del Toro “a chance to graft film noir on his horror genre roots and conjure up whole wide screenfuls of exotic characters” (Morgenstern). Where the genre of Noir has always been the focus of Nightmare Alley’s story, del Toro reinvents its genre by blending what he knows with something unfamiliar in order to create a reimagining of Gresham’s novel and Goulding’s adaptation.

When released in 1947, Nightmare Alley was seen as a “box office failure at the outset but went on to be considered a film noir classic” (Morgenstern). It can be argued that del Toro’s version suffered the same fate, but the idea of a “film noir classic” is yet to be seen. The responses to both films were similar but the two films uphold powerful differences. But when it comes to the foundation for both films, the summarized narrative remains the same. Both the 1947 and 2021 film tells the tale of Stan Carlisle’s downfall as he goes from a carnival stagehand to a skilled but power hungry mentalist, and finally back to the carnival as the lowest of lows− a

carnival “geek.” Stan’s character has been portrayed by both Tyrone Power in 1947 and Bradley Cooper in 2021. Both actors bring the same “rough and tough guy” look and attitude to the character, but it is the way in which he is re written by del Toro that makes the character stand out beyond his predecessor.

Released in cinema’s “Golden Age,” Nightmare Alley (1947) tends to suffer from what is called the “Classic Hollywood Narrative.” In its two hour run time, Nightmare Alley sees the character of Stan face an issue, overcome the issue, and then given a happy ending. Being post war, moviegoers would use film as an escape from the hardships of their own lives. The characters on screen were certainly allowed to suffer and deal with these common and relatable hardships, but it was very rare that the characters would not overcome them by the film’s conclusion. As film has progressed, it is not uncommon to leave onscreen characters at their worst as the screen fades to black and the credits begin to roll. Del Toro’s version of Gresham’s story stands out for the fact that it is not afraid to leave the story at a low point. It has been said that del Toro’s film is “a return to the original source, a fresh adaptation of William Lindsay Gresham's cult classic novel of 1946, some of whose darker, more transgressive aspects were left out of Goulding's version” (Zagha). Whereas this can simply be dismissed as a product of its time, those “darker, more transgressive aspects” might have been what Gresham’s story needed to be properly portrayed in the medium.

With a run time of two and a half hours, Nightmare Alley (2021) clocks in an additional half hour to tell its take on the narrative. While Nightmare Alley (1947) is given a sufficient amount of time to tell its narrative driven story, del Toro’s take needs that extra half hour to tell its character driven narrative. It is worth noting that del Toro’s film brings more depth to the characters of Stan and Lilith that Goulding’s rendition simply did not have the time to do. In

modern day cinema, these more “in depth narratives” are able to exist due to audiences’ willingness to engage in films with longer runtimes. Goulding’s film is a standard-length thriller with minimal character development, whereas del Toro’s film can be hailed as a character study of the characters written in Gresham’s novel.

Del Toro’s film begins with Stan burning the body of what would later be discovered as his own father. Walking away from an unwanted past life, Stan stumbles upon a carnival that needs assistance. He is taken in immediately, no questions asked, and is put to work, setting a new path in life. In the film, it is clear as to what “the carnival represents to Stan his main chance, during the lingering Great Depression, when nothing else has presented itself” (Morgenstern). With the film’s fiery opening, audiences are treated to a strong film foundation− a mystery. Del Toro then splices in bits and pieces throughout the film in order to answer the questions by the end that are burning at the beginning. Goulding’s film takes a similar but less intense approach to Stan’s motives. “The 1947 film ties Stan’s slow rise and fast fall to his rocky start in life abandoned by indifferent parents, raised in an orphanage run by punitive religious types, Stan emerges a young cynic with his eye on the main chance, whose periodic good hearted impulses get overridden by his increasingly ruthless ambition” (Jones). The 1947 film answers questions regarding Stan’s past through the use of dialogue whereas del Toro allows audiences to piece together the tragedy. These layers of mystery and character motivation makes del Toro’s Stan a bit more intriguing than Goulding’s, as reasonings are just simply laid out from the beginning. “Del Toro’s Stan is no everyman, as in the 1947 film, in which he started off as a regular guy. He’d had a bad start in life, like so many others, but he’d seemingly been compensated with good looks and an unusually brilliant gift for conning people” (Jones). Both iterations of the character had bad beginnings, but it is del Toro’s character that is explored a bit

more in depth, providing a better look at who exactly Stan is, his motivations, and how his actions and decisions led him to orchestrate his downfall.

Another character that is given more spotlight is the psychiatrist Lilith Ritter, who helps Stan in his scheme to con a wealthy man by pretending to manifest the man’s deceased wife. In the 1947 film, Lilith is portrayed by Helen Walker as compared to Cate Blanchett’s portrayal of the character in 2021. Both actresses play the roll in a similar demeanor, being the femme fatal of this Noir story, but Blanchett’s Lilith is given a larger role and longer screentime in the 2021 film. Del Toro writes Lilith as a classic femme fatal, as she takes the lead in her dances with Stan and ultimately influences his demise. As opposed to the 1947 film, Lilith acts in the form of a seductress, luring Stan to not only cheat on his wife but to begin drinking again, something he is adamant about not partaking in. The motivation is made clear that Lilith wants a form of revenge for being humiliated by Stan during one of his shows. The two play mind games until the battle becomes violent in the film’s final act. It is not to say that Lilith is an unimportant character in the 1947 adaptation, but she is certainly treated with more prominence here, allowing the character to be clearly depicted as a dangerous woman that anyone should think twice before crossing. In the time that Nightmare Alley (1947) was released, an age rating was not given, so it currently stands as “Not Rated.” The story is one that “ends with violent consequences,” but those consequences are shown in distinct ways between the two films. Though a product of the time period, it is said that “in spite of the heavy censorship of the time, [Nightmare Alley (1947)] finds ways to shock and sear the imagination” (Jones). Audiences are forced to rely on that imagination, as some of the most brutal actions take place off screen in the 1947 film. One major moment in the film is where the wealthy Ezra Grindle (Taylor Holmes in 1947 and Richard

Jenkins in 2021) finds out that Stan is a sham and attacks him out of rage. In the 1947 film, Stan pushes Grindle to the ground and escapes the garden, but in the 2021 film, Stan fights back and beats Grindle’s face in, only to then run him over. The scene is intense as it is violent, mixed with stunning and gory practical effects. The over the top violence could be dubbed “unnecessary,” but it cannot be denied that it adds an intensity that Goulding was unable to show in his adaptation. Zagha says that “Del Toro's knowing approach to the story does create a total and persuasive universe, in which, for example, the appallingly brutal scenes of murder (which Goulding could not have shown so directly) serve to evoke, indirectly, the massacres of the First World War” (Zagha). The film takes place in a brutal world post World War I, so it is not surprisingly that it would be filled with acts and depictions of brutality. Unlike Goulding, del Toro was given the opportunity to depict that cruelty in a time where cinematic censorship is not as strict as it once was.

Watching the film, del Toro’s major staple seems to be absent in his most recent film. The paranormal and del Toro’s “beautiful monsters” do not make an appearance in Nightmare Alley (2021), but there are still things for audiences to look out for that are not present in the 1947 film. A major film aspect is the background “character” Enoch, a fetus in a jar who has one eye. In the film, it is said that Enoch had killed his own mother, drawing comparison to that of Stan who killed his own father, and is trying to avoid the “entrapment” of his own jar of guilt. In the 2021 film, Stan can be seen wearing a blindfold during his shows with an eye printed on it. The placement of the eye is identical to the extra eye on the fetus, furthering the connection that del Toro was hinting at. Though Enoch is no monster, he is just what audiences would expect from del Toro in one of his films.

Two of the most important aspects of a story is its beginning and ending, as those two alone could potentially make or break a story. Comparing the two adaptations of Nightmare Alley side by side, they both begin and end in vastly different ways. With del Toro, “He begins his movie already immersed in grotesque mayhem, with the apparent aftermath of a murder,” a narrative point that is absent from the 1947 film (Jones). “It’s an interesting contrast to the approach of the 1947 film version, which begins with a daytime, matter of fact presentation of carnival life looking brightly lit, shabby, raffish, but rather cheerful” (Jones). This brightly lit carnival is a polar opposite design of the drabby and dark carnival that del Toro’s film takes place in. Both films end with Stan in an alcoholic state, searching for his next bottle and finding himself back at the carnival where he takes the degrading job of becoming a geek. Throughout the 1947 film, “Stan’s repeated motto is, ‘I was made for it!’ He exclaims it first about life as a jovial carnival hustler… Then he says it again as he makes his climb up out of carnival life into the swanky nightclub world… And Stan says it one final time when he’s a ruined alcoholic himself, getting offered the role of the geek, a role he knows he’s going to take” (Jones). This idea of being “made” for something shows the decline of Stan’s life in that his own decisions in his past has set up his future. In the “Classic Hollywood Narrative” style, the film ends on a hopeful note, as Stan is reunited with his wife and seems to “snap out” of his crazed state. “In the new film, Stan says instead, ‘I was born for it,’ an essentializing statement that matches del Toro’s vision of inescapable, sin soaked, womb to tomb doom” (Jones). Within this version of Stan, there is no helping him as he was destined to end up where the film leaves him. It is also worth mentioning that del Toro’s film ends here, Stan’s wife not showing up or Stan “snapping out of it.” The film ends with Stan at his lowest, teaching audiences a lesson about wanting more and believing their own lies until they become real, all in a signature del Toro fashion.

Works Cited

Jones, Eileen. “Guillermo del Toro’s Nightmare Alley Paints an Old Noir with Lurid, Fantastical Color.” Jacobin, 3 January 2022, https://www.jacobinmag.com/2022/01/guillermo-deltoro nightmare alley fantasy film review

Morgenstern, Joe. “‘Nightmare Alley’ Review: A Carnival of Malaise.” The Wall Street Journal, 16 December 2021, https://www.wsj.com/articles/nightmare alley guillermo del toro bradley cooper willem dafoe cate blanchett 11639694687.

Poulos, Mike. “Unraveling ‘Nightmare Alley.’” Journal and Topics, 15 December 2021, https://www.journal topics.com/articles/unraveling nightmare alley/.

Zagha, Muriel. "Carnival at the end of the line: Guillermo del Toro's updated film noir." TLS. Times Literary Supplement, no. 6199, 21 Jan. 2022, p. 14. Gale Academic OneFile, link.gale.com/apps/doc/A691314698/AONE?u=naal_una&sid=googleScholar& xid=9dc96914

Screenplays

In the Fall semester of 2022, I made the decision to fill an elective course with Fundamentals in Screenwriting, believing it to be my chance to combine my major and minor and test out a new mode of writing. I was quick to learn that writing a film was much different than writing a short story.

I found that taking an idea from thought to page was much more difficult when adapting that idea into a form that would be fitting for a film. Luckily, I was able to challenge myself by stepping out of the comfort of prose writing, and I am pleased by the results.

Under the instruction of Bryan McHenry, many table reads, and even more rewrites, the following section is a display of all three complete screenplays from the Fall 2022 semester. I have to thank the course for not only teaching me the formatting but for also allowing me the opportunity to try a new creative art.

Come on Eileen 10/3/2022 Corey Roden

INT. LIVING ROOM EVENING

Two elders are sitting in a dimly lit living room. Various knick knacks and old photographs cover the red painted walls. A coo coo clock hangs on one wall reading 6PM. Transparent dark curtains shield the dying daylight outside.

In the center of the room, a 67 year old man named BILL is sitting in a leather recliner. He is dressed in a red flannel shirt. Its colors clash with the walls surrounding him. A pair of suspenders holds up his beige trousers. Bill wears a large pair of glasses that often slides down to the tip of his nose. His scalp holds the little hair that he has left, exposing a faded scar that covers the majority of his forehead.

A small side table supporting a lamp sits between him and his wife EILEEN, a 65 year old woman in a wheelchair, parked where another leather recliner used to be. EILEEN is sporting a vibrant floral dress that distracts from the wrinkles on her skin. Though she is in her later years, her greying hair rests just at her shoulders.

Occupying the wall in front of the two is an old television, playing a rerun of the film Notorious (1946). On screen, Cary Grant’s character holds Ingrid Bergman’s character close, kissing her.

EILEEN

Do you remember when you used to kiss me like Cary Grant?

BILL

I remember when I used to look like Cary Grant.

EILEEN

And I could say the same about Ingrid Bergman.

Bill takes his eyes off of the television and looks at his wife.

BILL

You know you shouldn’t talk like that.

EILEEN

But it’s true.

BILL

Did I marry Ingrid Bergman?

EILEEN Well, no.

Bill turns his head back to the television as Eileen looks down and fidgets with the end of her dress.

EILEEN

You know, you really don’t kiss me much at all anymore.

BILL

What about last night after I put you to bed? What do you call that?

EILEEN

A peck. And it wasn’t even on the lips either.

BILL

Well, you never ask.

EILEEN

I shouldn’t have to ask, Bill.

The couple sit silently, as the movie continues to play. Bill’s eyes remain fixated on the television while Eileen uses her nail to pick at a thread on her dress. She takes a deep breath in and exhales.

EILEEN

Do you think I’m dead?

Bill picks up the remote and shuts the television off, turning again to look at his wife.

BILL

What? Of course, you aren’t. You’re sitting right there

EILEEN

Well, I might as well be. No one should have to live this way.

BILL

Is this about the accident? About that there?

He points to Eileen’s wheelchair

BILL (CONT’D)

You know, I didn’t necessarily come out scot free, myself. Still hurts every once in a while.

Bill taps the scar on his forehead, wincing slightly with each touch.

EILEEN

Oh, you poor thing. Need me to walk to the kitchen and get you some ice? Oh wait.

Bill breathes heavily and cracks a smile.

BILL

Sure Eileen. That would be swell. It’s the least you can do after I’ve spent the last 30 some odd years taking care of you.

EILEEN

Taking care of me? You haven’t even dared to touch me in those 30 years.

BILL

Well, what is it you want me to do?

Eileen adverts her eyes from Bill and looks at the wall. Among the knick knacks and photos there is a black and white photo of Bill and Eileen in their wrinkle free youth. Bill is wearing a suit while Eileen wears a dress covered in printed sunflowers. Bill is standing behind Eileen with his arms wrapped around her. They are posing in front of a backdrop where a banner hangs that reads: Homecoming 1960.

EILEEN

Do you remember that night behind the school bleachers?

BILL

The homecoming game? Eileen, that was well over 40 years ago.

EILEEN

You held me close for the first time, and you kissed me like I had never been kissed before.

Eileen’s eyes begin to fill with tears, and she smiles slightly, turning her head away from Bill and looking towards the photo on the wall

EILEEN (CONT’D)

Afterwards we went to the gymnasium and shared our first dance. That was the night you swept me off my feet and into your heart.

Bill shifts in his chair and Eileen turns to look at his face staring sternly at her.

BILL

Listen, I can’t change what happened to you. I’m just thankful that you are still here and that we have continued to make our love work.

EILEEN

Is it working, Bill? Treating me like I’m some kind of disease?

A tear rolls down Eileen’s cheek. Bill looks toward the ground regretfully as he pushes up his glasses.

BILL

I we can make it work.

Bill looks at the window. The light from the sun has grown dim to the point of being almost non existent. Bill grins at Eileen.

BILL (CONT’D)

Hey, what about those kisses? If it’s kisses you want, I’ll kiss you until the sun comes up. Heck, I’ll give you anything you want.

EILEEN (Quietly) Dance with me.

BILL What? EILEEN Dance with me like we did in the gymnasium. Sweep me off of my feet all over again.

BILL

You know I can’t

Her teary gaze is steady, as she continues to fiddle with her dress, pulling a thread out from its end.

BILL (CONT’D)

I can’t dance with you because

EILEEN (Raising her voice) Because I’m in a wheelchair? Because my legs don’t work?

BILL

No. I didn’t mean

Eileen puts her face in her hands and begins sobbing, as Bill stands up and makes his way over to Eileen to comfort her. Bill rests his hand on Eileen’s shoulder.

EILEEN (Whispers)

Just pour me a drink, Bill.

BILL

Honey, you know you don’t need to

EILEEN (Softly)

You said anything I want.

Bill leaves the room and comes back with a glass of red wine. He hands it to Eileen and sits back in his chair. Eileen takes a small sip.

EILEEN

I’m sorry. It’s just so frustrating. Time passes on as I’m forced to sit still If I have to continue to live, why does it have to be like this?

Eileen takes another small sip. Her cheeks are stained with old tears as new ones fill her eyes. She holds the glass with one hand and uses the other in an attempt to dry her eyes.

EILEEN

Sometimes I think this is just a bad dream. That it never happened.

Suddenly, Eileen rises up off of the wheelchair and onto her own two feet. Not realizing what she has just done, she continues to speak.

EILEEN (CONT’D)

That maybe I could just stand up and walk away from this life Bill stands up slowly, his eyes widening at the unreal sight.

BILL

Oh my God.

EILEEN

Yeah It’s a stupid way to think living in a dream. I just have to face the fact that I’ll never

BILL

Eileen, you’re standing! Look!

Eileen looks down at her legs, her bare feet standing on the hardwood below her. She drops her glass of wine. It shatters as it hits the ground.

EILEEN

Bill, I think there must have been something in that drink.

Bill walks over to his wife and slowly reaches out to softly touch her arm. Eileen takes a few fluent steps towards him.

BILL

This can’t be real, but here you are standing in front of me. Maybe this is a dream after all.

EILEEN

If so, then this is one hell of a dream.

Bill takes Eileen’s hands into his own.

BILL

Come on, Eileen. I think I owe you a dance.

Bill walks to the corner of the room where a record player sits on a table. A shelf on the wall beside it holds a collection of vinyl. He puts on a record and Ella Fitzgerald’s “Dream a Little Dream of Me” begins to fill the room. Bill returns to Eileen as Louis Armstrong’s trumpet plays over Fitzgerald’s scatting.

BILL

This was the one, wasn’t it? The homecoming dance?

Eileen grins and nods as Bill takes her hands again, pulls her close, and begins to sway and sing along.

BILL (Singing to the lyrics) Stars shining bright above you. Night breezes seem to whisper, "I love you.”

EILEEN (Choking up)

B birds singin’ in the s sycamore tree. Dream a little dream of me.

Bill looks into Eileen’s eyes as he leans in and kisses her.

EILEEN

Just like Cary Grant, but maybe a little better.

Bill smiles and hugs Eileen tightly, as she rests her chin on his shoulder.

EILEEN (Whispers)

I thought I would never get to do this again. It was my worst fear a nightmare.

BILL

And I thought I had lost you that I would have ended up alone.

Eileen raises her chin from Bill’s shoulder, takes his face in her hands and smiles.

EILEEN

Alone? You’ll never be alone, Bill.

I am always here with you.

The couple sway in each other’s arms as Fitzgerald and Armstrong’s duet continues to play.

INT. HOSPITAL ROOM NIGHT

A 30 year old Bill lays sleeping on a hospital bed in the center of a white room, darkened by the night sky. He is wearing a white hospital gown, darkened around the neck by sweat. His face is covered in small cuts. A wrapped bandage covers his forehead. His medium length dark hair rests over the bandage, damp from sweat.

Next to his bed is a side table that holds a lamp, a pair of glasses, a small radio, and the framed black and white photo of him and Eileen at the homecoming dance.

Bill’s face glistens with sweat and is stained with tears. His eyes remain closed as the slow and steady beep of a heart monitor echoes through the room, backed by Ella Fitzgerald’s voice, singing sweetly from the small radio

Bill smiles.

END.

SALAMANDER GRAVES

10/25/2022

Corey Roden

NEVADA 1875 EXT. SALAMANDER SALOON DAY

Off to the side of a wide dirt road that runs through a quiet town sits the SALAMANDER SALOON. The dark wood building is dilapidated with two broken windows. Wooden boards have been nailed across the windows to keep out the cold. The saloon’s swinging doors are positioned between the two windows, and a dirty sign sits above the entrance. The sign reads: “SALAMANDER SALOON,” the letters painted on with white paint. The letters are hardly visible from the amount of dirt caked onto the sign.

A 24 year old woman named KIT stands before the saloon, sizing up the building.

Kit is dressed in blue denim jeans. Over her outfit, she wears a simple burlap poncho. Its split reveals her left side but conceals the right side of her attire. She wears a pair of brown leather cowboy boots covered with dried mud. A brown leather gun holster holds a .39 caliber Navy Colt revolver, resting on her right hip. A purple bandana with a floral pattern is tied around her neck. Red curly hair rests at her shoulders, sticking close to her sweat covered neck. Atop her head she wears a brown felt cowboy hat with a front pinch. The colors of her clothes are dulled by dirt that covers her body, as if she hasn’t washed them in days.

Kit looks up at the saloon’s sign and walks through the swinging doors.

INT. SALAMANDER SALOON DAY

Kit steps onto the saloon’s wooden floor. The floorboards are cracked, and small splinters point towards the saloon’s ceiling. A ray of sunshine beams in from a gaping hole in the ceiling, creating a spotlight in the dead center of the room. The room is filled with round wooden tables. Small oil lamps sit on each table. Sitting around each one is four wooden chairs, some missing the spindles between their legs. There are a few guests seated at the tables, drinking, and chatting loudly over a piano.

Straight ahead is a bar lined with ten wooden barstools. Behind the bar’s countertop, a large mirror occupies the wall. Its reflection is fogged, covered with dirt and dust. On both sides of the mirror, the wall holds shelves that are lined with bottles of whiskey, gin, and bourbon

To the left of the bar there is a door with a sign that reads: Storage. To the right of the bar, an open doorway leads to a hallway lined with guest rooms. A sign above it simply reads: “Rooms.” On the wall to the right of the

doorway, a sign reads: “This is a bar, not a whorehouse. Take it elsewhere.”

The saloon’s owner and bartender, an older man named HOUSTON, stands behind the bar’s counter, pouring drinks and holding a conversation with a guest. Houston wears a plain white shirt with a black apron tied around his waist. His dark greasy hair is parted down the middle, and the thin mustache on his lip matches his hair.

The saloon’s guests look up from their drinks and conversations as Kit walks up to the bar. Houston notices Kit and dismisses the guest he was speaking with.

HOUSTON

(To KIT in a hushed voice) I got two for you today.

KIT

Only two? Last night must have been pretty uneventful.

HOUSTON

The usual. A guy loaned some money. The other guy couldn’t pay him back. Pop! He’s on the ground.

KIT

And the second guy?

HOUSTON

His buddy. Always bring a friend to a gunfight, you know?

KIT

(chuckles)

Right, let’s see ‘em.

Houston walks out from behind the counter and to the storage door, gesturing for Kit to follow.

INT. SALAMANDER SALOON STORAGE ROOM DAY

Kit follows Houston into the storage room. It’s filled with crates of alcohol and stacks of extra chairs and barstools. A door leads to the back of the saloon. Laying in the middle of the room are the bodies of two men with a single bullet hole in their chests. A large sack hangs on the wall and next to it, a dirty shovel. Houston grabs the sack and tosses it to Kit.

KIT

With only two, I should be done by sundown.

HOUSTON

As expected for a gal with your talent. It’d take anyone else an entire day.

KIT

Well, paw taught me good.

HOUSTON

You’re a damn good gravedigger, but you can’t compete with August. That man was a master of his craft.

Houston frowns, looking down at the lifeless corpses.

HOUSTON (CON’T)

I sure do miss ‘em.

KIT Yeah. Me too.

HOUSTON

I heard he gave those bandits a run for their money when he died. Your father was a fighter.

Kit opens the empty bag expressionless.

KIT

Yeah. Well, that ain’t gonna change nothin’.

HOUSTON

You’re allowed grieve, Kit.

KIT

I could have saved him. Always bring a friend to a gunfight, right?

HOUSTON (Gesturing to the corpses) You can see how that turns out.

EXT. BEHIND THE SALAMANDER SALOON DAY

Kit exits the saloon’s back door, dragging the bag behind her with one hand and grasping the shovel in the other. Houston follows behind her.

HOUSTON

Well Miss Confident, if you do end up finishing by sundown, why don’t you stop back by for a drink on me?

Kit looks back over her shoulder at Houston.

KIT

Sorry pal, you know I don’t drink.

EXT. GRAVEYARD SUNDOWN

Kit stands in a graveyard, though there are no headstones to be seen.

Kit beats the ground with her shovel, sweat pouring down her face. The dirt where she had buried the bodies is smooth, as if she hadn’t disturbed it at all. She removes her hat and wipes her forehead with her sleeve. The bag is laying on the ground next to her, empty.

She puts her hat back on, reaches into her pocket, and takes out a cigarette and a lighter. She places the cigarette between her lips and lights it. Kit turns her head to look at the horizon, the sun setting just beyond it. She takes the cigarette from her lips and exhales.

EXT. GRAVEYARD SUNDOWN FLASHBACK

Kit beats the ground with her dirty shovel, sweat pouring down her face. Kit and two men, BUSTER and HOLLAND, stand around her newly dug grave, admiring her work. The men are dressed in black button downs, black pants, black boots, and black cowboy hats. The men wear a purple bandana with a floral pattern as a mask over their nose and mouth. They each have a black leather gun holster, equipped with revolvers.

Kit forcefully stabs the shovel into the ground. Buster drags his boot across the grave.

BUSTER

I’ll be damned. It’s like you never even dug there.

HOLLAND

What did I tell you, Buster? She’s no tenderfoot.

BUSTER

You’re good for a girl, I’ll give you that

Kit darts her eyes at Buster and a small exhale of a laugh escapes her lips.

KIT

So, you fellas gonna let me join or not?

HOLLAND

Come on, a couple of outlaws like us needs a good gravedigger if we want our killin’ to go unnoticed.

KIT

(Looks towards Buster) It’s like I never even dug there.

Buster takes out a cigarette box and offers one to KIT. KIT takes one and places it between her lips and Buster holds a lighter up to light it.

BUSTER Alright. Welcome to the gang.

EXT. GRAVEYARD SUNDOWN PRESENT DAY

Kit takes another drag off of the cigarette before flicking it onto the grave and stepping on it with her boot. She exhales.

INT. SALAMANDER SALOON MORNING

Kit enters through the saloon’s swinging doors. The saloon is empty. She walks to the bar. Houston is cleaning some glasses with a dirty white cloth. He sees Kit walk up and sets the glass down on the counter.

HOUSTON

Kit! You never came back last night. Must have taken longer than you expected, huh?

KIT

Don’t be stupid. Give me some more, and I’ll do it in half the time today.

Can’t.

What?

HOUSTON

KIT

HOUSTON

I can’t give you no more, Kit. I ain’t got none for ya.

Kit looks down at the floorboard with a confused expression.

HOUSTON

Don’t look down, kid. This is great news. Take the day off for once.

KIT

(Looks up at HOUSTON)

A day off? I haven’t had a day off in five years.

HOUSTON

Hard work pays off. Now git. Take some time for yourself.

Kit slams her hands on the counter and raises her voice.

KIT

You mean to tell me that for the first night in five years there wasn’t a single accident? Not even a fistfight?

HOUSTON

No one even raised their voice, and I would appreciate it if you’d lower yours. Sit down. I’ll make you somethin’.

Kit takes a seat on a bar stool as Houston pours a glass of whiskey.

HOUSTON

Never too early, I always say.

KIT

I don’t drink.

HOUSTON Loosen up. You’re always workin’.

KIT

It’s all I’ve ever done. I have a routine.

HOUSTON

You have a problem.

KIT Houston, I do not have a problem. I have a job. Someone has to do it since those bastards killed my paw. Houston slides the glass to KIT.

HOUSTON

And it’s a job well done. Celebrate.

Kit stares into the glass, picks it up and swirls the liquid around. She drinks it all in one gulp.

INT. SALAMANDER SALOON DAY FLASHBACK

KIT slams the empty glass of whiskey onto the bar counter.

KIT

Houston, another whiskey!

Houston picks up Kit’s glass to refill it. There is a newspaper sitting on the counter in front of Kit. The headline reads: “Gravedigger Shot Dead by Gang: Buster Jailed.”

HOUSTON

Kit, I’m sorry.

KIT

I’m sorry too. For what’s gonna happen to you unless I get another whiskey. Come on!

HOUSTON

Your father wouldn’t want you to do this to yourself, you know? Take it easy.

KIT

Who cares what he wants? That man is in a grave. I even dug it for him.

Kit laughs as she takes her filled glass of whiskey and downs it in one gulp.

INT. SALAMANDER SALOON NIGHT PRESENT DAY

Kit slams the empty glass onto the bar counter. The saloon is packed with guests, enjoying their drinks, and filling the room with the buzz of conversation.

KIT

Hey Houston. How about Houston picks up Kit’s glass.

HOUSTON

No Kit. No more. You’ve been drinking all day. A couple more and I’ll have to dig YOU a grave.

KIT

(Giggles and hiccups) No, no, partner. That’s my job, remember?

A MAN walks up to the bar to grab a drink. Kit turns drunkenly towards him.

KIT

If I were you, I’d get the whiskey. It really hits the spot.

HOUSTON

I’d be happy to get the man a whiskey if you hadn’t drunk all of it.

Kit’s eyes widen, she smiles and giggles at the man, still waiting patiently by the bar.

KIT

Hey buddy.

She motions for the man to come closer. He leans in towards Kit.

KIT (CON’T)

You’re a handsome fella. I bet you’re married, ain’t ‘cha?

The man nods his head, looking confused.

KIT

(CON’T)

You see that guy over there? That’s your wife he’s with, ain’t it?

She points towards the table in the saloon’s corner. A man and a woman are sitting, drinking, and chatting cheerfully.

KIT (CON’T)

I heard that he slept with her, but you didn’t hear that from me.

Houston hands the man a drink.

HOUSTON

Pardon her. She’s a little, you know.

Houston brings his empty hand up in a drinking motion and makes a face. The man looks at Kit and back to Houston.

MAN

It’s okay. Everyone’s been there.

The man begins to walk away, stops, and turns back around.

MAN

By the way miss, that’s my sister.

The man walks back to his table. Houston leans into Kit and harshly whispers.

HOUSTON

What in tarnation are you trying to do? I can’t believe you!

KIT (hiccups)

And I can’t believe that guy is married to his sister.

HOUSTON

Enough! I can’t have you tryin’ to start fights in my saloon.

KIT

It happens all the time. What’s the difference?

HOUSTON

Listen, Kit. Go home.

KIT

But I ain’t done my job yet.

HOUSTON

I told you. There ain’t no job to do.

KIT

No bodies?

HOUSTON

No bodies. For once, there’s peace in my saloon, bandit crimes are down, and people are gettin’ along.

KIT (hiccups)

So, you don’t need me to dig any graves?

HOUSTON

You ain’t digging no graves today. Mosey on home.

Kit looks down at the table and begins fiddling with the bandana around her neck. She grips it tightly and stands up.

KIT

You’re right. I’ll head home. See ya tomorrow.

HOUSTON

If I need you, yes. If not, no.

Kit turns away from Houston and begins walking towards the swinging doors, swaying as she takes each step. She stops and turns back around.

KIT

On second thought, I think I will be diggin’ a grave today.

HOUSTON

Kit, I told you there ain’t

Kit brushes her poncho back, revealing her revolver. She quickly draws it and shoots. Houston collapses onto the bar counter. The saloon goes silent, everyone looking at Kit. Kit puts her gun back into its holster and covers it back up with her poncho. She brings her hand to her bandana and pulls it up over her nose and mouth. Walking past the bar and Houston’s fresh corpse, Kit makes her way towards the storage closet.

END.

Choice

11/21/2022

Corey Roden

INT. CLAIRE’S BASEMENT DAY

Gathered in a circle, four friends are playing instruments. Their practice space is a darkened basement, where a single lightbulb hangs from the ceiling. The room is lit by strings of Christmas lights tacked to the wall. The wall’s paint is stripped, and various band posters attempt to hide the spots. A workbench occupies one corner of the room, while a deteriorating beanbag chair occupies another. In the same corner, a radio sits on a coffee table that is cluttered with cassette tapes, an ashtray, and empty cans.

Another corner’s space is taken up by a set of drums placed on a white shag carpet. Seated behind the drums is a 27 year old named COOPER. He’s dressed in jeans, an unbuttoned flannel with a band shirt underneath, and a baseball cap to keep his shaggy dark hair out of his eyes.

To his left, a 24 year old named KATRINA is strumming a guitar. She is dressed in a baggy sweater and ripped jeans. One of her bare feet is propped on top of her guitar amp. Her long blonde hair is pulled back in a ponytail. She looks down, staring at her right hand as she plays.

To Katrina’s left, a 33 year old named FLYNN grips a microphone with his right hand and the microphone’s stand with his left. He wears a pair of light jeans, a white t shirt with a black leather jacket over it. He has curly black hair that he had attempted to slick back with gel.

Completing the circle is CLAIRE, a 27 year old with thick, red rimmed glasses. She is dressed in a hoodie and a skirt with tights underneath. She wears her light hair in a messy bun. She stares at Katrina, following her hand placement, while playing her part of the song on bass guitar.

Katrina glances up from her guitar, noticing Claire’s staring. As Claire is strumming, she drops her guitar pick on the ground.

As the bass’s sound drops from the song, Cooper stops drumming. Katrina goes into a guitar solo on her own.

FLYNN

Alright, alright. Stop.

Katrina keeps shredding.

FLYNN

Katrina!

Katrina looks up and stops playing, her amp squealing with feedback. She makes a face.

FLYNN (Looks to Claire) Problem, Claire?

CLAIRE

Sorry. I dropped my

She bends down to grab her pick from the floor.

FLYNN

You realize that the show is in a week, right?

KATRINA

And She loudly strums a chord.

KATRINA (CONT’D)

We are going to absolutely crush it.

FLYNN

Yeah, we’re gonna get crushed by the other contestants if we don’t get it together.

He darts his eyes at Claire.

CLAIRE

I’m sorry. Run it again.

KATRINA

Here Claire, watch my hands and follow my lead.

FLYNN

Yeah, look at her hands, Claire, not her face.

Claire blushes and looks down at her bass.

CLAIRE

I wasn’t looking

FLYNN

Aw come on. You couldn’t keep your eyes off her. I betcha like the way she gets all sweaty, huh?

Flynn chuckles and Katrina lets out a laugh. While the two are laughing, Cooper is staring down at his drumsticks, twirling one between his fingers.

COOPER

Hey man, cut the teasing and let’s play.

FLYNN

Yeah, yeah. Start the song.

Cooper counts off the song, clicking his sticks together. They begin to play. Staring down at her bass, Claire begins to strum out of time.

FLYNN

Stop! Claire, what the hell?

CLAIRE

I’m sorry, guys. I just can’t get into the groove today.

FLYNN

You taking this seriously or not?

COOPER

We’re all taking this seriously. We’re just having some problems.

FLYNN

We? No, we’re doing just fine.

Claire takes her bass and leans it against the wall. Without a word, she leaves the room. Her footsteps are quick and soft, as she goes upstairs.

KATRINA

You really don’t need to be so tough on her. She’s doing her best.

FLYNN

Well, her best isn’t good enough for battle of the bands. We need perfection.

KATRINA

We’ll never be perfect, Flynn.

FLYNN

Yeah, not with her. Listen, my buddy is a killer bassist, why don’t

KATRINA

We can’t kick her. Where would we practice?

COOPER

She’s right. We can’t use your apartment.

KATRINA

Plus, she’s getting better with each practice.

FLYNN

Where’s this coming from? Just the other day you were talking about how much she sucks.

KATRINA

I didn’t say “sucks.”

COOPER

I’m pretty sure you said “sucks.”

KATRINA

I said she had some learning to do.

FLYNN

We don’t have time. Come on, it’s for the band.

COOPER

For the band?

FLYNN

For the band.

KATRINA

She’s our friend, Flynn.

FLYNN

Maybe to you and Coop. To me, she’s nothing more than a practice space.

At the top of the stairs, the door slams shut. The three look to one another in silence.

EXT. CLAIRE’S BACK PORCH DAY

Claire is leaning against the porch’s railing, smoking a cigarette, and looking up to the sky. Katrina steps out the backdoor, walks up, and stands next to Claire.

KATRINA

I didn’t know you smoked. Startled, Claire jolts and wipes her tear stained face.

CLAIRE

Oh, um, occasionally. Stress relief, you know?

KATRINA

Sure, sure. May I?

Claire nods, reaches into her hoodie pocket, and passes Katrina the pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Katrina lights a cigarette.

KATRINA

He’s an asshole. It’s just a part of his tough guy image.

CLAIRE

I can’t believe you’re still with him.

KATRINA

He isn’t always this way. He’s bluffing. He didn’t really mean all of that.

Claire shakes her head, as she takes a drag off the cigarette.

CLAIRE

He’s right.

KATRINA

No, he isn’t. You’re doing just fine. He’s just passionate about this whole battle of the bands thing. You heard me, we’re gonna crush it.

CLAIRE

Not if I have anything to do with it.

Katrina puts her hand on Claire’s shoulder and turns Claire towards her.

KATRINA

You’ve been a part of this band since day one. You can’t give up on us now.

Katrina slides her hand down Claire’s arm and grips onto her wrist. Claire winces.

KATRINA

What’s

Katrina pushes up Claire’s hoodie sleeve, revealing a bandage wrapped around her forearm.

KATRINA

Again?

CLAIRE (Whispers)

I’m sorry.

KATRINA

Why didn’t you call me?

CLAIRE

I didn’t want to bother you.

KATRINA

Weren’t you seeing a doctor?

Claire shakes her head and pushes her sleeve back down.

CLAIRE

Do you ever just feel like giving up? Like maybe it isn’t worth it.

Claire…

KATRINA

CLAIRE

I kinda just want to disappear.

Claire looks up at the sky and takes another drag from her cigarette. She holds the cigarette in front of her face, watching it slowly burn down.

CLAIRE (CONT’D)

Pain is inevitable. At least I’m in control of it.

Claire puts the cigarette out on the railing and tosses it to the ground.

KATRINA

I’m sorry I haven’t been here for you recently.

CLAIRE

I get it. You stay busy.

KATRINA

That isn’t an excuse to not spend time with you.

CLAIRE

We still have the band, right? Unless you end up kicking me out.

KATRINA

Of course, we aren’t kicking you out. Claire, you’re my best friend, and the band needs you.

She takes Claire’s hand in hers.

KATRINA (CONT’D)

I need you.

Claire looks down at their hands and back up to Katrina. She smiles, her eyes beginning to fill with tears.

CLAIRE

I

Katrina squeezes Claire’s hand.

CLAIRE (CONT’D)

I’m just really glad you’re my friend.

Katrina smiles and pulls Claire into a hug. They embrace for a moment before Katrina steps back.

KATRINA

Hey! I know what will cheer you up. Wanna go grab a slice of pizza? Cooper wants to take me to this new place downtown.

CLAIRE

Cooper?

KATRINA

Yeah, we’ve been out a couple of times. He knows all the best restaurants.

CLAIRE

Um, sure. I’ll tag along.

Katrina squeezes Claire’s shoulders and smiles. She makes her way to the back door, as a tear rolls down Claire’s cheek.

INT. KATRINA’S APARTMENT NIGHT

Katrina enters the living room of her apartment. All the lights are off besides a lamp that sits on a side table next to the sofa. A coffee table sits in front of the sofa with nothing but a full ashtray on it. A lit cigarette is burning in the tray. Flynn sits on the sofa, his feet propped on the table, looking over a packet of papers. He looks up at Katrina, acknowledging her entrance, and looks back to his papers, sifting through them.

KATRINA

I’m back.

FLYNN (Still staring at the papers) Have fun on your little date?

Katrina sits down next to Flynn.

KATRINA

You could’ve come with us you know.

FLYNN

Couldn’t. Gotta learn these lyrics.

KATRINA

I think you got them down.

Flynn looks up annoyed and throws the papers down on the coffee table.

FLYNN

The show is in a week, and we sound like shit.

KATRINA

I thought we sounded okay.

FLYNN (Raising his voice) Okay? Okay isn’t enough!

KATRINA

We’re doing the best that we can.

FLYNN

But we can do better. If we just had another bass player, maybe we’d stand a chance.

KATRINA

Claire can do it. She just needs more practice. I’m helping her.

FLYNN

Right. You’re doing a lot more than that.

Katrina looks down at her feet.

KATRINA

Is this about practice? You know you embarrassed her, right?

Flynn takes his feet off the table, picks up his cigarette, and puts it between his lips.

FLYNN

With the way she plays, she’s done that to herself.

KATRINA

Flynn, quit it. She’s going through a lot. You remember two months ago? Well, she’s doing it again

Flynn chuckles, taking a drag off the cigarette.

FLYNN

What’s new? Seeking attention like always.

Katrina jolts up from her seat.

KATRINA

I’m serious. I’m really worried.

FLYNN

You would be.

KATRINA

Of course, she’s my friend.

FLYNN (Signaling air quotes) Right, “friend.”

KATRINA

Not this again.

FLYNN

You saw it. Bet you liked it too.

KATRINA

What I saw was you being a total dick to her.

Flynn stands up.

FLYNN

Well guess what? You were laughing too.

Katrina is silent. She looks down at the ground and swallows.

FLYNN (CONT’D)

The bitch is crazy. She’s just jealous. And that little act she’s pulling guess what? She’ll keep on doing it until she gets what she wants.

KATRINA (Quietly)

Shut up.

FLYNN

What did you say?

Katrina looks up at Flynn, her eyes beginning to swell with tears.

KATRINA (Louder)

Shut up!

Flynn quickly grabs Katrina by the wrists. She tries to wiggle out of his grasp.

FLYNN

What have I told you about telling me to shut up, huh?

KATRINA

Let me go.

Flynn grips tighter and pulls Katrina closer to him.

FLYNN What did I say?

KATRINA (Whispers)

You don’t like it.

FLYNN

I don’t like it.

He lets go of Katrina She pulls back and rubs them.

FLYNN (CONT’D)

Ya know, I dunno why you’re defending her anyways.

KATRINA Cause I

FLYNN (Mockingly)

Aww, do you love her?

KATRINA Not like that.

Flynn slumps back down on the sofa, leans forward, puts out his cigarette in the ashtray, and sighs.

Katrina, still holding her wrists, sits back down beside him.

FLYNN

I guess I should have seen it coming.

He puts his face into his hands and rubs his eyes.

FLYNN (CONT’D)

I’m an asshole. She’d treat you better anyways.

Katrina sits in silence, as Flynn begins to sniffle.

KATRINA Flynn, don’t.

Flynn looks up from his hands, his eyes void of tears.

FLYNN

You have to make a choice, Katrina. It’s her or me, and I suggest you choose wisely.

Katrina stands up again and makes her way to the door.

KATRINA

I think I’ve made that choice, Flynn.

Flynn stands up and rushes after her, grabbing Katrina’s shoulders from behind and violently turns her around to face him.

FLYNN

Now you and I both know that’s the wrong choice.

KATRINA (Sternly)

I don’t want to deal with this right now.

Flynn tightens his grip and pushes Katrina against the door. She winces and closes her eyes.

FLYNN

You know I don’t want to hurt you, don’t you?

Katrina nods and starts to sob.

FLYNN (CONT’D) Don’t cry, Kat.

Katrina wraps her arms around Flynn, buries her face in his chest, and continues to cry.

FLYNN (CONT’D) Shh. I got you.

Flynn hugs Katrina tightly, stroking her hair.

INT. CLAIRE’S BASEMENT DAY

Katrina, Flynn, and Cooper are playing a song when Claire walks down the stairs of the basement. She has a blank expression on her face. They stop playing as she picks up her bass.

COOPER

Hey. We let ourselves in. We figured you were held up at work or something, so we went ahead and began practice.

Claire begins tuning her bass, staring expressionless at Katrina. Cooper, Flynn, and Katrina all exchange glances at each other.

KATRINA

Um, sorry we started without you. The show’s tomorrow, so we figured we would need as much practice as we

CLAIRE (Emotionless)

You guys were sounding great without me.

The group sits in silence. Flynn clears his throat and turns towards Claire.

FLYNN Listen, about the other day

CLAIRE How was it?

FLYNN What? Claire turns to Cooper; her eyes begin to swell with tears.

CLAIRE What about you? Was it nice?

COOPER

I don’t know what you’re referring to. I mean, the songs aren’t the same without a bass.

CLAIRE (Raising her voice) I’m not talking about the music. Claire stares intensely at Katrina.

CLAIRE (CONT’D) When is it my turn?

KATRINA

Your turn? What do you mean?

CLAIRE

To be with you. Katrina, Cooper, and Flynn look at each other in silence.

CLAIRE (CONT’D)

You’ve dated every person in this room, but I’m the only one who ever gave a shit about you!

KATRINA Claire, you’re my best

CLAIRE Friend. That’s all I’ll ever be to you your friend.

KATRINA

You know I can’t date you, Claire. I have boyfriend. Claire darts her eyes at Flynn.

CLAIRE

Boyfriend? I wouldn’t call your abuser a boyfriend.

KATRINA

What the hell are you talking about? Flynn doesn’t abuse me.

CLAIRE

It’s your turn to pull up your sleeves. Let’s see your scars, hmm?

Katrina puts her guitar down and walks out of the room. Cooper stands up and goes after her. Flynn looks at Claire.

FLYNN

What are you trying to do?

CLAIRE

It’s for the band. Now get out of my house.

INT. KATRINA’S APARTMENT NIGHT

Katrina enters her apartment to find the living room dark and unoccupied.

She walks over to the couch and sits down.

Katrina sits in the dark silence, puts her face in her hands, and begins to cry.

INT. CLAIRE’S BASEMENT DAY DREAM

Katrina walks down the stairs of the basement. The lights are off. She wanders around the room, searching for the light switch. The single lightbulb turns on.

Claire is laying on the shag carpet, surrounded by blood. Deep gashes cover her forearms. On the bass drumhead, the words: “CHOICE MADE” is written in blood.

Katrina lets out a scream, drops down to the ground, crawls over to Claire’s body, and takes her hand.

KATRINA

Oh God, Claire, what have you done?

Katrina leans over Claire’s body and lifts her into a hug. She sobs, gripping tightly. Flynn walks up behind her and pulls her off of the corpse and onto her feet.

FLYNN

Katrina, there’s nothing you can do.

KATRINA

I never meant for this to happen.

FLYNN

Of course, you did. I told you this stunt would keep on until she got what she wanted. Now look

He gestures to Claire’s corpse.

FLYNN (CONT’D)

She got what she wanted.

Flynn brings his hands to Katrina’s hips and pulls her close to him. He smiles.

FLYNN (CONT’D)

And now, I can get what I want.

He wraps his arms around Katrina and hugs her tightly. Katrina gasps for air, as Flynn’s squeeze tightens.

Katrina closes her eyes and deeply inhales.

INT. STAGE DREAM

Katrina opens her eyes to find herself on a stage with her guitar in her hands. The space around the stage is darkness. Flynn and Cooper are both on the stage with her, Cooper behind his drums and Flynn holding a microphone. In the center of the stage, a spotlight shines down on Claire’s corpse laying on the floor, her bass next to her.

In front of the stage there is a crowd of faceless people. They aren’t cheering, just standing.

Flynn brings the microphone to his mouth.

FLYNN (Addressing the crowd)

I’d like to thank you all for being here tonight. We almost thought we wouldn’t make it.

He looks down at Claire’s body.

FLYNN (CONT’D)

A minor obstacle, but as they say, the show must go on. Count me off, Coop!

Cooper clicks his sticks together and the three begin to play a song. Katrina strums her guitar with a dazed look on her face. Her hands and guitar strings are covered in blood.

Katrina looks to her guitar and back to the crowd. The crowd has disappeared, and when she looks around, Flynn, Cooper, and Claire have all disappeared as well.

Standing on the dark stage alone, Katrina stops strumming. She drops to the ground and holds her bloody palms out in front of her. Studying her blood covered hands, she begins to cry.

INT. KATRINA’S APARTMENT DAY

Katrina opens her eyes. She is laying on the couch, drenched with sweat. She gets up from the couch, walks to the door, and leaves the apartment.

EXT. CLAIRE’S BACK PORCH DAY

Katrina steps onto the porch and walks up behind Claire who is leaning over the railing, smoking a cigarette. Claire turns her head to look at Katrina. She gives a smirk and hands Katrina the pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Katrina puts a cigarette to her lips and lights it. They smoke in silence, looking up at the sky.

Katrina reaches down and touches Claire’s hand. Claire looks down at their hands and back up at Katrina. She smiles. They interlock fingers and look back up at the sky together.

END.