It's him... that guy.

I'm 20 years old, a writer, a podcaster, and a wannabe funny guy

Script writing Day 2

Okay so Ryan and I outlined the story of our screenplay yesterday, and tonight we wrote two scenes. So currently we’re 10 pages in… that’s not too far from being done… right? 

  • harry potter: you're the weak one. you'll never know love, or friendship. and i feel sorry for you.
  • voldemort: i came out to have a good time and i’m honestly feeling so attacked right now

Hey want to read some shitty writing?

Besides the stench and the incessant humming of lord knows what, the3x5 foot cell was everything it was advertised as. Dark, moist, and most importantly able to fill even the most hopeful with a full body depression. After what happen to Katrina, Carl had resolved that this cell will not be where he died. The resolution lifted his spirits, but did little in the way of offering a plan of escape. If only I knew when the guards came. Carl thought.

Everyday the meal schedule was different, they said it was to keep the prisoners uneasy as they never knew when their next meal was coming, but more likely it was because the prison staff was lazy and there simply wasn’t enough food to feed every prisoner every meal. The lack of food did much to weaken the resolve of those sent down to the boxes. Most people didn’t deserve to be here, or maybe that was just Carl projecting.

He had never been one for political activism, and for good reason. What he lacked in a social conscious he made up for in not wanting to be beaten by underpaid and over eager Protectors. Protectors were the goones who the Leaders sent out when things were really starting to get bad. Highly trained and brutal, these men and women seemed to lack even the most basic of human empathy. Their exploits were well documented, and nearly everyone had a story of how they knew a guy who was told by this girl about how their cousin was beaten by one of these Protectors.

I didn’t even want to go. But I had kind of talked myself into a corner the night before. So it was that he went to this rally. At first things were peaceful enough, a bunch of people yelling about how they need more food and the usual stuff. It all changed when that guy came, he was in his mid fifties, blading and slightly overweight, wearing a brown trench coat and muttering to himself, his eyes were puffy, but they held the look of determination. He paced back and forth for nearly ten minutes before approaching one of the Protectors. When the Protector ordered him to step back, he reached into his jacket. Katrina whispered something into his ear. All these people, imagine all the good we could do. A moment later his ears where ringing, people were screaming, and Protector lay dead. The crowd starting pushing this way and that, everyone trying to get out, the Protectors began taking down whoever was near them. Carl had wanted to run but he couldn’t leave Katrina, this girl he had only just met.

He pushed back against the current of people bringing him away. He could see her yelling at some Protectors, trying to calm everyone down. He was nearly within earshot of her he tripped. His foot had caught on the legs of some man screaming in pain, people kept hitting were kneeing his head, and the world was spinning. When he finally crawled to wear Katrina was standing, her face was barely recognizable. The Protector’s batton had knocked her to the ground and his boot had done the rest.

There was noise that brought him back to his small square room. Was it the humming? No it’s something Metallic… keys. The jingle was unmistakable, it was meal time. The latch on his door began to move. Standing Carl balled up his fist, he had never been much of a fighter but now was as good a time as any to start. Standing near the door, he was ready.