BEN AND THE ZOMBIES EPISODE 1

int. living room, day

BEN lifts up the window blinds, looking outside.

Ben
(muttered)
It's a bad day for frozen food.

MOTHER walks out of the kitchen, reusable shopping bags in hand.

MOTHER
What, sweetie?

Ben turns to her, eyes flashing.

BEN
Look outside, mother. It's not a good day for frozen foods.

Mother walks over to where he is holding the blinds open with one hand, looks out, shrieks, and drops her bag.

MOTHER
What is that?

Ben joins her, peering intently.

BEN
I think it's the apocalypse.

cut TO:

Outside House, day

Outside the house, the sky is red. Red like the sauce from a can of Chef Bayardee ravioli, splattered with ravioli like explosions. It's raining, but steam is coming off of where it hits the pavement. Coming over the horizon, towards the house at the end of the culdesac are shambling forms, clad in what once might have been tasteful twinsets. Beyond them, dragging at their heels, are soccer uniformed small childlike things that are no longer innocent. Burnt out minivans are everywehre, turned over like someon was trying to use them for cover.

INT. LIVING ROOM, DAY

The mother shrieks as the forms start coming over the horizon. Ben's eyes get very wide. He pulls back from the window and slowly starts moving towards the door.

MOTHER
NOOOOOOO.

She runs over to grab him. When she pulls him towards her, the fires are still burning in his very solemn eyes.

BEN
Mother. Why are you screaming.

Mother is still screaming. Then, she is joined by a second set of screaming from another part of the house. Mother lets go of Ben like he's hot. Which he might be.

BEN
That's Sam screaming too. I wonder if he is okay.

Mother stops screaming. The screaming in the other part of the house stops. She looks at Ben.

MOTHER
What did you just say?

BEN
(Deadpan)
Sam is screaming. Sam was screaming. Did you not hear Sam?

Mother lets go of Ben and backs slowly towards the living room table. When she gets there, she kneels, feeling under it. There are electronic beeps, and from under the table, she pulls out a shotgun. She stands up slowly, not turning her back on Ben, she backs up three more steps, to the china cabinent. More beeps, and a box of ammo goes into her coat pocket after she loads the shotgun. Back to the china cabinent, she studies the child that she thought was her son. The fires in his eyes have faded.

MOTHER
Ben?

BEN
Yes?

MOTHER
Are you there?

BEN
I have always been here.

Shot gun broken over her arm, she edges forward. The fires are no longer burning. She grabs the child by the arm, and pushes him in front of her.

MOTHER
Bring your brother down here.

She watches Ben go up the stairs. Once he's turned the corner, she loads the shotgun and puts the strap over her shoulder so she has both hands free to move the couch in front of the door. She grunts as she drags the couch, and two boys appear on the stairs. SAM is smaller than Ben. Their eyes burn with identical fire.

MOTHER
Hello sons.

BOYS
Hello mother.

They come down the stairs in unison. Mother watches them, one eye on the slit in the curtains, where she can see shambling figures still comign twowards the house.

MOTHER
Go to the kitchen, boys.

The boys start quietly towards the kitchen, then there is a noise outside. Sam starts to spin like the tasmanian devil, a whirlwind as he goes towards the kitchen. Mother hands Ben the shotbgun.

MOTHER
Don't let them in.

Ben nods even more seriously as he takes the shotgun and turns to the door. Mother heads to the kitchen with purposeful steps, stopping at the lintel to pick up a large automatic rifle and 3 clips. Ben's eyes go wide at the sight of such a beautiful gun.

int. kitchen, Day

Mother walks into the kitchen, expecting chaos. The room is glowing red from the sky outside, but Sam is calm, standing on one leg in the middle of the room, eating chips and hummus, the bag of chips held securely under one arm. he takes no notice of the large and beautiful automatic weapon his mother is holding, nor of the fact that she is currently struggling to push a heavy kitchen table against the door. He turns slightly on one leg as he watches her move the table. In the back of the house, there are no zombies. Yet.

Mother finishes moving the table and looks around. There are big windows, just like the rest of the house. There are no other doors that she needs to block off. She look at Sam pointedly.

MOTHER
Why were you screaming, Sam.

Sam stops chewing, crumbs falling from his mouth.

SAM
You were screaming.

MOTHER
Is that the only reason why?

Sam shakes his head, nearly dropping the chip bag.

MOTHER
Why else were you screaming?

SAM
Someone spilled ravioli all over the sky. It's all messy now.

Mother sighs with relief. His eyes no longer have the flames either.

There's a loud banging on the back door. Both of them jump, and the ceramic bowl of hummus crashes to the ground, spilling hummus everywhere. Sam starts to scream. Mother looks out the window, and about passes out. There is DADDY-O, waving at them to come outside. A vehicle is right there, ready.

MOTHER
BEN!

Ben comes running, shotgun held at the ready. She holds out her hand.

MOTHER
Let's go.

She and Ben pull the table away from the door. Gun slung over her shoulder, she picks up the screaming Sam, and they run to what they thought was the minivan, but is, in reality, an armored tour bus. Daddy-O has been getting ready. They get on the bus and start driving away.

And we fade out on episode 1.

Vignette 1

    "Don't apologize. Don't show weakness. The minute you do that, they'll be on you like leeches, waiting to such you dry and deposit the husk on the stoop... They can smell you a mile away, see you trembling through the back of their heads... keep strong, boy, and you might just make it out alive."
    "Was things always this way?"
    The old man shook his head slowly, sadly. "Nah, they weren't. But that's before living memory, cept for maybe Mama Tracy."
    "Who's she?"
    "Ol woman, lives down the holler. Liken her to a voodoo priest, some say."
    "She a witch?" The boy asks.
    "Mama ain't no witch. Just an ol woman who lived her whole live in the swamp. She learn what she gotta learn to survive."
    "How old she?"
    A shrug was most of the response the boy got, "Ain't nobody know." following the rhythmic roll of his shoulders that continued up into his face.
    "Well, you coulda ask."
    The old man got stern, "Doncha yo mama teach you it isn't polite to ask a woman her age?"
    The boy jumped, startled by the sudden sternness, already retreating below inscrutable eyebrows. The old main waited a beat for the boy's sake, then smiled, watching the child relax. The boy wasn't used to being scolded. His mother was much too kind for that.

    A quiet creak, and footsteps as the door opened. The boy's mother stood there, watching the two of them sleep--grandfather in his chair, the boy in a nest of blankets at the old man's feet. She smiled to herself and eased the door shut. Might as well let them sleep.

    Outside, the world was threatening a descent into chaos. The monsters the old man spoke of, scavengers who preyed on fear and self doubt, were out in force, feeding on the fear the sight of them created as they filled the streets.
    The old man woke with a start, hand dropping protectively to the head of the sleeping child below him. Outside, he could hear voices, saying things he never thought he'd hear again, not in this lifetime, not never. He'd lost friends to make sure of that.
    But somehow, they were back.

Hello Friends

Hey all,

Long overdue update from AdC!

The update? We're still alive!!!!!!


That's about it, folks. We're still alive and kicking. On my end (this is Art, btw), not much has changed on the typewriter front, since the SM-3 came home with me. The fountain pens still continue to be a thing... A TWSBI Diamond 580, Lamy Safari, and Pilot Prera have been delivered since the first of the year. Before that, the big deal was finally getting a Vanishing Point, after wanting it for 10+ years.

Writing continues. I actually finished a novel, for once, but now, it means that I have to edit. And I'm not a fan of editing. AT ALL. I finished the edits on paper a while back, but they were substantial enough that I think it's going to be easier to just retype the whole damn thing, rather than try to figure out where the edits go, and what needs to be deleted vs what needs to be kept. So... I've been putting that off. I'm hopefully going to find motivation to type it up next month, and to do the edit on the stageplay I wrote about 10 years ago--I finally found a composer who is willing to write the music for it!

I think that's about it... Told ya, not much to update. I'm mostly typing this to get used to typing on a computer keyboard again--I've been avoiding computers and keyboards for a while, in favor of pen and paper.

Cheers, everyone.

Bump

Bump.

Poll

People, poll. Answer in comments.

Do you want to see random short stories or weird poetry?

Lazy

Lazylazylazylazylazy

Meep

Meee meee meee mmeeeeeep

Eep

Eep Epp eep epp eeeeeeep

Beep

Beep

Beep

Beep

Blip

blip



blip



blip

Why I love typewriters

You know, they can be temperamental and break and flat out refuse to work, but at least they don't restart suddenly and lose and hour's hard work because the new windows and word DON'T SAVE AUTOMATICALLY EVEN IF THEY WERE SET TO!!

And to all the people who follow me on twitter--sorry for the outbursts and the language. The computer would have gone through the wall otherwise, then I'd be even further up shit creek.

ITAM

Well, I should post pictures of the new acquisitions since last ITAM, but that's going to have to come later.
Until then, here are some numbers.
New machines: 2
Wild found: 1
Total: 5
Currently working: 2/5

Episode 1

Here it is, the long awaited Episode 1! Find more details about the project at New! Epic! New! (Will link it when I get to a computer!)

And so it begins...

"And so it seems, gentlemen, that piracy is our only option!"

The men cheered, and in the back, one of the women giggled, "I do love it when that happens." she said, her eyes lighting up.

"It is quite a lovely enterprise, isn't it?" Her companion replied with a wry smile, "I'm sure by morning they'll have forgotten all about it."

"No." She wrinkled her nose, "No, you don't think so, do you?"

The captain shrugged, "Just an opinion, born of long experience. They are not the first to come ot this conclusion, and the will not be the last."

"So what are you going to do?"

Smiling, she flipped up the lapel on her seacoat, "Same thing I've always done. Take advantage of their indecision." Putting on her hat, she nodded at the innkeeper, "Good day, Miriam. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Good day, Captain Marlow." Miriam said after her, watching the coattails flick around the corner. A few moments later, as Miriam was making her rounds with the ale, she was stopped by a long haired woman sitting in the corner.

"Was that captain Jean Marlow who just left?" She asked, barely pulling the English pronunciation out of Marlow's given nickname.

"Depends on who's asking." Miriam replied, "You are?"

"Captain Selím. Marlow and I were once friends."

"Selím, eh?" Miriam set the flagon down on the woman's table, weighing Gene's response to knowing an old friend was in town, "Never heard of you. Pirate?"

"Of  course." Selím snapped, "What do I look like to you, a dragon slayer?"

"They're surprisingly diverse group, if you've never met one." She picked the empty flagons up off the table and loaded her tray, "Will that be all for you?"

"No. I'd like an answer, you fool."

"Then I suggest you go get it yourself."

New! Epic! New!

Epic! New! Project!

So. If you follow me on Twitter (@ anabstar), you may have seen randomness regarding backers and other things. Well, now that I probably don't have your attention, here's the news you haven't been waiting for.

About the epic new project.

So, earlier this year, mike speegle published Artifice online, in installments. I'm gonna kind of be stealing that same idea, the idea of the serial, published at intervals that will be random, rather than set, but it's still going to be happening.

The cool part is that you all get to help.

Yup. You heard me.

So. Here's how it's going to work--it's kinda like kickstarter but there's only one option and you don't have to pay any money.

What do you mean, no have to pay no monies?

To back the project, all it takes is being a willing conspirator. You mind find yourself receiving random questions and dialogue prompts from me, and if ou back the project, you're saying that you're willing to help... In return, you (or at least my perception of you), become a character in the short. No, not calling this a novel, because right now, it's more like a short improv gig. So, if you happen to respond to a dialogue prompt on Twitter, that's going to get incorporated in, somehow--this whole idea started when molly mullery responded very awesomely to a random tweet, and my brain just went from there.

Okay, bored now, so the rest of the random details... if you're interested in getting involved, you can leave a comment below, give me a shoutout on Twitter, or just keep an eye open for my next call!

Huzzah!

There's a moment

When you realize that your current level of Britishyness would make quite a lovely, rather foul mouthed character for you NaNoWriMo novel.

Free

SM-3 to anyone who will deal with its shit. And tantrums. And random refusals to work. Carriage used to return fine, now it grinds horribly.

Inquire below.

November.

I was so excited, don't you remember? 

Yeah... That was yesterday.

Today is November 1. 

One Week One Week One Weeeeeeeekkkk!!!!!

Yes, the reason for the continual forum span is nearly upon us!

ONE WEEEEEEKKKSSSS!!!!!

Help Wanted

Hi typosphere!

So eventually, I'll do a post about one of my grail machines that I finally acquired, but today, it's another question. I'm not looking to buy another machine right now, but for future reference, what are everyone's opinions on machines that can keep up with excessively speedy typing. I'm 70-80 WPM on a computer, and can probably get close to 50 on a typewriter... but the problem is that, at least with my SM-3, every time that I start to speed up, we run into the same old jamming problems that comes with lots of typebars flying in an enclosed space. So, typospherians, what are your favorite machines for speedy typing?

Once a scientist...

You know you are always a scientist when you have an idea and the first thing you reach for are a Sharpie and a paper towel.

POLL!! Typing Style

Hey Typosphere!

Had a frenzied typing session on the Skyriter tonight (oh yeah, if you didn't know it, mpclemens hooked me up with one of my grail machines in his cleanout... I'll get around to posting picturesnstuff eventually, promise), and I had this epiphany of a question, which may have already been asked, but what the hell. I'll ask it again.

What's your typing style?
(Can't figure out how to embed the poll in this post, so check it out at the top of the sidebar!)

Shifting

Dunno what it is, but there's a shift.
Shifting away from fiction.
Towards... I don't know.
No, not away from fiction.
Just away from the idea that came back and wanted to be worked on.
We're taking some time off.
We need our space.

It kinda feels like getting dumped, when an idea pulls away.
You give it so much time, so much energy, and then all of a sudden,
It's gone.
Not gone.
Just... ignoring you.
For the time being, at least.

I could go back, back to the collected past of ideas,
And pull something out of the pile and see what can happen.
But I don't know if I want to do that.
For so long, writing has defined part of my life.
Who I am.
What I do.

I don't remember the last drought period, but there has to be one.
I could check the books, find it,
And maybe I'll do that.
When I have the time.
If I ever have the time.
That's when I'll go back and find an idea to work on.

But until then?
Until then, the nebulosity of the new and unproven floats around.
Waiting.
Just waiting.
Forming.
Solidifying.
Congealing.
Maybe someday, they'll want to come out.

Until then, I'll just be.

Musings #?

I realized tonight that it's not just dance or ceramics that I miss. It's art, in all of it's forms. It's a fluidity of creation you don't necessarily get with writing. When you write, you don't so much touch it. The muscle memory stays on the page, rather than flying through the air, sliding along wet clay as it turns ever faster on the wheel. I miss the tactility of experience, of knowing what I see in front of me, what I watch in the mirror is me, an expression of everything inside. Words on a page may be the soul laid bare, but art is joy and light an unbounded expression of life.

No.

No. I mean it.

TWD 2013