(opinion) Thirst Quenching.

Opinion, Ramble

A bunch of Pepsi Execs in a futuristic board room, a holographic chart of demographics and brand ‘points’ hovering before them. Suddenly from among the gathering, a hip forty-year-old woman named Sandra smiles and raises her hand. The head of the meeting, John, a fifty-six-year-old man points to her.

‘Kendall Jenner!’

There is a murmur in the room and its dissolves into applause. John beams an unnaturally perfect smile and throws a thumbs-up at Sandra.

‘Great work! Sandra!’

Sandras breakthrough begins a wave of creative revelation. Different execs from Paul, to Ryan to even the usually less creative Ryan II flood the room.

‘Protests!’ ‘Youth!’ ‘Models!’ ‘Kendall Jen— oh we have that already’ ‘Upset Minorities!’

At the end of it all, they have their advertisement.

They go home to their children. Who they attempt to instill moral values into but instead unwittingly burn their own fundamental character failures into.

Or they listlessly sit in their apartments staring at an image of their Christ, a bottle of Pepsi, while swigging gulps of the spirit of their choice and feinting against the aggressive urge to kill themselves.

Or they ingratiate themselves into ‘hip’ cultural events and incessantly hold it up to their social media feeds desirous of the social praise and acceptance they HAVE to hold dear otherwise everything they do is pointless and they have failed and failure is unacceptable.

Months later. The commercial is finished and making the rounds. And somebody gets upset because it is inhuman. A reflection of a Corporations personality, so unfeeling and lacking empathy. The people who care, cry and bawl. And the people who don’t care about the people who care, ask them why they care so much.

And we all are Gods in our little worlds of chaos and complication, creating little storms that swirl away with time. And Kendall Jenner just cut a cheque with a company that makes sweet poison. Sandra and John just made a bonus.

And I sit in my bedroom, Living for Now.

(w.i.p) the face

Writing, Writing in Progress



Fade In.

Everything in the following seems somehow incomplete*. As though deliberately staged. Artificial. An oddly lit kitchen with bare walls. One light beaming down from the center of the room. Like watching an infomercial if the entire thing was filmed in your kitchen.

Cut to:

Canted and fixed one shot of BEN. 25 years old.

Lean with mild stubble. Wiry but puffy.

The look of somebody that used to exercise but traded the sweat in for alcohol and weed.

He sits top lit against the kitchen counter with three other people.

One of whom is his brother MIKE, 29. Broader with a paunched stomach, bespectacled and a receding brown hairline.

The other two are indistinguishable. Black, lively silhouettes. They seem organic to the scenario. As such, their anonymity is not out of place.

Everybody is drinking. Mike electro-garbles** the punchline to a joke. The room erupts into levity.

Ben seems bored. He confirms this by pulling out a phone.

Cut to text:

“There are one hundred missed calls.”

Cut to:

Ben is the only person in the kitchen. He does not notice this newfound solitude. The light is now illuminating the cupboard. Licking his lips, he wanders over and pulls it open.

The whole thing is stacked with Oreos. Stacked so tightly in fact that Ben struggles to withdraw a single blue box. Agitated he pinches the end of the bottom right corner. It takes a few tugs, but he pries it free. There is no gravity, so the boxes above just hover.

Again, Ben is unaware.

Cut to:

The staircase is in the middle of blank space. Ben is already halfway up. It’s as though he is moving faster than the environment. The stairs themselves, sort of, procedurally generate ahead of his ascent.

His room visually appears at the top as he climbs.

A box atop stairs in a giant, black nothing.

Cut to:

Ben’s face is illuminated by the phone screen as he enters the bedroom. There isn’t much going on in here. Bare, white walls. One poster, though its ‘image’ is a blurry mess. An unmade bed sits against a window with drawn curtains. 

IT is standing there, waiting.

The bed and phone suddenly disappear as The Face in the window notices him.

All white. Hollow socket eyes. Smooth, expressionless features. It’s mouth, drooping and weird, turns into an abominable and much-too-wide smile. Pushing its black, phantom body against the glass it points, laughing horrifically.

The window begins violently shuddering.

The Face is trying to get in.

SFX: The laughter is muffled by the glass.

Ben sprints over and desperately attempts to keep the opening sealed. He is struggling to hold the convulsing window shut and the glass is cracking as this deformed, laughing demon so close to his face howls with malevolent joy.

Something gives and the glass explodes over Ben.

SFX: The sound of laughter drowns out all else.

As he falls back, two long and wraith-like arms seize Ben by the neck. The Face’s jaw extends, howling with glee, somehow rapidly expanding in size. Drenched in sweat Ben futilely cowers from The Face, as it begins dragging him through a storm of wind and into it’s huge elongated mout-