Recently Severin, a storyline I have been working on, has been the target of an interesting script writing analysis over at Kung Fu Cabbage. The point here is to learn how to convert a full story into a script form. This is something I’ve been struggling with for quite some time. My idea always was to one day have the entire Severin story in script form and use it to convert the story into a comic book format. Since I know squat about script writing, this analysis could be quite useful. For now the first article over there only deals with some basic first steps. I am eagerly awaiting the second part. Apparently parts of the Severin story will be used as examples.
Apr
7
Note: This is the 4th part of the Severin saga. If you are a new reader, please start from the beginning right here. Scroll down all the way for the first story.
The phone rings. Its tune sounds familiar. It is my cellphone’s ring tone. I can’t answer. I don’t know where it is. I don’t know where I am. I can’t see. I can’t feel. I can’t hear. Yet, I hear my phone. It rings in my head. I can feel it vibrating in my bones. I want to reach for some pocket, some table top, some bag. I want to pick up the phone. I can’t. I am gone. But Severin, he exists. Read the rest of this entry »
Mar
25
/*Note from the author: This is a direct continuation of the Office Tales - Episode 2. The title of the story has changed. However, in order to understand the following story, you should have at least read Episode 2.*/
How dare we speak of the laws of chance? Is not chance the antithesis of all law? - Joseph Bertrand, Calcul des probabilités, 1889
I awake disoriented. This doesn’t last long, however. Antiseptic scents, the squelching sound of doctor’s slippers on linoleum floors, the cold fluorescent lights - just like back at the office weren’t it for all those ugly pastels. The walls, the floor and even the sheets; all in pastel colors. I am at a hospital.
I blink my eyes and try to look around but I can’t. My vision is blurred and my head won’t move. The shapes in the room are barely recognizable. Somebody opens the door to my room and that familiar squelching sound of the slippers indicates that its a nurse. My head turns to look. I couldn’t do that just a few moments ago and now, more than ever before in the last five minutes, I want to know what happened.
“What happened to me?” I want to ask but hte words don’t come out; my lips won’t move. I still can’t see properly and I am starting to get worried as my eyes squint. It felt like an automatic reaction, beyond my control.
“Your glasses are on the night stand next to you.”,the nurse that just entered says. What? I don’t wear glasses. Still, I reach for them and slide the slender frame onto my nose. The world around me shifts into focus. I feel numb. The nurse speaks again but I don’t pay attention. I feel out of control and the nurse speaks yet again.
“Sir? Mister Severin?”
“Yes?” a voice answers. My lips just moved. I think I just said that but that wasn’t myname; it wasn’t my voice. The nurse gives me scornful look.
“The doctor says you almost died this time. You were lucky Mister Severin.” she continues. Again she uses the name that isn’t mine.
“Fuck you.” I answer. I want to scream, I want to reclaim control. This isn’t me! “Bitch.” the voice adds and this time the word echoes through the room, through my head, through my bones.
“Motherfucker, wake up!” That wasn’t the nurse. It wasn’t me, either. My eyes are closed. I stir in my bed and pry open my sleep crusted eyes. It was a dream. I look at the ceiling of my apartment. Home. A gun barrel is suddenly pushed between my eyes. I try to sit up and the cold, chromed steel pushes my head back down into the sweat soaked pillow.
“Time to die.” a very real voice announces. Too real. I don’t react. I am dreaming. This is merely a dream. The kind where you slip from one dream to the next, seamlessly. The revolver’s hammer cocks. It slams back. I can neither feel the pain nor hear the noise. I die.
Back at the hospital he gets out of bed after the nurse has left the room and stands on weak legs. His clothes are placed on a chair across the room, folded neatly in a stack. His shoes are under the chair. He walks over and starts getting dressed. As he puts on his shirt he turns to face the mirror to his left. The image of a skinny and gaunt, six foot four tall man with unkempt hair and unshaven face looks back at him. This is Severin. And Severin smiles because he knows the nurse will die tonight. He will be there.
There will be judgement.
-to be continued-
Mar
6
This is the second episode of Severin. For those who haven’t read the introduction, please be advised that its best to start from the beginning.
Episode 2:
The doors slide open and I stumble out of the bus onto the streets. I wish I could say that the ride was accompanied by an unnerving feeling after receiving that phone call. I can’t. I am numb. I’ve been numb for some years now. Sometimes its hard to tell the difference between a week of working at the office and the last eight years I’ve spent with the company.
The industrial area surrounding me matches my mood as one gray colossus after the other lines up next to its cloned brother - forever standing to attention as the looming edificial soldiers of the corporate battlefield.
I arrive at my building.
“Hey, Torwald!” Read the rest of this entry »
Feb
9
What follows is the beginning of a storyline that will drop you into the world of an unsuspecting low-key super hero character. It plays in present time and is told from a first person perspective. Please note that this is merely the first episode. Don’t expect a full blown jump into action right after the first few minutes that you’ve met the protagonist. This is going to be a long story. A saga. It will start off very subtle and mundane and develop into the super hero story that we all would like to read.
I have never written a story about a super hero before, so take it easy on me, alright? :)
So here goes. Please enjoy.
Severin - Episode 1 - Introduction
THE alarm goes off. I roll over to face the night stand and my arm numbly swings out to hit the next best thing placed on the stand. I knock over the night light, a box of cold medicine, a roll of toilet paper, a bottle of Johnny Walker, Skeletor and a Smith and Wesson - a replica. My cellphone, the source of the alarm, stays unharmed on the stand. My eyes open just enough to allow rudimentary vision. Defiantly the Motorola from Hell stands its ground. As blood flows back into my numb arm, my fingers slowly stretch out to grab the phone. A push of a button on the dial and the noise is gone. Outside the birds are chirping, buses are rushing down the express lane and I have to wake up.
Risen from deep sleep I lurch across the cold marble floor through the bedroom, across the living-room and towards the bathroom. Passing the kitchen area I register the welcoming amber glow radiating from a low bowl. Better than brushing teeth, I think and knock down the whiskey. I shower for about twenty minutes and alternate between scrubbing and leaning my forehead against the shower doors, trying to stay somewhat upright. The water is searing hot - I don’t feel it. The rising steam in the bathroom is a clear tell-tale, though. I should get out.
I finish showering and dry myself off. I lurch back through the apartment into my bedroom. On my way I turn on a few lights. None of the light sources in my apartment are stronger than 30 Watt. The ambient evening mood never leaves these walls - this is my haven, my fortress, a permanent sunset shielding my eyes from all that is bright and too real. I crawl into a pair of washed out jeans, pull a gray hooded sweater over my head and put on my old, battered pair of black Converse Chucks. I spend the remaining time looking for my key-card; I do this at a painstakingly slow pace. Rapid movement makes my head ring as if I had spidey senses. I grab my keys and leave the house. One flight of stairs and I’m outside. The sun is shining, people are moving, cars are driving. I want them all to stop. As expected they resist my alcohol dampened willpower and continue to go about their business. I follow suit and cross the road; I have a bus to catch.
The smell of spices and other exotic wares lies heavily in the air. I am only a few yards away from the bazaar. Oriental pop music mingles with the penetrating scent and I can’t decide whats louder - the music or the smell in the air. To understand this, you probably need to drink as much as I do. I reach another crossing and stop. This city is unique in character and looks. A dangerous and enticing amalgam of high-tech, European architecture, tropical flora and oriental temperament. A culture embracing the sweets of the west and the spices of the middle east.
Fumbling in my back pocket, I produce a crumpled pack of cigarettes. I shake one out, light it with a plastic BIC lighter and the light at the crossing turns green. I remember to walk. Approaching the bus stop I can see the approaching bus - my line. I break into a jog and make it just in time before the doors slide shut again. Noisy hydraulic pumps threaten to crush my hand as the doors close shut on it. My cigarette is knocked to the ground outside the bus. I pull my hand in, pay and receive a ticket and stagger through the aisle looking for a place to sit.
My phone rings and I flip it open. I never answer the phone with a vocal greeting. I let the other person speak first.
“Ben?”
I confirm and nod as if the person on the other end could see me. Its the office.
“Are you sitting down?”
I am trying.
“You better get here fast.”
Doesn’t sound good. I forgot my flask of whiskey at home. This makes it sound even worse.
“You will never believe what just happened.”
- To be Continued -
