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Categories: London, Macabre, Story
My short story is a semi-finalist in the 25th Writemovies writing contest. Suitable material for a low budget B movie.
Adam is besotted with Angel. All goes well until she takes to wearing a pink knitted top very similar to the one that Adam’s grandmother had on the day she died…
UPDATE: The story is now into the finals.
UPDATE: But it didn’t win. Oh well, never mind.
Categories: Blogroll, Essex, Life, London, Story
She lived on Highgate Hill, no less, right opposite the church. She was built like a mahogany wardrobe and she smelt like one, too. She boomed rather than spoke in a disturbingly deep smoker’s voice which had flecks of phlegm around the edges and she had a curious habit of addressing the wall instead of the person to whom she was talking. She was known as Mrs. W., although saying it out loud took longer than using her full name. She looked down her nose at Uncle.
Categories: France, Life, Story
la lecture d’un scénario de film de
My script (in French) reached the finals of the 23rd WriteMovies.com contest. It will receive a public reading on June 20, 2010 in a performance given at Carr’s in Paris by members of the “Moving Parts” script reading workshop.
Payne, un sexagénaire anglais, est arrêté pour tentative de rapt d’un enfant.
Relâché, faute de preuves, il devient l’ami de Lola et son petit garçon Benny.
Un inconnu les observe, et s’insinue dans la vie de Lola.
Un jour, lorsque Payne cherche Benny a l’école, ce dernier demeure introuvable…
How could someone have changed so completely?
Adam pondered this question as he waited for Angel outside the gaunt, three-story terrace of large Victorian houses in which they lived. Built in Brockley of fading yellow brick, the dwellings stood a few paces back from the road, as if to preserve a semblance of their former elegance, in much the same way that Adam did.
Here she comes.
Adam’s gaze took in her high-heels, her abundant blond locks and the tight-fitting trench-coat. As it hugged her figure, the black gabardine of the coat contrasted to good effect with a shower of stray pink petals floating in the late April air. The latter was the work of the wind, rustling its admiration of Angel by tugging at the giant blooms with which were laden the cherry trees that bordered Breakspears Road. Adam frowned.
When was it he had first begun to be afraid of her? [Read more]