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David Walker Dec 2012
Origins
written and directed
by
David Walker

Inspired
by
the films of
Quentin Tarantino
David Lynch
&
Rob Zombie

There is method
To his madness

                                                        ­                                                                 ­                  January 2013              
                                              ­                                                                 ­                       first draft









1. EXT. Run down project apartment complex - 3:00 am

A dark, tall figure with long black hair and a trenchcoat opens the already cracked red door.

MAN:
I'm looking for love in all the wrong places.

                                                        ­                                                                 ­                                       CUT TO:
INT. Apartment 3

A typical roach infested apartment with a kitchen built into the living room. 3 GIRLS are on the kitchen floor. GIRL # 1 one has black hair with big lips and a curvy frame and she is wearing a pair of Tripp pants and a black bra barely covering her ample *****. She has a flesh colored rubber hose tied to her left arm. GIRL # 2 has dyed rainbow colored hair, a nice smile, and a skinny frame. She is wearing a pair of tore blue jeans with smiley faces and cute in jokes written on them, also not wearing a shirt with a lacy blue bra on. She has a spoon with water and black tar ****** inside it which she is heating up with a silver Zippo with the word "Skittles" engraved into it. GIRL # 3 Has long naturally red hair, glasses and an extremely voluptuous figure. She is wearing tight black pants and a black shirt with thin sleeves. She is inspecting a covered syringe with an unsure look in her eyes.

GIRL # 2:
So, do you wanna do it or not Jane?

Snatches the syringe out of JANE's hand.

JANE:
I'm not sure. How long have you been doing this ****?

Girl #2 takes the orange cap off the syringe revealing a small needle.

GIRL #2:
Since after I graduated. About 3 years. Liz you ready?

LIZ:
As ready as I am for dat sweet tang!

Girl #2 giggles. She sticks the needle into Liz's arm, blood mixes with the brown fluid inside, and she pushes the plunger down. Liz leans back into Girl #2's arms and Girl #2 gives her a kiss.

LIZ:
I love you, Julia.

JULIA:
Well, I love you too.

JANE:
You guys are so gay!

(OS):
Save that **** for the ******* customers!

                                                     ­                                                                 ­                                       CUT TO:
Other side of room. A greasy looking MAN with short faded black hair and a scar going from the corner of his mouth to the right ear is sitting in a beat up recliner cleaning his Uberti 1873 Cattleman revolver while smoking a fat blunt and watching some kind of high budget **** with Sasha Grey in it.

JULIA:
Sorry, Mike. It didn't stop you from leaving me and Liz unsatisfied and bored, did it?

LIZ and JULIA laugh. JANE has a nervous look in her eyes.

MIKE:
Very ******* funny you wore out trick! Am I gonna have to smack the sass out yo mouth?

MIKE gets up, puts out his blunt and walks over to the GIRLS gun in hand.

MIKE:
Or am I gonna have to give your little friend a scar like mine.

LIZ:
Mike don't!

MIKE SLAPS JULIA with the side of his UNLOADED revolver and grabs JANE by her hair.

MIKE:
Who the **** are you, anyways *****?

JANE:
(stuttering)
I was walking down the street earlier today and I ran into Julia and Liz. They went to school with my sister I think. Let me go!

MIKE:
So you're a young'n. Well you have some nice big *******!

MIKE RIPS off her shirt exposing her *******. He begins to squeeze the right one. JANE SLAPS MIKE HARD!

MIKE:
*****!

MIKE lets go of her hair. Jane runs to the other room grabbing her shirt. LIZ stumbles towards him and PUNCHES him in the nose.

MIKE:
That's it! You little *** dumpsters are dead!

MIKE picks up the REVOLVER, runs to the chair where the bullets are and tries to reload. JULIA wakes from her daze. We see him load 3 rounds. All of a sudden the DOOR gets broken down and the dark clad FIGURE from the scene before pulls out a BERETTA M9 with a silencer attachment. MIKE FIRES 2 shots at him haphazardly missing both. The MAN LAUGHS and FIRES one shot that MIKE's crotch catches.

                                                       ­                                                                 ­                                       CUT TO:
2. INT. Next door in Apartment 2.

A MAN and WOMAN in their early 40's are smoking a joint and seem disturbed by the gunfire.

MAN:
(coughing)
What the hell was that?

WOMAN:
Sounded like gunshots. Do you think we should call the cops?

MAN:
**** no! There is a pound of chronic in the bedroom closet! Just pray whoever it is doesn't come over here!

WOMAN:
Okay. Are you gonna pass that?

                                                          ­                                                                 ­                                     CUT TO:
3. INT. Apartment 3.

The smoke has cleared. MIKE is begging for death and BLEEDING out everywhere, JULIA is in a daze, dumbfounded by what she just witnessed, LIZ is cowering in fear, crying, and JANE just came out of the bedroom with her TORN SHIRT on and a terrified "Oh my God" expression. The unknown assailant has a devilish grin upon his face.

MIKE:
Godfuck! **** me you sunuvabitch! Godda--

The MAN obliges. He fires a single shot into his RIGHT EYE.

MAN:
Well, looks like I got here in the nick of time!

JULIA:
(blankly)
W-Who the **** are you?

MAN:
That is of little importance right now. Who are you foxy ladies?

JULIA:
M-My name's Julia. That girl over there (points to Liz) is Liz, and the ginger is Jane.

MAN:
What pretty names! Well, I have a question. Will you three lovely young ladies gather round that despicable looking chair and listen to what I have to say, or are you going to run? Keep in mind I have rope in my trenchcoat and the fact I mean you no harm. I am just a lonely man with a story to tell, and the way I see it, what with that bruise on your sweet face, you kinda owe me.

JULIA:
I think we can stay. I just wanna know your name.

MAN:
Ahh, but I am a man of many names. My christian name is Derek. You don't need the last for now.

DEREK walks to the chair and sits down. He waves the GIRLS over.

DEREK:
C'mon I just want to tell my tale. Look, I will put the gun under the chair as a sign of good faith that neither you girls or I will start shooting the place up again. Are we square ladies?

JULIA:
What do ya say guys?

They gather in the kitchen.

LIZ:
This guy has a ***** loose.

JULIA:
Yes, but he saved us from our ****. We should humor him.

JANE:
I think he is hot!

LIZ and JULIA just stare at JANE.

JANE:
Sorry, but he is.

JULIA:
So it's agreed. We will listen to his story, silently pray he doesn't **** us and leave afterwards.

The GIRLS walk to the chair. DEREK has lit the blunt.

DEREK:
Ahh, so you have decided to join me. Good. Do you guys wanna hit this?

LIZ and JULIA shake their heads no.

JANE:
I will.

DEREK:
Great. Now, where do I begin. I suppose everybody's roots stem from childhood, so lets go back, oh say, 20 years ago.

                                                           ­       FADE TO BLACK        
Against black, TITLE CARD

October 15th 1995.

                                                          ­                       CUT TO      
4. EXT. Suburbia circa 1995.

There are three boys between the ages of 6 and 9 playing in front of a grey HOUSE with a white MINIVAN in the driveway. Little DEREK is a scrawny 6 year old boy with short brown hair and a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles action figure in his hands. The 2 other BOYS ages 7 and 9 are picking on him and trying to take away DONATELLO.

DEREK:
Leave me alone or I will whoop your ****.

BOY #1:
Whatever! You are scrawny and lame. Give us your Ninja Turtle now or we will beat you up!

BOY #2 picks up a STICK and starts hitting DEREK with it.

BOY #2:
What are you going to do? Get your daddy? Oh, wait...that's right, you don't have one!

The 2 BULLIES start laughing. A look of hatred fills young DEREK's eyes. He catches the STICK and slaps BOY #2 in the face with it. He then tackles him and starts beating him mercilessly. BOY #1 runs towards the PORCH and knocks on the DOOR. DEREK'S MOM answers. She is in her mid 30's with brown hair and casual clothing on, smoking a cigarette and drinking a cup of "coffee."

BOY #2:
Derek's beating up Josh again!

DEREK'S MOM:
Well, good for him! Bet that little pecker snot deserved it too. Now, Brad...why don't you take you and your friend on home before I tell your dad you play with Barbies.

LATE 20'S DEREK:
(OS)
My mother was a sweet ol' broad!

BRAD:
(sighs)
Okay, Ms. Walters, but you do know you are going to have to pull him offa Josh right?

DEREK'S MOM:
(sighs like Brad)
I suppose.

DEREK'S MOM and BRAD walk to the front yard and GASP when they notice that DEREK has knocked out 2 of JOSH'S baby teeth, both in the front and broke his nose, which is bleeding profusely.

DEREK'S MOM:
Derek Charles Walters! Get the **** up offa him!

DEREK:
(crying)
He hit me with a stick!

DEREK'S MOM:
Well, now I'm about to!

She picks up the STICK and beats his *** with it several times.

DEREK:
******* *****!

DEREK'S MOM, infuriated throws the stick down and SLAPS him across the face. DEREK runs away.
He runs to a wooded area in the back yard as far as his legs can take him.

LATE 20'S DEREK:
(OS)
Do not weep, for on that day, I met God and Satan incarnate and it turns out they existed singularly in my head.
                                                           ­                                                                 ­                          CUT TO:

5. JANE:
Like a conscience?

DEREK:
Much more. These guys are in the room right now and only I can see him. Satan led me to you guys tonight! Who knows what kind of CRAZY hijinks are in store!

JULIA:
That's it I'm outta here! C'mon gu--

DEREK fires of his M9 1 time.

DEREK:
Now, listen to me you dykey, ****** *****. I have 3 more rounds in this ******* and one
of them is reserved for you if you don't sit your tight *** back down.

JULIA sits back down scared to death. DEREK regains his composure and is "all smiles" again.

DEREK:
Phew! I don't want to hurt anybody. I just want someone pretty to listen to my ******* story. ****, if you want, I will ask you guys about yourself later on, but for now I'm going to introduce you to my best friends.

JANE:
Who are they again?

DEREK:
Ah, you were trying to pay attention. I will remember that. They go by many names. One can be called "God", "Heroic Harry", "The White Knight", whatever you envision as good, this **** is it. He is the reason you guys are still alive.

LIZ:
And the other?

DEREK:
Ahh, him. He can go by "Satan", "The ******", "The Angel of Death." He's the reason ol' crusty here no longer bothers you.

LIZ:
So you're basically ape ****, right?

DEREK:
Pretty much! Now where was I? Ah...yes

                                                       ­                                                                 ­                                    CUT TO:

6. INT. Small wooded area behind the house --- Early evening.

DEREK has made himself a nice little HANGOUT in the woods! there is a trunk with tons of comics in it, an arsenal of sharpened sticks and rocks, Batman action figures, and a Game Boy Color. He is drawing a picture at the moment.

LATE 20'S DEREK:
(OS)
There I was in my element. ****** at my mother, then all of a sudden, a deep, angelic voice rang out.

VOICE #1:
(OS...of course)
You don't have to hate her, you know. She loves you.

LATE 20'S DEREK:
(OS)
And then another, this voice sounding more playful and mischievous then the other.

VOICE #2:
(OS)
But, for how long? Do you think she meant to have you?

DEREK:
Where are you guys?

LATE 20'S DEREK:
(OS)
And then they appeared.

A 13 YEAR OLD BOY with BROWN hair and a FLANNEL overshirt over a Nirvana T-SHIRT with baggy torn blue JEANS with stains on them appears.

BOY #1:
Don't hate your mom.

VOICE #2:
(OS)
But, watch her close.

DEREK turns his head. We see another BOY roughly the same age with slightly long BLACK hair and a TRENCHCOAT over a Nine Inch Nails T-SHIRT with tight black CHICK PANTS with a CHAIN leading from his pocket to his BELT. He has a lip piercing and he is smoking a cigarette.

DEREK:
Who are you guys?

BOY #1:
Just think of us as older brothers your mom can't see.

DEREK:
Wow! I should introduce you guys to my friends!

BOY #2:
No!

DEREK:
Why not?

BOY #2:
You are the only person that can see us. Don't go telling anyone and don't talk to us in front of anyone. People will think you are nuts!

BOY #1:
Think of us as two ghosts that give you advice. Don't listen to him though, he'll get you in trouble.

BOY #2:
Shut up! Or I will kick your *** again.

BOY #1:
Not in front of him. He doesn't need to see that ****. Not now

DEREK:
What are your names?

BOY #1:
That's up to you.

DEREK:
I'll call you Joe, and him Jerry.

JOE:
Works for me, for now. Call us whatever you feel like calling us whenever you like. If you wanna call me ******* and him poophead, go right ahead.

DEREK:
Okay, but for now you guys are Joe and Jerry.

JOE:
We are going to leave now. We will show up when we think the time is right. Sometimes you will see us others you won't, but we are always with you.

JERRY:
Even when you ****.

                                                          ­                                                                 ­                     CUT TO:
7. INT. Apartment 3.

LATE 20'S DEREK:
And then I went back home and they disappeared. I reconciled with my mom and for the next few weeks I didn't see them. Brad started hanging out with me again and school was good. The years go by and still no sight of them. 4 years pass by. It's 1999 and my tastes changed. Instead of Ninja Turtles and Batman it was KISS and Freddy Krueger. By this point me and Josh had made up and Brad was in middle school. And so we go to where me and the voices meet again.

8. INT. Taft Elementary
A class of roughly 25 children in your average 5th grade home room with a stout middle aged gentleman teaching. JOSH and DEREK are in the back row sitting side by side.

TEACHER:
...And that's how the metric system works.

JOSH:
(to Derek)
Dude, did you check out RAW last night? The Undertaker crucified Stone Cold!

DEREK:
**** I missed it. I was doing homework.

JOSH:
(loud)
****!!

TEACHER:
What did you say Mr. Jarvis?

JOSH:
Sorry Mr. Cannib. I forgot to do my homework.

MR. CANNIB:
Josh, Derek, outside!

LATE 20'S DEREK:
(OS)
The old man had taken kids out of the classroom before and they always came back with tears in their eyes. As we walked outside I heard a familiar voice.

JERRY:
(OS)
If he touches either of you, kick him in the nuts!

MR. CANNIB:
I told you boys too many times! None of this **** in my classroom! Josh get over here you little *****!

OL' TEACH GRABS JOSH by the NECK.

DEREK:
Hey ******* keep your hands to yourself!

CANNIB begins to throttle JOSH. DEREK pushes him off of JOSH and KICKS the TEACHER in the nuts with FURY about 3 times and jumps on top of him while JOSH watches holding his neck.

JERRY:
(OS) While we see Derek's mouth moving

Look here, *******. You think you can be called a teacher for drinking on a farm, ******* cattle and beating children so you can have Summer vacation every year? *******, you spiteful sad man.

DEREK SPITS in the *******'S face and begins to PUNCH him when JOSH pulls him off.

JOSH:
Dude, the door outta here is right there. Lets go to our lockers, get our **** and get outta here.

DEREK:
(Breathing heavily)
Did I just do that? What the ****? Let's get out of here...now!

                                                    ­                                                                 ­                                           CUT TO:
9. EXT. Taft Elementary
A bunch of playground equipment next to an alley with a fenced in field. JOSH and DEREK are walking down the alley. It is sunny outside but about to rain.

DEREK:
That wasn't me that did that.

JOSH:
If it wasn't you who was it?

DEREK:
It w...

JOSH:
(Interrupting)
It reall
Vladmir Putin May 2015
Frank Sinatra
En mi casa
Copy pastarino

Wearin Prada
Russian opera
Quentin Tarantino
I wanna be artistic
**** achromatic
violence like lip biting
& brain
splattered on the walls
of some place sacred
&I; wanna be worshipped like satan.

Sweet Christ.
my hopes are high.
as am I.

you've got a mind
I'd like to **** blind.
so whenever
you've got the time &
if you like
being set on fire.

I could help.

but we aren't friends
otherwise.
& you're selfish.
Not done with this. dunno how I feel. lovehate. strange feeling.
Jodie-Elaine Mar 2019
The narcissistic urge flips eggs now.
Our ex-veteran father-figure gets a hamster, calls it Snuffles.
The thing you don’t know until the end of the script of the Tarantino-twist is that our protagonist sits
rocking back and forth in
a barren room inside a strait-jacket.

Meanwhile, our enemy shouts
something along the lines of:
"grab a spoon
I hope they don’t wash their hands"
The stones fallen off their strings,
gunshots hotwire themselves away from
a dubstep kind of drilling, the pipe dream
of an intimate email relationship.
Shout again,
"I hope you never feel those clammy hands.
Blaarghh"
Your diner eggs stink
I chucked up
In the kitchen bin.
Snuffles, a weird poem from my collection: 'PERFORMANCE ARTIST POETRY AND BRAIN FARTS FOR UNSOLICITED MICROWAVE HEADS' (again, yes all caps)
Daniel James Aug 2012
We all know the sound of a gun
If we haven't heard one,
We've heard one in the movies.

A staplegun
Snapped me back from daydreams
Of Matrix offices and warehouses
Hole-punched a Tarantino image
In my head.
Robin Carretti Dec 2016
Roar Bean Got
Chosen
Sipping on taste
never forgotten
So miraculous power
rising.

Been told so
Boldly,
her uniqueness
Only it's mode of
attachment
Sips up on you like a

Goddess
in fragments

Her spell of the blend,
Coffee lips he was sold
kissed her hand
Mystical bow

Thought's love-arrowed
Through "Hearts" Wowed
All her poem's

Quick thinking
The (Quickie) hour?
Coffee lips ******* the
tower money showered

Home-body
Coffee__steamy
 he raided my book
Crystal ball showed me,
"Everyone"
Oh! my he dated
(Holy-Coffee)
My Ego got inflated
Digging gold dreamily
Flower Lily mated and
seeded


Please "Lips" dream on

Opening up the invitation

Coffee? Me or You
Masquerade flower's brocade
Spellbound red poppy I fooled you
Coffee says cheesecake

Mystical play awake
Chosen One Bean
Clean Godly-scent
Cat nine rumor years.
coffee live's pretend

Million in one tear's
gallivant super stirred
Small World Cafe
Big University Princeton NJ.
Mister Mystical  laptop taking
a sip New Jersey

The kaleidoscope Blueberry

Go Girl Godiva-raspberry
Coffee lip me

  Not over my lip's
He takes another sip
Carmello, He's the
good fellow
Italian mob cappuccino 
 Leave the Cannoli
Take the gun movie set
"Tarantino"
Here's his handle I'm his
Secret Gun-it lips
I told you
my secret Streaming
play scout

The smell of his aura cup
In his eye's only James
No games just coffee?
Bonds

What about me?

Her chosen bean
Luna blue blueberry
His  sugar flight
"Shimmering Chandeliers"
Hello musketeer's fight

Mystical Coffee well suited
BMW car's
Wedding Bellringer
We are destined to star is born
Judy my Mom the singer.
Cafe **** smooth flowing Mystical fire lots of love desire
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
saying ******* seems so much more
easier when you're petting cats....
they just say it for you...
there he is, Quarus,
the operatic singer nearing sunset,
200 variations of a mulling of meow,
i end up calling him Orbison Rufus,
the ginger Roy of Peckham -
he basically meows lazily like Roy
singing... as said / i.d. (id est): the umbras
or umbrellas - counting the shadows'
version of Apache's yawn: ah-woo ah-woo
ah-woo nagging the reflex...
gave them the yawn and gave them 1950s
America... Billy the Kid talking to the king of
Specs... hank marvin.... cheese grater
with those teeth... dozen cows buckling with
the herding in while the dog carved a feel
for religion in the translation of the Vatican
from coliseum into football requirements...
the movies were great in the 1950s, just after
the technicolour... petting cats was never such a thrill...
the operatic meow, onomatopoeia from echo
in a cave to knock-on-wood...
200 variations of the knock
and 12 whiskey shots downed
while playing poker... 12 cowboys
1 Milwaukee and 30 Turks... classic Tarantino...
i said the Apache yawn... i never said giving
out smoke signals...
Quarus my ginger is demanded as having laughed...
he's Roy Orbison with the meow,
pretty much lazy...
looks like a murmur when he tries singing,
pretty woman, trolling down the street,
Gucci, Chanel, and everything in the scrapheap of lobotomy,
as is Paris necessarily mentioned: chiselled
white collars... Roy knew before Elvis...
the trick came with sunglasses,
and the gluttonous slur of the half-opened mouthing
for subsequent mouthing it off...
no amount of cheese in French could ever
charter the success of the cheeses added to cheeseburgers
with the milkshakes, which were plainly Dutch
laughing cows named Novices....
quick-melts and some said:
dreadlocks of string-yellow Gouda pulled
for a hippies' worth of Chinese chugging down
a pint or two, for worth of gag and the slim mascot;
the Chinese never taught Cannes arithmetic
of the thumb through to pinky...
i don't know how they taught counting
with their complex ideograms, they never taught
arithmetic give their encoding...
they taught pure math.. they never taught the simplest
of assurances... meaning so few of them became bankers.
I had a dream last night. It was one of those dreams where you can't tell if you're awake, or even alive. But actually, I had a nightmare last night. It was one of those nightmares where you can't tell if the darkness lives inside of you, eating away at your organs, or if the darkness is surrounding you and eating away at you. But if I'm being honest with you, last night was a tragedy. It was one of those tragedies where you can't tell if everyone actually dies in the end or if we've all just been dead the whole time.

In my dream I was sleeping with the stars, high up in a nest that I made from all of the sticks from eyes and the branches from my brain and the leaves filling up my heart like taxidermy; making it look like it was never stomped on and kicked to the curb like road ****. Making it look like it wasn't shot at for sport because it would look nice hung up above the mantle.

And suddenly my leaves were running away from me into the current of the wind, and the wind was running too, as if the wind came and swept them away from me, but I knew better. My leaves weren't taken from me. They were leaving me. And the wind was leaving too and I could see the wind holding my stuffed up heart above me, taunting me, "na-na-nanana, I'm not touching you!" until I could feel that there was no more wind left in my heart. I always knew my heart was only felt with dead leaves and sticks but I didn't feel it until that moment.

Suddenly, the wind threw my heart to the ground with a malice that I never knew it had. How could my wind, once a gentle breeze caressing my skin, treat me so harshly? The wind threw my heart to the ground which such a speed that I thought for sure it would make a ****** mess all over the cobblestone pavement. And then, I realized I had fallen too, without even noticing because I was so focused on the potential pain of my heart that I never noticed my own body sprawled upon the ground. And I lay there I watched my heart beating outside of my chest, knocking on the ground. I saw it leaking, as if somebody had poked tiny little holes in it; blood was oozing out of it but not in the gory Tarantino kind of way. My heart was crying crimson tears that flowed through the cobblestone like veins dying to be seen by everybody. And then I watched it stop beating as if it simply ran out batteries and I had to go to the store to buy more but I knew better. Even batteries couldn't revive it this time.

And I was terrified, so I turned away from it because I couldn't look at it anymore. But what I saw behind me, staring me in the face, was far more terrifying.

It was you. And you were watching me like you had been there the whole time and I never noticed because I was so **** distracted by my beating heart like a bird buzzing in my ear, my heart was making intricate rhythms with my eardrums creating a song that I couldn't get out of my head anymore my heart was needing needing needing needing needing needing needing needing needing needing needing needing needing needing needing needing my attention. Pathetic. And as I observed you I noticed... you weren't breathing either. So I started pushing you, shoving you, hitting you, shaking you, trying to wake you up, demanding your unanimated attention... but you were stuck like me. Just dreaming.

It was like the old days, you were alive but not awake. There were no more golden stars in your eyes, they were empty. And your eyes didn't look at me anymore because they were empty. No, there were no more golden stars in your empty eyes when you looked at the golden birds buzzing around my head like a heavy halo crown straining my neck, they were just annoying to you. No, you had some ****** up agenda in a foreign language from a ****** up foreign planet that I couldn't understand. And you knew I couldn't speak like you but you still taunted me with the curl of your tongue and the intonation of your voice. And I saw you slowly drifting away from me... back to that foreign planet of yours; my little ******* prince. And as I watched you leave me I saw delusions leaking from your brain as your eyes rolled back. But all they did was rain down on me.
Obadiah Grey Oct 2010
I've basked on the beach with Beethoven
n boogied to his craazzy style,
I taught Tarantino to tango,
we sat down, chewed the fat for awhile,

I've tap danced in Bojangles shoes
sung with Leadbelly blues,
never liked Picasso though;
the ****** drank all 'o mi *****,

I Bossanova'd my way down to san José
jus to hear what Hendrix could play;,, ,
I found Einstein to be relatively kind
but Dylan really blew my mind,
Dylan really blew my mind,
Now Dylan- he ****** with my mind.

Alan nettleton.
Anais Vionet Jul 2022
It’s May 18th, 2022. I’m poised, alone, heart pounding, in front of my laptop, waiting for courage, my finger hovering over the return key, like a child hoping the timing of my keystroke will bring me luck.

I took this summer off - which drove my mom absolutely CrAzY. “You CAN’T!” she’d said last month, only to be overruled by my Grandmère. Now I’m home for summer break and tonight she’s flush with exasperation.

“You should have applied for a dean’s fellowship,” she said, her voice rising as she rubs her hands together, as if scrubbing for an operating room procedure, “and a summer research position!” She’s practically twirling with suppressed emotion.

I get why she’s upset. She only goes “deep end” when she's worried about my future. She knows what’s needed to get a medical school slot in 2025 like other moms know their favorite recipe - after all, she’s done this twice before.

Leong’s upstairs, avoiding this family scene. When I described my family expectations as “hustle culture,” to my roommates, they all understood - we’re that much alike.

Step (my stepfather) is trying to de-escalate and calm us (her) down. “Look,” he says, holding up his hands like someone talking down a gunman, “NEXT summer she’ll buckle down, get in more volunteer hours and get a dean’s research fellowship” he says, sliding his eyes to me. I nod “ok” almost imperceptibly. “It’s ok to start grinding sophomore year - that’s what I did.”

OOOO! She turned to him and if looks could ****, he would have exploded like someone in a Tarantino movie.

By some psychic grace my Grandmère chose that moment to call. Step and I fled the den like it were on fire, going our separate ways to halve the chance of being followed.

In my dark room, lit only by the light of my MacBook, a quiver runs through me, and I finally press return. My grades for Spring semester - and Freshman year come up. My eyes water and I relax back against my chair when I see “Dean's List.”

I smile to myself, and slowly, fiercely I clench my fist with a “YESS!" As I postulate my victorious reprieve.
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Postulate: “assume an idea.”
M Lundy Dec 2010
we didn’t leave until 4 am.
told each other stories from high school
talked about religion and how it wasn’t really my thing,
and how she wasn’t really sure of her take on it,
examined our hands and compared the sizes,
discussed how she used to be a cheerleader,
our parents and their political tendencies,
and some mutual friends.

I already knew about her ex-boyfriend
through a mutual friend or two,
the self-proclaimed ******* of our generation,
trying too hard to be hip and who probably
***** himself to pictures of Kerouac and Hemingway.
all this while listening to Iron & Wine
‘cause that makes it art.

yeah. I knew about him.

and I had heard he claimed to respect women
from a couple of people.
and a couple of people told me he didn’t.
a conniving schemer disguised as a feminist,
nothing new.

I also knew about the ******* she'd
been "talking to" or some **** like that.
it didn't seem to matter much to me
or to her
so I figured that was all right.

we left the pancake joint and went back to her
place.
watched a Tarantino film and chatted about
deep topics carelessly,
exhaling want.

she shared some of her writing with me
and as morning approached
we locked arms and bodies,
her chin on my shoulder and
I snuck a kiss in her hair.
at once, our skin seemed in the way,
a barrier between us I wished to strip.

her roommate and a mutual friend
awoke and I waited while they got
ready and Lauren grabbed breakfast.

on the way out to my car,
following the two of them
I thought of past lovers and dismissed them
as I ate my heart out of my hands
and waited for my mind to settle,
but instead it rattled about all the how's
and why's of my draw.
I buried the key in the ignition,
we pulled away from away and towards
together.
Copyright 2010 M.E. Lundy
glass can Oct 2013
curled up with La Dolce Vita
and all I'll admit to is how I missed holding your hand at night
and your seeming naive affection for Tarantino.

And how you got offended that you weren't my muse,
baby (not baby) you rocked my world.

I came from your mouth and you inspired jealousy
we can be friends that **** but by God,

we are both too stupid to do as much
because I want to snort coke off your massive ****
and remember that you know nothing about Kantian ethics
from what I said
and what you did

and how I felt

from breaking up with my boyfriend'
to *******

and your expression
when you found out you were no longer my muse
it's been worth it
reflectionzero Sep 2014
I talked to a friend today for the first time since I've been back from Arizona. It was interesting. I tried to start off cool, calm, collected... all of those things you should be in public and with strangers-- but only in private among friends. Eventually he started asking the hard questions, as I knew he would. It's a simple formality that defuses so much stress for me. Listening to someone's problems is like making eye-contact with a homeless person. You still want to treat them like a human being, but you'll end up regretting it later.  



So he asked me how the relationship stands with my dad since summer. “Has it improved? Did you two talk?” “No, no.” I say. No, it hasn't improved at all. My father still feeds of his perpetual guilt as a muse and mentor in every sale he makes and AA meeting he attends. If you cut him open you'd find an empty bottle of Jameson. “That's alright,” I tell him. I don't chase him down anymore to have a heart to heart about the past, or his feelings, or his mistakes-- no, we're adults now. We use each other as a means to an end. This is the way males bond. Instead of getting angry at him when he's a ****, I just ignore his phone calls for five days until he's saturated in his guilt long enough to actually be proactive. When I call him back It's expected he'll send me money, even if it's unwarranted. It's so easy. I don't have to fight with him, and he gets to avoid looking at the loser in the mirror. Nobodies emotional needs are being met-- but, hey! At least we can spend the 100$ drinking long island ice tea at the layovers on the way back to my life away from hell. Thanks dad, really.  



“And how is your sister?” he asks. “Oh, she's loosing her mind,” I say. She asks me why I don't try harder for the family. She blames me for leaving and emotionally severing myself. “It's like you don't give a **** about anything but yourself,” she says. Well she really hit the nail on the head. I, apparently, am the patron saint of reassembling ravaged family units beyond repair and squaring the circle. I am fully aware of how angry she is that she can't do the same emotional distancing for herself. She wants so badly to grow out of that child that's still locked inside of herself begging for a functioning home. So there she is, Atlas, holding the weight of the world and I'm the one that put it on her shoulders. No one can advise her because we're all to blame, are her victimhood is a virulent strain infecting everyone but me.  



“And hows your mom?” he asks. “Oh, well she's just a silly goose, you know?” “Sillier than ever,” I say. Making her rounds to the ER quicker than she rebounded from deciding to leave her boyfriend and live off my sister in Seattle. “At least this time it's from the aftershocks of her attempted suicide and not the actual act of doing it, you know?” But there still runs the potentiality of getting that phone call-- “Hey, your mom's got a tube running into her heart.” It's a fun game of Russian Roulette we like to play in our family-- nobodies winning.  But she made the time to come to Flagstaff and spend some quality time with me for my birthday. Forked over a little bit of Xanex for me and my girlfriend, bought us *****, drank with us. “You know, what are moms for?” I say.  



I tell him, "My life is like a Modern Family episode directed by Quentin Tarantino."



It just makes a person a little rough around the edges, you know? And with insight comes a bit of cynicism. Like, yeah. I dissected and tore you apart yesterday-- but it's only because I love you. Your imperfections really make you shine. It's that feeling you get when you try to jam the wrong shape through one of those Fisher-Price toys-- it doesn't fit but you force it anyway.



But you're alright, you'll muddle through.
She was as smooth as Tarantino dialogue.
And you could tell she was dangerous.
But she seemed more content to dagger me with words
than shoot me with the guns at her hips;
maybe that's why they were penned with a point
and drawn in a deep black ink.
I thought she wanted to tie me down
'cause that's what she wanted me to think.
She talked on how she'd change her ways
and how she could help me do the same;
she spoke of working towards a living
rather than dying like a slave.
She led me to my own room,
to sheets that once were bright and red
but had now faded to maroon rust
like the blood of those long dead.
She showed me every country in the world
without us leaving from my den.
She brought me every star in the night sky
without ever reaching up a hand.
She took me around the world
in much less than eighty days,
but she was gone when the morning came.
She took my money, drugs and faith.
1. pulp - A publication, such as a magazine or book, containing lurid subject matter.
2. fiction - A literary work whose content is produced by the imagination and is not necessarily based on fact.

Picture this being read slowly, in Samuel L Jacksons voice.
kyle Shirley Mar 2015
This flim maker,
this idol, this obsession,
to be like him,
better then him.

He is why I write to you, to practice.
Quentin Tarantino, if I could meet with him and speak, that would be a dream come true. But to direct a flim with him, to share a piece of his magic with me and I learn... that would be the wish of my life. I want to be better then his genius mind in flim... but thats a pipe dream. To me there is no one greater not even myself. Its not about money to me, its about people seeing my vision and sharing it with as many people as possible on a huge scale. Then one day the money will be there, till then he will just be the god in my eyes
Trefild Jun 3
sometimes I̲ wish I could
go back to the time of late childhood & youth
not that that tI̲me was real good (overall)
but those days bY̲gone were some—
—what pleasura[—]ble years
less stress, bother, more fun
while the last several years
have been, like a vengeance by a psychically mU̲cked up per-son
[for example: Jennifer Hills; Beatrix Kiddo; Arthur Fleck]
a mental nightmA̲re (kind of)
[adult life is burdensome & this world is terrible, for the most part]
it's been felt like being stuck inside a **** loop
not the tY̲pe some would choose
there's been some deli̲ght, but the blues
and other negatives have been piling up tO̲
a qua[ɑ]ntum that you'd find somewhat tough to consume
as far as p[ɑ]ossible, you try to rU̲n from the gloom
but, in the end, the dismals hunt ya
down, like you're Beatrix Kiddo fro[ʌ]m the
Tarantino's "Ki̲ll Bill" drama
targeted by the Deadly Viper hit crew
["The Deadly Viper Assassination Squad"]
[the 6th chapter of "**** Bill" called "Massacre at Two Pines"]
and the main thought that I̲'ve been pursued
of late by reminds me of
tragical vigila[ɛ]nte-turned guys, because
it says "nigh on nothing to lose" (nigh on nothing to lose)
besides, it seems li̲ke I have a sick psychopath inside me that
could use a punching bag, like a guy who has
to get prepped for a fighting match
that devil'd be satisfied to have
a mean au[ɑ]tocrat or another black
hat as a hostage to get the spleen dU̲mped on at
times when I'm ******, like sO̲meone af—
—ter having an alco binge; but, in fact
I'd be sO̲mewhat glad
if I̲ just smack or fling sO̲mething frac—
—turable so that the thing wI̲nds up smashed
it'd be nice to have a long-lasting bout of that
as far as possible, I satisfy this app—
—etite for demolition with vicious-sounding tracks
and rhyme-heavy lyrics with evil-minded crap
try to keep that sick **** sE̲rved with
so to speak, loco motifs (loco)
like rail vehicles; I've gotten a mI̲te sidetracked
["locomotives"; "like rail vehicles [,] I've gotten a mite sidetracked"]
let me rewind a tad
the thought that I've been pursued
by saying "nigh on nothing to lose"
as for saved-up money, I would
say there ain't much someone li̲ke me can do
with it; since we can't buy different realities to
live in, I've been thinking... (thinking) of buying a new
PC (for a long while)
[not "new" in the sense of "recently developed"]
as if I were some ****** tycoon
dealing with private military company bull—sh#t
["PC" stands for a number of things, one of which is "personnel carrier"]
[hence "tycoon dealing with private military company bullsh#t"]
a PC, for games are something I'm used
to & that can make hI̲gh someone who's
got pro[ɑ]blems with mood (problems with mood)
neither drown so[ɑ]rrows in *****
nor get high on dO̲pe when I'm low
get lifted up by music listened to by me bO̲th when I'm home
and when I'm outdO̲O̲rs for a stroll
and as someone sometimes
spending some time on O̲U̲tdoor strolling, I'd note
one downright downside
regarding U̲rbanized zones
which is go[ɑ]ddamn mO̲torized road
vehicles: much noise evoken by those
started; that's so much provoking you hope
to find a grenade launcher with a whole lO̲t of
respective rounds to throw a fine show (hell yeah!)
what about drivers &, maybe, passengers present
inside? well, those are so-ca[ɔ]lled
"collateral da[ɛ]mage"
[just in case, I'm joking]
[I just hate motorized road transport for annoying noise it generates]
that's like a GTA-like game come
to life; music ain't one, but the main love
on this dark track to nO̲where I go (track to nowhere)
we're together till the moment I croak
(unless, of course, I̲ end up placed)
(into a mental asylum someday)
————————————————————————————————
since I've brO̲U̲[ɑ]ght up this subject (music)
what should've been dO̲ne's to place mo'
lines with cO̲[ɑ]ntent regarding
it inside this O̲ne; mid-paced so
called "dark clubbing" & dA̲rk synth
some slowed phonk, complextro
trap & hip-**̲[ɑ]p beats, & ro[ɑ]ckish
electronic stuff from Zardo[ɑ]nic
or I can use some lines from a prior-writ pro[ɑ]ject
of mine; went from somewhat generic electro[ɑ]nic
sh#t, both ba[ɛ]ngers & melo[ɑ]dic
ones, to heavier & dA̲rk sh#t, however, I, regardless
still dig some graves, like a fellow with boneY̲A̲rd shifts
[Christian Mochizuki, better known as graves]
[the last 4 lines are from "a depressive rhymefall"]
"nigh on nothing to lose" by TREF1LD (TRFLD) is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 (to view a copy of this license, visit creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/4.0)

As Harvey Dent from "The Dark Knight" said, you either die a hero, or live long enough to see yourself become the villain.
hwilliams Nov 2014
H.Williams 2013

Who among us is this freakin' humongous?
You're human, I'm a hue-man, painting pictures for all you fungus.
You're a bug to squish then flick, like dust off the table you dis-gust us.
I'm about to blow everyone away, don't even try to duck from this gust.

They sweat from my riddles, thermometers turn red when we step in to see.
You're weak in the knees, lost in the woods for the better part of a week.
This is my forest, when trees fall everyone hears –or they read it and weep.
What's black, white and red all over? Newspapers with stories about me.

I'm news, your olds. I Redd-it before you read it, you're a day late and 2 dollars short.
In short, your stuff's a re-run. Shorten the ending or put in a cork.
We already seent it like a Tarantino beginning ending's over, sport
Sit out this inning, grin and watch me win then bomb your tree fort.

I roar around, burnin' your twigs, turn everything red, rage it all down.
Re-run your lap, re-score your sound. I returned your tape, so refund me now.
I did the work, you just sat around, and you deserve zip. So YOU pay me now.
You're human (just), stop having a cow. I'm humongous --the money better match now.

Now you're sayin' that my head's too big, too big for my britches after
I tell you I can't fit inside this box, so please stop putting up rafters.
I have nothing left, so the fear of losing has ceased to be a factor.
This isn't tooting my own horn; it's me spitting blood on my captors.
Robin Carretti May 2018
She was in the Villa

Wearing her fine long

Chinchilla writing for the good fellow
Highlight bright me yellow
The Fairytale Fae
Dunaway, I wouldn't
Bonnie and Clyde this
runaway
poem

The death to be book part she

noticed a sliding door
A- heart
B- Smart
C- Part
D- Dart
E- Eventually until the writing
Do us heart


Be smart inside the secret door

Her Long petticoat laced

Got caught in his picture frame

His eyes were thick to book her
Writing match game

Oh! Sir Do us heart

The stock exchange of books
to be laid she took yours

English Tudor book house
of maid's took hers
Writing so many books
But not getting paid

Then she heard a knock
at her door

A distinguished gentleman
she raised

her brow and heard a shout
her tea whistled

So wary he looked bristled
and she was

book disheveled the wall
opened itself whoa!!

Until the
magician

The reaction eternal love_
Nocturnal flying dove


The white snowed in gloves
Wolf blew in gas jet stoves
Strong heart to fire blow
Writing game of the
Gulf of Mexico

The Golf clubs
The chosen book fall inside her
victorian tub
He drove right in
Rub a dub tub

But her book was not
completed
He was beside himself
Until the Gin

Life so unsuspected,

did you really expect it


Until death do us part

Inside the painting,
the book moved

  She stared like she got shoved
the key locked
Both hearts

Could play like objects an
"Operetta"

A literary write until the death do

us part be heart she was flushed

Old spirited La Gazette her name

is Suzette exercising her words

So Owl like but the ghostly writer

of crimes took over distressed

Digging on ten commandments

She only wanted compliments

She pulled the lever but she

felt hotter with his fever

There were all books
in a vault

Who is the mystery writer
at fault?

Ownership of books

more than there wifes



Their life's bonded together
like love to the end
those bookends.

Moving Mass Einstein
She is so vain Carly Simon
The song and book is
about her


So purrfect that all depends

Like two trenchcoat's

with author suits on a hook

Religiously Zen, but with
ulterior motives

books arrived in ten

Her home interior
so bright eyes

so enthusiastic but he
was inferior

with the ballpoint pen,
he pressed her

Like a Depp actor mind
way ahead

So for long such sadness,

I'll be ****** Scarlets
Dark flowers death
her scar fits

North to South
The writer moved to
Charlotte come to me my
writer's suspense me

Goth book #13 never
on a Friday
The 6 day of the month
she took 6 books out
she turned to the side 6 men
mesmerized conked out
They got hooked 666
books


Heavy necklace weighed her down

That chain reaction her
writers' block

She was stuck in his room by his

hands of the clock

Her long life pause her
short book clause

And he's her spouse?
Like a bookmark,

her tongue traveled but

to notice another
sliding door

"Out of life"

"Not One life"

(Born to die)

Give something

A book to die for

But who do we live for?

Like a Jalapeno hell
of reading so blunt

Fashionably late Mr.Valentino
book hunt

So fitting lifestyle
  Florence her Coffee
(Nightingale)
table for two
(light-in-Male)

"BeBook" holder

Two in the nook
Writing our hearts
2B perfectly lined
Writing  became the
crime
Drinking Lime with
the Kooks
of coconuts

2 death be us part
Words were spreading
Because I am nearer
Anderson window sill
Seeing Bill

conquering and
masquerading
his words
hummingbirds
stronger than his real
heart

"The love camera
"Writing new start

Tarantino
Near the Islands of
Portofino

more book wiser

What holds to her grace of
"Florentino"

books are like flavors

The wine and book taste like
Gallo Hello___Heart
Writers are challenging it's an art we open up many hearts to find the right words.Having all type of heartbeats let's give our writers a hand. You know what to do start writing let people know how you feel
Amanda Stoddard Jun 2015
I wonder when the hurt will stop.
when this life that is forever fleeting
will become one with this heart that is constantly breaking
again and again and again.
I try not to care-
not to give **** about these feelings
that seem to take over my entire body.
Clinging to my throat in hopes
that I spill the things most sacred.
I want to be numb again
naive and grasping onto the oblivion
that was once my second nature
my proof of an angel in my wake.
No mistakes proved to be a disservice
because I didn't feel a ******* thing.  
I hope you realize you ******* ruined me-
at least you ruined who I was when I was with you
and as the exoskeleton of the girl
fades away into the background
who I am now grows stronger.
I realize that lying is your second nature
and being true isn't in anyone's agenda.
Only trust yourself-
because this life will make you drive drunk
and laugh when you get pulled over.
This life will invite you to the party
that no one really wants you at
and then watch as you sit around awkwardly.
They say time heals all wounds
but what happens when there's blood stains
on your new t-shirt from self-inflicted violence
but you still somehow wonder how it got there.
I am my own tragedy
but a masterpiece nonetheless
and the senseless emotions inside my head
all turn to stream of conscious in the end
I try to make sense of it all.
How I can never stay in one place too long
or even listen to a song all the way through-
**** what you heard.
I am the creator of my own destiny
and I have made mountains of these mistakes.
I will love harder than anyone you happen to know-
and if you seem to **** with that
I will ******* up harder than anyone on this earth
You can test me if you would like.
But these bones have spent so long breaking
that I will suffocate you with their ashes
and watch as my brokenness chokes you up-
makes a Tarantino scene out of your mistakes
and turns that **** into an episode of X-Files.
I am in the twilight zone again
wishing things wouldn't be so ******* different
every single time.
Wishing I could be real and sincere every second
but no one can seem to handle the things I feel.
They're not human enough-
not willing enough to feel emotion inside their bones
as much as I
so they wither beneath my facade
and hope to understand a fraction of me.
There is friction beneath my feet-
so watch as I go up in flames
watch everything I once was burn down
and watch who I am now rebuild.
Resurrection is an understatement-
Self-revolution is my only sanity.

— The End —