DAVID “MONSTER” DRADER
WRITING SAMPLES – Literary
Part 1
DavidMonster@aol.com
323-243-2756
L.A., CA USA
1. Novel Excerpt:
THE DO-GOODER’S SOCIETY – 1st Page
THE DO-GOODER
SOCIETY
by David Monster
CHAPTER 1 – No One.
She pressed the button calling for the nurse.
It had been a long time. She couldn’t stop crying. Exhausted beyond reason, she
kept herself awake. She wanted desperately to hold her baby. What were they
doing? Why did they take her out of the room?
Her husband came in, silent. When their eyes
locked, he heaved with a sob. He rushed to her and grabbed her hand.
“No…” She couldn’t hold back. It hurt, the pain
in her chest. The numbness of the birthing drugs were wearing off. She tried to
speak, but her loud wailing, weeping, gushing of tears was drowning her. She
couldn’t breathe.
He held her, and they shook in agony.
After him came a woman in a cheap suit, and a
man in an expensive one. She introduced herself as a hospital administrator.
The mother looked up, hopeful, only heavy
breathing holding back her bawling.
The woman was desolate. “I’m so sorry.”
Before the mother broke down, again, she forced
out these words, “What… happened?”
A disease was discussed, names that didn’t mean
anything. The only detail the parents heard was that their baby passed away. No
explanation helped. They cried for hours.
Other family members arrived, and the man in
the suit made arrangements with the brother and father of the baby’s mother.
They helped the father signed a paper. A very large amount of money was
transferred to the parents, possibly ten times the amount it would cost to
raise a child to adulthood.
The man in the suit left the family to grieve.
The hospital administrator made it clear that
the money did not come from them, and that the man in the suit was affiliated
with them, in no way. There was no contact information for him, and no way to
trace the money.
After a while, the parents got through their
period of profound grief. They never completely healed, but who does? They
always wondered where the money came from, and what it was all about. They went
through other legal dealings with the hospital, but there was no evidence of
wrongdoing on their part. They let the matter drop, and got on with their
lives, but the money and the man in the suit where always in the back of their
mind.
2. Novel Excerpt:
SERVICE – Chapter One
1 Love is a breakdown
HIM.
He reacted
with kindness when anger would be perfectly appropriate, and always strove to
understand before judging. His love for me caused him to smile every time he
saw me. He said he was the luckiest man on earth, because he had me. You would
describe him the same way you would a prince in a fairy tale.
This is what
I was told about my father. I don’t remember him, at all.
I remember my mother in flashes.
There are half a dozen pictures I can pull up in my mind, but there is one
memory that is the longest, and clearest. It's the last time I saw her.
I was almost two years old. She
was sitting on the floor, playing with me, wearing a pink dress, and lots of
jewelry. In my memory she shined like a crystal chandelier.
My father was waiting for her, downstairs.
As much as I have strained, trying to bring a picture up, nothing will come.
When I think of my mother, I feel happiness, and warmth, but just after that, I
feel pain. I jump through that into emptiness, and there lies my father.
The
only memories of him, allowed to me, are those told by others. The only
pictures of him have been taken by others. No memories, no mental pictures.
That emptiness becomes a struggle to have him, in some small way. There is
never any reward.
Victoria’s Last Night.
Victoria is a
beautiful woman, with strawberry blonde hair, and blue eyes. Her privileged
upbringing is evident.
She is back at her
family home. Her father is dead, and her mother, Lillian, lives alone on the
Masters Estate. Lillian endlessly tries to coax Victoria to move back, with her
husband, Michael, and their son, George.
Lillian watches
her daughter play with her grandson. Finally, she breaks the mood, “Victoria,
you really should get off the floor. You’re going to wrinkle your dress, and
you’re going to be late.”
Victoria stands,
and smoothes out her dress. George pulls his mother’s hands, trying to get her
to stay on the floor with him. Victoria mocks her mother’s proper tone, “I’m
quite ready, mother. I have simply to adorn myself with furs and diah-monds.
I’m lit’rally out the door.”
Lillian frowns at
the impersonation, “Your poor husband is just sitting there like an idiot,
waiting for you.”
“No, seriously,
I’m ready.” Victoria runs her fingers through George’s hair, as he hangs off her
arm, giggling.
Lillian beams at
her daughter, “You really do look lovely.”
Victoria smiles
back. “Thank you… Am I crazy? I don’t want to leave George tonight. Part of me
wants to skip the wedding and tell them I became very sick.”
Lillian knows. “I
still have quite a reaction whenever you leave”.
Victoria bends
down to kiss George’s face. He laughs, and squirms.
Lillian stares off
into space, “I completely understand. That feeling never goes away.” She stands
up straight, “But, you’ll have a wonderful time at the wedding, and you have
all day tomorrow with George.”
Victoria makes a
pouty face at George. “Oh, sweetheart.” She takes his face in her hands, “I
have to leave, but I’ll be back when you wake up in the morning.”
George becomes
rather glum.
Victoria sighs.
“Oh, no. Honey, Don’t be sad. You’ll go right to sleep, and have wonderful
dreams, then wake up and see my face.”
Lillian tries to
facilitate her daughter’s exit. “Put him in the crib, and I’ll stay with him,
until he falls asleep.”
Victoria scoops
her son up, and gives him a tight hug, as she carries him to the crib. She sets
him down, and kisses his face, many times. “Good night, little angel. I love
you.”
“I yuv yoo.” George says in his most articulate
toddler vocabulary.
“Aw! I love you, too, sweeheart!” She gives him
a little wave, at the doorway, and she’s gone.
George’s
Journal:
Marie, my Grandmother’s Personal
Secretary, told me the story only after I forced it out of her. My Grandmother
would never talk about it, and never referred to my mother in any tense but the
present.
Marie was a distant cousin to my
Grandmother, from England. My Grandmother’s mother married a very wealthy
American man, and raised Lillian in New England, rather than Old England.
Marie was barely in her
twenties, just a little older than my mother, when she came to help run the
estate. She had what my Grandmother
called a “common accent”, but was the most professionally minded person she
ever knew. That became clear as I grew up. Marie always knew what to do, and
how to get it done.
She was my first friend.
Actually she was my only friend, until the Gardner arrived. I know I was a
strain on her, as I requested her attention quite a lot, but she always had a
smile for me. When she disciplined me, it was never with a raised voice or
angry expression.
Marie was the person who would
explain things you didn’t learn in school. Like, “Why won’t my Grandmother talk
to me about my mother?”, “How old do I have to be to go to school?”, and “Why
can’t I ride my bicycle off the property?”
The
end of the night.
Lillian Masters is
fast asleep in her mammoth, hand-carved wooden bed, in her bedroom, decorated
in burgundies, dark lilacs, and golds. She is content, for the first time, in a
long time. Her daughter, whom she loves more than words can say, is home, if
only for a short time. Her grandson is asleep in the nursery that Lillian
redecorated specially for him. Her daughter’s husband has turned out to be a
wonderful man, and has provided a beautiful life, complete with a healthy and
bright son. Everything is good.
Marie is asleep in
her room, downstairs. It’s 2am, and the house is calm.
The peacefulness
is broken by George’s cries, “Momma! MAAAHMMMAAA!”
Lillian pops up
from her sleep, with a start. She hears George crying from the nursery, but
something causes her to remain still. She listens, probing, trying to hear
something other than George’s cries.
Two seconds later,
Marie is awakened by the ringing of the house phone, right next to her bed. She
pulls herself into a professional demeanor as quickly as she can, and answers
it. She listens for a moment, then responds, as she has many times, “I’m sorry,
Mrs. Masters isn’t available right now. How can I help you?”
The next thing the
caller says throws Marie into a state of alarm, “Oh, no! Please give me the
address. I will have Mrs. Masters there as quickly as possible.” She scrambles
for a pad and pen.
A moment later,
Marie is running up the stairs, and down the hall to Lillian’s room.
Lillian calls from the nursery, “Marie, what’s
wrong?” She is standing above the crib, stroking George’s hair, trying to
settle him. He is still calling for his mother.
Marie works to
pull herself together, “Oh Lillian! It’s Victoria.”
Lillian takes
Marie by the shoulders, and steadies her.
Marie is having a hard time keeping her
composure. “Victoria was in an accident.”
Lillian realizes
what has happened to her daughter, but she refuses to believe it, ‘No!”
Marie can’t hold
it in any longer, and begins sobbing, “Lillian, Victoria is…”
Lillian cuts her
off, “No, Marie! Don’t say it! You didn’t see her! You don’t know!”
Marie can’t stop
crying, but she struggles to be of some use. “The car is waiting to take you to
the hospital.”
Lillian turns,
abruptly, and rushes back into her room. Marie silently cries, as she strokes
George’s hair. She tries her best to comfort him, “George, honey. It’s all
right,” but sobs burst out, “George, honey. Please lie down.”
George’s pleas for
his mother don’t stop, and all Marie can do is slump in the chair next to the
crib, and cry.
Two hours later, Marie is
still by the crib, holding George, but she’s almost apathetic.
George is still calling for his mother. He
looks up, with hope in his eyes, when his Grandmother enters, stone-faced, with
swollen eyes.
Marie rises, searching Lillian’s expression for
some good news, but there is none.
Lillian slowly moves her head from side to
side, “no”. She can’t bring herself to look at Marie, because if she does she
will just break down. Instead she focuses every part of herself on George. She
points to the crib. Marie puts George in.
“George, lie down… Your mother’s not coming back.”
Those words cut
through Marie, like a knife. She feels like she might faint.
George looks at
his Grandmother for a moment, and as if he understands, slowly lies down, and
becomes completely motionless and emotionless.
Marie grabs the
side of the crib, as Lillian clenches her jaw. “Marie. Please have the nanny
take George, tomorrow, when she arrives. Have her stay on, indefinitely. I will
be in my room. Don’t disturb me for any reason… not even meals.”
On that last word,
she turns and rushes back to her room, and shuts the door behind her. Her
muffled sobbing can be heard from the nursery.
George’s
Journal:
I
knew my Grandmother was sad, and she didn’t have much use for relationships or
friendships, but I didn’t know that wasn’t her natural state.
I was told she was active in all
sorts of events and affairs outside the house, before my mother died. From what
I remember, she spent most of her time in her room. She’d come down to the
office, work with Marie, then go straight back upstairs. Since she didn’t leave
the estate, I never did, either. She never seemed to enjoy the grounds, but
kept them up anyway. I appreciated that, as I loved them, and eventually got
pretty good at tennis, and swimming.
When I was about 6, we got a new
gardener. He worked for our family before, but I never met him.
I remember being very excited. I
loved all the gardens on the property. I never talked to my Grandmother about
it, but I had planned on working with the Gardener. I was determined. I was so
happy at the prospect of being able to spend time with someone else, out there.
I pressed my face up against the
window, and watched the Gardner as he walked around, assessing the condition of
different plants. I couldn’t wait to get out there, and help him. My
Grandmother came down, and she and Marie had a meeting on how they would work
with him.
“That old Geezer is too
headstrong. He’s quite good at what he does. I’m not arguing the fact that he
knows plants, because he does. He’s a genius with them, but he is insistent on
landscaping to HIS tastes and not MINE! Was it a mistake to re-hire him?” My
Grandmother crinkled her nose as she looked over different sketches of the
gardens.
Marie took up for him, “He
insists that there are reasons for his decisions and he’s not just being
contrary.”
I had to get out there. I had to
be a part of the whole project. I snuck outside, and around the perimeter of
the garden he was perusing. I crept very slowly, in plain sight, toward him.
He noticed me right away, but
didn’t say anything. He also didn’t tell me to leave.
He was in his sixties, and had a
full head of white hair. You could tell he spent most of his time outdoors, as
he was tanned, a little scruffy, and slightly weather-beaten.
I didn’t know his name, but I
knew I couldn’t call him by his job title, as Marie taught me that was rude.
So, I addressed him with the name my Grandmother used, “Hi Geezer.”
The gardener stopped what he was
doing, and looked me over. He analyzed my expression, wondering whether I was a
mischievous brat, or not. He responded in an even tone, void of irony, “Hi,
Ferret-face.”
That retort went over my head.
“My name’s George.”
He figured out I was attempting
to be friendly, “Well, my name’s Peter.”
“Hi, Peter.”
“Hi, George.”
I still hadn’t quite caught on,
“Is your last name Geezer?”
“No, that’s your Grandmother’s
nickname. Call her that.”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m trying to figure out a way
to make your Granny Geezer happy, but to also do my job correctly.” He
continued studying the plants and soil, as he talked.
“Would you like my help?” I
prayed he would.
“What are your qualifications?”
He looked me straight in the eye.
I didn’t know what he was
talking about, “Excuse me?”
“What can you do?”
I detected the faintest
indication of humor on his face. I knew I liked him, already, “I don’t know,
but can you teach me?”
He looked me up, and down, and I
realized he had decided he liked me, too, “You bet I can. But, go in, and get
your work clothes on, and ask your Grandmother if she’s ok with it. We don’t
need her yelling at you, too.”
“Yes, sir!” I was beside myself.
Not only was I allowed to help in the garden, I figured I had also just made a
friend! An actual, real-life friend!
I ran through the garden, up the
front steps, and down the hall, forgetting I wasn’t supposed to run in the
house. I stopped at the office door, and gave it a polite knock.
I heard my Grandmother’s voice
from the other side, “Yes?”
“It’s me, George, can I come
in?”
“Yes, come in.”
I opened the door, and calmed
myself down, as I was breathless. My Grandmother didn’t like the frenetic
energy of excitement. Marie was writing something, so her attention was on
that, and my Grandmother was looking out the window, at the gardener. “Yes,
George?”
“Grandmother, may I help Peter
in the garden?”
Marie looked at my Grandmother,
with a smile she was suppressing. I wondered what that meant. My Grandmother
looked at me with a raised eyebrow, “Peter? Is that what he told you his name
was? Not Mr. Wikoff?”
I had forgotten it was impolite
for children to call adults by their first names. I didn’t know why, but it
was. “I’m sorry, may I help Mr. Wikoff in the garden?”
“Yes, George, but change your
clothes, first.”
I lunged toward the door, about
to run, but caught myself, and calmly walked out of the room, “Thank you!”
The second I closed the door
behind me, I heard Marie giggle, and comment on how cute I was. I didn’t
understand why.
When I finally got out to
the garden, in my work clothes, Peter showed me what my Grandmother wanted. I
tried to call him “Mr. Wikoff”, but he insisted on "Peter". I figured
his wishes superseded the rules of good manners, so I did.
I was correct in assuming that
Peter was my friend. I helped him with every project he undertook in the garden.
We became very close. He told me stories about his life, I confided in him, and
he helped me work through my problems. He was like the Grandfather I never
knew. Between him, and Marie, I figured I was a pretty lucky guy. I knew there
was something missing, because I didn’t have any friends my own age, but I
didn’t know what to do about it, so I enjoyed the two good friends I did have.
I thought I was set. I wasn’t
alone, anymore.
It’s three years
later and George is nine years old. He is strong, and fit for a boy his age.
His reddish hair is bleached to a strawberry blond by the sun, and he always
has a redness in his cheeks, dappled with freckles. He is becoming quite a
good-looking kid, and has developed a confidence Marie and his Grandmother have
both noticed.
He is hauling big bags of fertilizer across the
lawn to Peter, as he insists on pulling his own weight. He drops one on the
pile, and crosses the lawn to retrieve another from the truck.
It’s not until he
has made another trip, that he notices Peter has hobbled over to a stone bench,
and is breathing hard, with his head down.
“Are you all
right?” George makes his way over.
Peter motions
toward the house, and struggles to communicate, “Go!... Get somebody!”
George doesn’t
hesitate, and runs back to the house.
Within seconds,
Peter is in the car, and the driver is rushing him to the hospital. George is
annoyed that his Grandmother wouldn’t let him go, but he doesn’t argue the
point. He just waits in his room, studying his computer screen. He is looking
for information on “heart attacks”, because he heard Marie say that is what
Peter may have had.
He’s happy to see
that most men survive a “myocardial infarction”. He didn’t understand any part
of this, just minutes ago, but has broken down every concept, and now some
clarification has come to him.
Lillian is in her
room when Marie comes to tell her the news. She doesn’t have to say a word,
though. Her expression says it all. “No!”
Marie sits, sighs,
and nods her head, slowly.
“Oh, no.” Lillian
takes off her glasses, and puts down the paper she was reading.
Marie has been
crying. “I just got off the phone with the hospital... it was a heart attack.”
Lillian sighs, and
tries to work her sadness into anger, “I would rather you have told me he stole
my silver and ran off to Mexico.” Lillian taps her finger on the table, “In
fact, that’s our new policy. If anyone dies, just tell me they have damaged
something priceless, or robbed me blind, and fled the country.”
Marie has nothing
to say to that.
“Yes, and that’s
what I am going to tell George. Anger is a much easier emotion to negotiate.”
Lillian sounds serious.
Marie gives her a
disapproving frown.
“Honestly, that is
what I am going to tell him.”
“He won’t believe
it for a second.” Marie shakes her head.
“Good. Maybe he’ll
become angry enough with me for lying that it won’t be the least bit upsetting
when I die. … I should have thought of this years ago.”
Marie is too sad
to entertain Lillian's nonsense, “I’ll send him up.” She leaves.
Lillian turns to
her night table. There is a tray with a full decanter and a glass goblet on it.
She pours some brandy into the goblet, and talks to the glass, “I should have
visited you a long time ago, too.” She drinks, lets out a sigh, and drinks some
more.
George’s Journal:
I didn’t understand why my
Grandmother would defame Peter like that. It was the first time I can remember
being really angry with her. I couldn’t make sense of it. I didn’t say anything
as she told me Peter had stolen from her, and left the country. All I wanted
her to do was tell me why I felt the way I did. I knew I would never see him
again, and I felt alone. I understood she was unhappy, but why couldn’t she
look at me? I just wanted to rush her, and hit her as hard as I could. I wanted
to throw something at the big windows in her room, and smash them all.
Why wouldn’t she sit down next
to me, and rub my head, or hold me, or something? I felt like I was going to
fall up into the dark, open sky, or down into a crack in the earth. I didn’t
know what was going to happen to me. I needed her to tell me. I wanted to cry,
but felt like if I did, she would get mad and send me away. I didn’t know what
to do, so I did nothing and just looked out the window until she stopped
talking.
I went straight to Marie. She
was in her office, working. I stood in the doorway, waiting for her to tell me
it was all right to enter. She looked up with big, understanding eyes, “Are you
all right?”
I heard my own voice crack, and
hoped I wouldn't cry in front of her, “She told me Peter stole her silver and
ran away.”
I saw a glistening of moisture
in her eyes, as I sat down in the chair next to her desk. I wondered if she
felt like I did.
She tried to console me, “Oh
honey, she thought it might be too upsetting for you.”
I had to know, “He died in the
hospital, didn’t he?”
Marie put her hand on my head,
and stroked it, just like my Grandmother didn’t do, “Oh, honey”. I heard her
voice crack, like mine had done.
I put my head down. “Can I have
some time off from tutoring?”
Marie was there with me, I felt
her. “Yes, you can. Anything you want.”
“I think there’s something wrong with me.”
Marie put her arms around me,
“No, George. There’s nothing wrong with you.”
I knew there was, “My chest
hurts, and I don’t feel good.” It was like someone had hit me in the heart as
hard as they could. I was empty.
Marie started crying, as she
rocked me, “Unfortunately, that’s normal.”
We sat there for a few minutes,
but it felt like forever. I couldn’t figure out how to express anything I was
feeling, or what was happening inside me. I pulled away, and looked her in the
eye.
She was just as sad as I was.
She understood what I was going through. Why did I feel so alone? How could I
be sitting there with someone who understood, yet I was so confused. I never
had any of these feelings before, and somehow they were familiar. I wanted to
scream, “WHAT IS GOING ON?” but all I could manage was, “What do I do now?”
“What do you want to do?”
“Can I just stay in my room,
today?”
“Yes. Do you want your lunch in
your room?”
“I’m not hungry.” I was too
embarrassed to continue, so I got up, and walked out of the office. I could
hear her sigh, “Oh, God!” then start crying. I knew this was very painful for
her, and for some reason that helped, because it was alarming to me that my
Grandmother didn’t show any reaction, at all.
I was allowed to mourn for
almost two weeks before I was set back on my tutoring schedule. My Grandmother
avoided me, but I finally picked up a couple of clues that she may have
grieved. The day after Marie told me what happened, I heard My Grandmother
whisper to her, about me, “How’s he doing?”
Marie whispered back, “He asked me what really happened.” Then the
whispering got too hard to discern as they went into the office and closed the
door.
There were a couple of other
things that gave away her true feelings, so my anger dissipated. It was
replaced by a feeling of fear. She didn’t come out of her room for meals the
week after Peter died. The first one we had together was a Sunday dinner. I sat
with Marie, as she entered the dining room. She was walking funny, and sat down
a little roughly, not in the graceful way she usually did.
“Sorry, I’m late… thought I’d
make it to dinner, tonight.” She slurred her words and didn’t speak in precise
sentences.
I had never been around a
drunken person before. The only idea I had about that sort of thing was from
movies, and Television.
My Grandmother asked for more
brandy, and Marie gave her a look, and then a look to Elizabeth, the cook’s
assistant, who served us our meals. “Are you sure you want more to drink,
Lillian?”
My Grandmother offered Marie a
dirty look, but when Marie slightly motioned her head in my direction, my
Grandmother looked at me, as if she had just noticed I was there. Her mood
lightened a little, “Oh, don’t worry about me, I’m fine.” She turned to
Elizabeth, “Just a little brandy, Elizabeth!”
Marie gave up and ate her meal.
I kept an eye on my Grandmother. Drunken people acted so strangely. It was as
if she wasn’t in the same reality. She made chit chat with Marie, on
unimportant things. Neither engaged me, and that was just as well. I was
afraid.
My Grandmother became drowsy.
Marie took her to bed, and a few minutes later, came back. She looked at me
with a smile, “Your Grandmother’s just feeling a little under the weather.
Would you like to eat dessert, and watch a movie?”
Marie was a Godsend.
The next day I was called into
the office. My Grandmother and Marie explained that the form of my education
would change. They wanted me to get involved in different activities in
addition to my academics. They asked me what sort of projects, sports and
vocations I was interested in.
A new gardener was coming, and I
could spend part of my day with him. When I told them I was no longer
interested, they exchanged a concerned look. I didn’t tell them the only reason
I was interested was that Peter was my best friend, and those days with him
were fun because we did so much more than gardening. We shared our lives, and
he helped me grow up. I couldn’t bear to work in the garden with anyone else. I
avoided the spot I last saw him. I wanted to get rid of the stone bench, but in
some way it was like a monument to him.
3. Novel Excerpt:
PARALELL LINES – Chapter 5
He seems to side with his mother. “Yes, I have to admit: silly loyalties and bonds. Just look at your own sentiment toward that old man.”
Retra feels stripped and betrayed, that he would bring this up in front of another person. “HOW is that silly? He helped me a great deal, and I appreciated it! HOW IS THAT SILLY?”
Sart and his mother share a smirk. “You were so concerned. He became a problem.”
Retra is so mad, she can’t see straight.
Sart turns to his mother. “And, yes, when we took care of him she reacted like a scared child. Her emotions were so tied to him.”
Retra feels like she has just fallen
into a bottomless hole, and hopes Sart is not saying, what she thinks he just
said. “Took care of him?
He ignores her.
His mother asks, “What was it?”
Sart speaks matter-of-factly, as if Retra wouldn’t care about what he’s saying. “Electronically induced heart failure.”
It hits Retra like a sledgehammer in the stomach. She goes into shock.
Sart keeps on explaining to his mother. “Very low voltage. Frail. Yes, very frail. People on this planet care nothing for strength. He couldn’t survive it. I was just going to give him enough shock so he could receive unconscious orders. But, he was so frail.”
Retra doesn’t hear anything more that they say. She is lost in her despair. Their talk is like unintelligible buzz to her.
Retra stands up. The conversation stops. She is shaking. “Could we see our room, now?”
Sart’s Mother rolls her eyes. “It’s an eternity until the gathering.”
Sart stands up, finally detecting the change in Retra. He tells his mother, “We will return to you, shortly.” He leads Retra to the door and out through the flames.
Retra doesn’t say one word on the way up to the bedroom.
Blad’s replacement stops at the bedroom door, then stands guard outside. Sart gestures for Retra to enter. He follows. It’s very much in the style of the castle, the grand boudoir. The walls and floors are a deep, rich purple, and the gigantic bed is covered in a sumptuous blood-red fur. The room is lit with hundreds of candles in heavy sticks, standing three, four, five, and six feet tall.
Sart closes and locks the door, as Retra walks to the center of the room, and stands, motionless, exploring her options of escape. Sart acts as if he has no idea that Retra is the least bit upset. He knows she is, but he also knows that she will do whatever he says. Everything will blow over, eventually. “Come. I want to show you one of my greatest pleasures.”
He walks toward the back of the bedroom where a ten-foot high, ornate, double door is standing open. Retra follows him, reluctantly.
It is the attached bathroom. The bath is the size of a pool, sunken in the floor. It appears to be carved out of silver - breath-taking. The entire bathroom is tiled in shocking blood-red marble, every inch. And, it, too, is lit by hundreds of large candles in heavy, tall candlesticks.
Sart stands at the edge of the pool, looking in, with a grin on his face. The pool is filled with swirling hot water and bubblegum pink suds. He looks over his shoulder, back at Retra, and starts to slowly disrobe, which he thinks will prompt her to follow suit.
She asks him, “You have done quite a lot for me, haven’t you?
He stretches, still slowly stripping off clothing. “You think much more than you deserve, no doubt. But, you will deserve it, one day.”
“You helped me with Jahny.” There is a sensation in her hand. She raises it, and sees her purple, glowing ring, calling to her, urging her to relax. It won’t work this time. She feels a separation from herself, and lowers her hand.
He looks at her with another eerie grin, then back to the water, contemplating all the pleasures this bath has given him.
Retra, somehow, sees the entire scene from outside her own body, from across the pool, a million light-years away. She sees herself moving silently up behind Sart, holding one of the long candlesticks. Those alien voices, that tell her how wonderful he is, can’t reach her inside her mind, anymore. She’s not there.
At any point, he could say something to redeem himself. He could give Retra some kind of comfort, and she would be able to find it within herself to forgive him, and surrender her own integrity, again. Instead, he says, “Like I told you, before, I did not mean to kill him. But, he was a very weak man… very stupid, too.” He chuckles, dropping his last shred of clothing. “I was surprised how exhilarating it was when he finally died, though.”
Retra’s jaw clenches. She takes the candle off the candlestick and drops it to the floor. Her arms swing, carrying the candlestick. She hits Sart dead on, with a thud, in the back of the head.
His facial expression looks more like surprised anger than pain, but he falls forward, face-first into the bath.
Retra stares at herself, from across the pool. “RUN!” But she doesn’t move. After a moment, she is at the edge of the pool, looking down, at Sart. The candlestick is poised to deliver another blow, if necessary.
Sart is face down, unmoving.
Retra turns and sets the candlestick down, quietly, then walks out of the bathroom. She looks around the bedroom, wondering what to do next. Grabbing her purse, she screws her courage up, then heads for the door. She opens it a crack and slips out, making sure it’s locked behind her.
Blad’s replacement is still standing guard, ready to help. He wants to go in.
She puts her hand on his chest to hold him back, he stiffens. “Be quiet, Sart is resting.”
Blad’s Replacement gives a curious look. “Does he need anything?”
She is very nervous, and speaks quickly, but tries to appear nonchalant. “No, he’s fine. He said something about the stink of this planet wearing on him.” She looks to see how he’ll react to that.
He seems to understand.
She thinks up a story to get her out of the palace. “An executive from my studio has contacted him, though, and Sart told me I must meet with him. There is some problem with a scene I was in…” She wonders if he sees through her ruse.
He doesn’t seem to care.
She asks him, “Could you contact your men and have a car waiting? I must get to the Studio quickly, so I can be back before the gathering, tonight.”
Blad’s replacement holds up a communication device, he pulled from his pocket, and begins speaking. “Have a car at the door, immediately to take Miss Geal to her studio. And, send someone up to escort her down…”
Retra has already started down the staircase.
He motions for her to stop. “Wait, Miss Geal. Someone must escort you down.”
“I have to hurry, I don’t want to be late getting back.” She starts running down, and almost trips, catching the railing before she falls. She bites her lip to stop herself from crying.
Blad’s replacement worries, looking at the door, knowing he can’t leave his spot, and hoping Sart doesn’t find out that Retra was unescorted.
Retra sprints to, and out the front door, sweating bullets.
She launches herself into the open door of the waiting car.
Another guard tries to follow Retra into the car.
She puts her hand up. "No. Uh, Sart told me to go with just the driver. All the guards must be present here for the arrivals!" She doesn't know what she's saying. "Step back, please!"
The guard obeys her.
She slams the door. "Drive! Please, drive now!"
The car takes off, quickly.
Retra is terrified as she looks out
the window, scanning for an opening, or danger of some kind, hoping no other
guards will try to get in the car. As they pass the gate of the Castle grounds,
she notices Blad, in a uniform of a much lower rank, holding guard, as his
superior gives her car clearance to pass. She tries to watch Blad for as long
as she can, as the car drives away from the Castle.
Greg.
Greg is thrashing in his bed, still asleep, but acting out his nightmare. His hands are clenched, and he is screaming unintelligible warnings. His movements become too violent for sleep to contain him, and he breaks out.
He sits up, breathing hard, sweating, but still very intent on the situation he left. He ‘looks’ for it, searching back into whatever portal has allowed him to see that other life.
4. BOOK
Excerpt, Non-Fiction:
BOMBSHELL: The Blonde Phenomenon Of The 20th Century:
Jean Harlow
From birth to fame in 30 seconds or less:
Born in Kansas City, Missouri in 1911… began
acting as a teen, and got bit parts until 1929 when she appeared as the “swanky
blonde” in Laurel and Hardy’s comedy short DOUBLE WHOOPEE, for which she
received her first burst of notoriety, and was discovered by Howard Hughes. He
signed her to a 5 year contract, and made her the female lead of HELLS ANGELS
(1930). Detonation and Fame.
THE Platinum Blonde Bombshell.
Jean Harlow became the first Sex
Symbol and Blonde Icon of the Talkies, all by the time she was 19 years old.
Not only was she “THE PLATINUM BLONDE” (1931) in the movie of the same name,
she was also “THE BOMBSHELL” (1933 - “THE BLONDE BOMBSHELL” in the UK). It all
started with her detonating role in Howard Hughes’ HELL’S ANGELS (1930), in
which she delivered that immortal Bombshell line, “Would you be shocked if I
put on something more comfortable?”
I presume we can all agree that Marilyn is the
quintessential Bombshell. Well, Jean is THE prototype even Marilyn idolized.
Monroe saw all of Harlow’s movies as a child, and tried out all her
sexy wardrobe tricks. Marilyn would even pump wardrobe people for information
whenever she found out they had worked with Jean. It has been reported that
Jean iced down her nipples before a scene, so they would protrude. Marilyn
claimed she didn’t have the same sort of construction to that area, so she put
marbles in her bra to cause that conspicuousness…
…Jean was only 26 when she died in 1937, from a kidney disease that developed in her teens… In retrospect, the death of a bombshell, while still young and beautiful, seems to be a very successful move towards establishing her iconic stature. It’s a “smart” career move that cemented her star firmly in the front row of the Hollywood firmament.
5.
BOOK Excerpt, Non-Fiction:
BOMBSHELL
THE 1940’s
Commentary on
the Era –
Germany invades Poland in January of
1939 kicking off War in Europe. In December, 1941 Japan bombs Pearl Harbor,
Hawaii (a United States Territory at the time) bringing America into the
conflict and turning it into a legitimate World War. They call it “WORLD WAR
TWO”. Catchy, huh? Apparently, it comes as a bit of a shock, since they called
World War One “The War to End All Wars”.
Blonde, beautiful, red-blooded,
girls are enlisted to head up the “America Campaign”. Patriotism is the order
of the day and Hollywood generates a new genre of filmmaking. Betty Grable and
Rita Hayworth become the pin-up queens of the decade. Service men, deployed
worldwide, make these women the dominant stars throughout the 40s. Betty’s
backward glance pose in a bathing suit becomes such a huge success it goes on
to become a symbol for that era in Hollywood and even for World War Two.
Japan surrenders in August of 1945,
officially ending WWII. In 1946 there is a big technological breakthrough in
Bombshell history: Atomic Test Bombs are detonated on Bikini Atoll. The Nuclear
Age is upon us, but that’s not nearly as important as the launch of the
“Bikini” Swimsuit. The G.I.’s who dropped the bomb affixed Rita Hayworth’s pin-up
picture to it. Reportedly, she was not amused.
Sex-starved G.I.’s, returning home
to America, create the Baby Boom. Patriotism reaches a fevered pitch, and the
American Ideal becomes fully realized. America and “Russia” (the U.S.S.R.)
became the new superpowers. Essentially, for Americans we are “good” and they
are “evil”. America is now the center of the world, and Hollywood is its capital.
The Forties mark the birth of America: Mom, Apple Pie, Superman, Betty Grable,
and Baseball.
Teenagers become a group that means
something, With their spending dollars, they start creating their own stars.
Demographics are now important. Archibald Andrews, Betty, Veronica, Jughead,
Reggie, and the rest of their friends from ARCHIES COMICS represent the new
phenomenon. They are an instant hit,
debuting the same year as WWII.
The Bombshells of the 1940’s reflect
the American/World War 2 Propaganda Explosion. They are all wholesome types.
Sure, Lana Turner, Veronica Lake, and Gloria Grahame all had “bad girl” streaks
in them, but basically they were just the girl next door, only a little
restless.
Other topics include: Humphrey Bogart, Sabrina, Roman
Holiday, Tina Fey, Bruce Lee, Melanie Griffith, Don Johnson, Prince
Harry, Marilyn Monroe, The DC Universe, Batman, American Psycho, Emma Thompson,
Oprah, Fifty Shades Of Grey, The Matrix, Fish Sitting, The Seat of All Evil:
David’s Mom, but NOT what happened at a drunken Frat Party over 30 years ago.
#MeToo
6. SCREENPLAY EXCERPTS:
Cleopatra:
“…The Amon God says nothing. Cleopatra casts her eyes down. Fighting with him is of no use, and he can not help her.
CLEOPATRA
When I die, Egypt will die with me.
Stay and watch.
As I vanish from this earth, so
shall Egypt.
Verify my words.
The Amon God becomes apprehensive.
THE AMON GOD
I could never become very involved
in the affairs of humans.
Listen to you, how silly you are.
You are all like children. That is
why I am so revered here.
CLEOPATRA
That is why you are here? You have
nothing but disdain for my people.
Yet, you are proud to be
superior to them?
She stops and looks right into his eyes.
CLEOPATRA
I AM a God on MY planet. What are
you on yours?
He
sneers at her, furious for her knowing his inadequacies.
Then, smirks, very smugly.
AMON
You’re about to see what I am.
A God is immortal. … and a God
would be able
to stop what I’m about to do to
you… and your country.
He
turns and walks out in a flurry of robes.
Cleopatra is crestfallen. She talks to herself in despair.
CLEOPATRA
I am in idiot.
It was futile from the beginning.
CUT
TO: BLACK
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