Favourite Fictional Characters: On Valentine's Day

To celebrate Valentine's Day, I thought I'll treat you to some poetry. Prepare, readers, for some romantic verse, inspired by an unlikely bunch of poets...

The Eleventh Doctor: 

Fezzes are red

My TARDIS is blue

Bow ties are cool

Just like you

 Sherlock: 

Roses are red
Violets are blue
The statistical chances of you finding someone with whom you can tolerate a lifetime are incredibly low, meaning you should probably spend your time on something more constructive than a feeble attempt at attracting a short-term romantic partner.

 Homer Simpson: 

Roses are red
Like the floor stains at Moe's 
I will spend time with Marge
Tomorrow on Valentine's - d'oh!

Batman:


Roses are red
Violets are blue
Poison Ivy is green
The Joker's hair is too





The Tenth Doctor:

Rose's jacket was red
...
Oh, God, Rose!
*Buries head in hands, sobbing*






Have a happy Valentine's Day, folks.

A Warning on Halloween Night

A monochrome man, in a smart suit, emerges from behind the stage curtains and faces an unseen audience.

Dear readers. It has now reached All Hallows’ Eve and Gothic Creatures must come to an end. The writer of this blog has asked me to thank you for indulging his gimmicks and for reading his posts on the likes of the terrifying man made from dead tissue, a scientist with one hell of a dark side and the horrors to be found in space, where no one can hear you scream. But before we go, we have one last treat for you. A story to ensure your Halloween night does not go by without a fright. Take heed, ladies and gentlemen, boys and ghouls, for it is a story with a message for you all…

Do not read this post. Whatever you do leave this page, this website, the whole internet now. Go and read a book, go for a Halloween night-time stroll, start a game of Russian Roulette, anything is safer than reading this post.

It gets in through your eyes. Eyes that are glued to the screen. The more you read the stronger it will become.

I shouldn’t have started like that. Now you want to read on. Then I shall have to explain.

It began at the start of the month. I thought it was normal, at first. We all like to waste some time on the internet, after all. But this was not normal.

I did nothing but browse the internet, all day long. I had friends to go out and see, places to go, assignments to do for university but none of these things happened. Because it had taken hold of me.

I could not concentrate on anything else.  It kept drawing me back to it. I would spend hours reading celebrities’ coffee updates on Twitter, watching videos of cats on Youtube, even googling my name. I was its slave and I could not escape.

It is now Halloween, and I have still not escaped.

I have not left my desk chair for twenty-four hours. I don’t even know if I want to anymore. I have become lifeless, unthinking. It has got me but it doesn’t need to get you to. There’s still hope for you.

I know where it came from now. And it sickens me. But it means I can warn you. It is paramount you leave this site now, it is spreading like hellfire. You are worried now, I know. And I am sorry but I had to tell you. You need to know what to look for. You need to know what shape it takes. You must never go on the internet again, but I know what you’re like, you want to check your emails, tell everyone on Facebook that you’re having a bad day. I understand that. So please, and you really must, watch out for it. It looks like-

The Monochrome Man arrives back on stage and bows to the unseen audience

And that is, sadly, all we have time for. But rest assured, readers, that more posts will follow on this blog, do not worry about that. On your behalf, I will make sure that this blog’s proprietor does his utmost best to keep drawing you here. Because, on this terrible night of all nights, when your fellow men and women become monsters, and savage children scratch at your doors for sustenance, you need something to protect you from the dangers of the outside world. Have no fear, readers, I will keep you safe. As long as you keep your eyes glued to the screen.

Meet Silas and Smedley

Hello all of you out there in blogger-land, I thought I'd let you know I've created a new blog...

The Assembled Experiences of Silas and Smedley is a blog dedicated to short fiction I've written that features two original characters; the mysterious Victorian gentlemen, Silas and his loyal companion, Dr Smedley. Yes, they are in part a pastiche of Holmes and Watson but, I hope, they also stand up by themselves. From inside their big spooky country home, the two friends often encounter some supernatural occurence that leads to suspenseful (and often humorous) consequences.

The blog so far has seven posts up and so is still in its early stages but I hope to update it fairly regularly when I feel its time for a new story for my intrepid adventurers.

For more information, I'll let Dr Smedley speak to you himself in this message from the 'About' page of the blog;


Dear reader,

Many thanks for visiting this, the treasure trove of sensation, suspense and scares that is the assembled experiences of my dear friend, the enigmatic Silas and my good self, Dr James J Smedley, formerly of her Majesty's army.
A long time ago, for you, I gathered my notes on the times I shared in the company of Silas and secured them in the vaults of a high-security bank to be opened a hundred years into the future and shared with the world - for I felt sure that the world of the 21st century would be ready for the tales that I collected.
And now my wish has been fulfilled. Here you will find regularly delivered tales of our encounters in which we often found ourselves with the weird yet wonderful in this world . Of course, some adventures are just too much for the public to handle at any time - alas, the strange case of the Miniature Elephant of Java and its like will have to stay between myself and the estimable character of Silas for the rest of time.

Yours sincerly,

Dr Smedley


If this interests you please pop over and have a look. And perhaps leave a comment; I'd love to hear your thoughts.

A Pile of Poems

For the poetry module of my creative writing course we had to submit a mini-collection of our own poems for assessment. So, while compiling them, I thought I'd show my avid blogollowers (no, I don't think it will catch on either) a mini-collection of my poetry mini-collection. Hope you like them. Any feedback would of course be greatly appreciated.

The Man in the Mirror

The Mirror hangs on the wall

Above the fireplace

Ornate and oblong with golden frame

And decorative jewels

This attic room is layered in the dust of ages

But not the mirror

I am fascinated by it

Without knowing why

When I turn my head to look away

I get my answer

The Man in the Mirror

He doesn’t move an inch

The Blackbird

The blackbird sits on the gravestone

With eyes alert

Protector of the Dead

Or searching for bread crumbs

The Guard

My place is in the corner of the gallery

I am the first to see the visitors as they arrive

They never give me more than a glance

I see them peering at each artwork

With either intellectual passion or faux interest

I am alone with the pieces during the quiet of the night

I sometimes think the painted, sculpted eyes will move

But I know it is impossible

I have been trying to for years

And damn this nagging itch I can’t reach!

The above are all free-verse poems as we mainly focussed on modern poetry but anyone who likes their poetry to rhyme I hope you enjoy this one:

A Sonnet in Scarlet

Eighteen Ninety Five, London laced with fog

An impossible crime in a locked room

Is made, seen by no one caught in the smog

Lestrade will be lost, no solution looms

And, what’s more, a strange cipher by his side

Is this the work of James Moriarty,

A name which makes policemen run and hide?

I’m at the scene but have a friend with me

Domed head, drawn face, deerstalker and clay pipe

He’s mastered the science of deduction

His calculating mind is always ripe

But drug habits cause his self-destruction

The best and wisest man whom ever lived

Sherlock Holmes, the World’s Greatest Detective

And, finally, for those who like experimental poetry, here's one made from cut-and-pasting (yup, really). I had two newspaper articles and alternately used a phrase from each article to form the lines of this poem:

News of the Day

Officials insist

The collsions created

Were not reckless

Particle physicists are

Creating widespread shortages

In supersymetry

The political storm

Transmits the weak nuclear force

Potentially jeopardizing safety

The like would be a serious headache

Forget the rules

The lack of imminent threat

In two dimensional layers

Would be awkward and perverse

Aaaaand, for those of you who don't like poetry at all you may be consoled with the fact this will probably be the last poetry post on this blog for a while -if ever - as I don't plan on doing the form again in my university course.

Happy times and places; see you in April, folks!

For Valentine's Day...

As it's Valentine's Day, I thought I'd reward all of you, my wonderful Blog-Followers (I'd say how much I love you all here but I'm not sure you feel the same) by posting a sonnet I've written about the special day especially for you. Please enjoy, and do read with any near-by loved one. Here goes.




The Love of the Loch Ness Monster

On St Valentine’s Day, all pair off
Romance heightened, like a piece by Van Gough
Only one is alone, you'll never guess,
This hurt soul is the monster of Loch Ness
For this poor creature, it's always the same
Swimming solitary; there's no Loch Ness Dame
No scaled Juilet to his green Romeo
But that in the water what's that - Oh!
Nessie's enchanted, like never before
'It's a lady monster no doubt,' he swore!
As he greets his muse, he scares a young boy
For she is just a child's big rubber toy
But Nessie doesn't know, he never saw
He thinks they'll be together evermore

Hope you liked it. What? I wasn't gonna write a straight-forward love poem.
I tried to include some of the 'rules' of the sonnet like the twist in the narrative at the end of line eight/start of line, the last two lines rounding it up and ten syllable lines (although on line seven you have to say 'Rom-yo' to make that work).

Happy Valentine's Day!

Cut and Paste and Post.

Greetings everyone out there in Internetland. The first month of 2012 is almost over and, boy, hasn't it flown? Christmas feels like yesterday, yet it was last year. Anyhow, quantum mechanics isn't the theme of today's post. Most certainly not, in fact, as today I've got a very different piece of fiction for you. The other day for my Creativity module, we were told to bring scissors and glue to the session. Yes, I am still at university. And, yes, I am taking a proper course. We were looking at ways to be creative (as any good writer needs to do) and so were tasked cut up random phrases or sentences that jumped out at us from sheets of pulpy science fiction novels we were given. With these, we were compose something new out of them. I thought I would share the result of mine here with you.



It's a Pendulum Professor

In the distance, night fell.  Moonlight.

He gave his attention to the straightening of his papers by tapping the bottom edges of the podium. He would have looked menacing, but his tiny mouth and chin spoiled the effect.

Pausing for a moment to scan the crowd, Matsui took a deep breath.

‘We believe the killer to be insane. This is disturbing enough, of course.’ He gazed at a spot just over Bach’s left shoulder. ‘If we’re going to push knowledge forward, we will escape our past.’

Heads nodded in the audience.

‘You can raise the ‘nuclear annihilation’ demon.’ Chesnutt chuckled.

‘You will have guessed by now that we intend using you as bait.’

Chesnutt grimaced.

Matsui pushed his hands deep into his pockets. ‘Psychology section says our killer is probably male. Which does not rule out our female suspects.’

‘Good speech, sir’ Henderson stood quietly for a minute. Her eyes were open, and strangely peaceful.

‘I’m sorry.’ From the back of the room, a woman hurried for the door.

Matsui finished his speech. Maybe he was getting too old for the back-stabbing politics of the university.

Story Time #4: The Adventure of the Whistling Ghost

Hello and welcome to another my home-grown, completely mine, no-taking-from-these-please-thanks stories. Today's is something you may have read mentioned in other posts before Christmas, my own attempt at writing a faithful Conan Doyle style Sherlock Holmes story with an original plot by me. Here I give you the first 1500 words as (hopefully) a treat. If you have any comments on the story here, please leave them below. Right, now cast your mind back to Christmas, it's a cold winter night, you're sitting in front of a cracking open fire (maybe chestnuts are roasting) and you pick up this story (pretend it's an old leather-bound book rather than on a computer screen) and read...



                                 The Adventure of the Whistling Ghost

Of all the cases that I have chronicled over the years few have been as striking as the strange affair at Vortigern House. A tale of mystery, intrigue and tragedy, I always wished to recount it to my reading public but I solemnly promised I would refrain from doing so to the participants of the case at its culmination. However, this sanction has now been lifted upon the sad death of the head of the family whose daughter has allowed for me to release it now.

It was Christmas 1889, and London was full of festive cheer. Although not a particular advocate of the additional festivities that have adorned the special day of late, I could not help being moved by the rosy glow on all the fair city’s citizens I passed. Everyone seemed to be taking Christmas to heart. I went under this jovial supposition until I reached Baker Street, the abode of my dear friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes.

My wife Mary was away on a visit for the week and so I had decided to stay with Holmes until she returned. When I arrived I found Mrs Hudson had decked my friend’s rooms in colourful paper decorations which made Holmes’s languorous figure, draped over the sofa and attired in his favourite dressing gown, rather incongruous.

‘This Christmas has been frightfully full of tedium, Watson,’ he told me, once I had settled back into my old lodgings. ‘Do you remember that year when we were blessed with that case of the Blue Carbuncle in the goose? Of course you do, you chronicled it in the Strand, I believe. Well, this year has brought no such case. I have had nothing brought to me. No improbable murder, nor seemingly-illogical theft, nor even a simple cipher to crack. I curse the lack of good crime this season brings.’

‘Oh, Holmes,’ I retorted. ‘What about good will to all men?’

‘If good will at this time of year means no crime then I say goodbye to Christmas!’

‘You know, you sound like Dicken’s very own Ebeneezer Scrooge.’

Holmes glanced at me with the smallest fraction of a smile. ‘Bah humbug.’

‘Well, if there’s no case to be had then why not visit your brother? Christmas is meant to be about surrounding oneself with loved ones and you haven’t seen him since that ghastly business with the Angel of Trafalgar Square last June.’

Holmes merely snorted at my suggestion and I was about to further my point when the doorbell peeled, causing my friend to bolt into an alert position like a dog who had just sniffed an interesting scent.

‘Could it be, Watson, that the Ghost of Christmas Present has brought me a gift after all?’

Momentarily, the door to our study opened and a young dark-haired woman dressed in fine clothes entered. Her apparel and overall well-kempt appearance told that she was a woman with wealth in her family.

As I rose to greet her and show her to a chair, I noticed a sly smile crease Holmes’ face. ‘I trust that your problem is important as you have made the journey from Kent and left the arms of your beloved to come here.’

The young girl looked astounded. ‘I don’t understand. Has my mother sent you a telegram?’

‘No, my dear, I merely deduced it. I noticed, as you sat down, the soil on your shoes is both fresh and of unmistakeable Kentish origin – you remember Watson that I once wrote a short monograph on the subject - while your betrothal I assumed from your stature.’

‘My stature, sir?’

‘Yes. Although you recently suffered a period of strife - the slight, probably unconscious hanging of your head tells me that – you still hold yourself with that singular confidence which only those in the first throws of love have.’ I was a little astounded myself at this as Holmes very rarely touched upon the subject of love. It had always occurred to me that such feelings were alien to him but now and again he would mention something that shed a dim light on his soul.

‘Well, Mr Holmes, I see that Dr Watson does not exaggerate your genius in his stories. Maybe you can work out what on Earth is happening to my family.’ The girl paused here, as if she were struggling to speak. ‘Mr Holmes, my house is being haunted by a phantom.’

The girl saw the sceptical – almost mocking look – on my friend’s face. Regular readers of these incoherent memoirs may remember our previous client who claimed to be pursued by the supernatural in the form of a Hound which had of course turned out to be a very mortal mutt. Holmes had not believed in such superstition then and clearly was not about to now.

‘Then if it is not a phantom, how can a man disappear into thin air?’

My friend’s expression changed. ‘Pray tell us what has happened from the start. Leave no detail untold.’

‘Well, my name is Rosemary White and I am from Kent as you correctly guessed. My father, Ignatius White, came into some wealth before my birth and so my childhood was one of privilege and happiness, passing with little strife or turmoil. However, the last few weeks have contained enough for a lifetime.

‘I have lived all nineteen years of my life in a manor house near Rochester, it is known as Vortigern House; an old place with much history. The traditional owners, the Vortigern family ruled over the parish for generations and are still remembered locally for their ruthless, unkind treatment of the townsfolk. Many stories have evolved around the Vortigerns and their house; some say the old Lord Vortigern’s ghost still haunts it. A short while ago I would have laughed at the idea but not now.

‘Sometime during the last month, one night I heard the strangest sound; a long, high whistling. At first I thought it merely the wind blowing throw the trees outside my window, but it was too melodious; a melancholic almost morose tune which left me full of dread. I left my room to alert someone but everyone was already awake having heard the same peculiar noise, like it had echoed through the house. We sent men around the house to find the culprit but they found nothing inside or when they searched the grounds. This certainly unsettled my mother and me but nowhere near as profoundly as my father. He fell into a terrible nervous state of which was most troubling to me for I had not seen my father, who is usually so strong and not in the least superstitious, so terrified.

‘I see,’ interjected Holmes. ‘Ms White, could you repeat this ominous whistling now for me? It would help to imagine the scenario.’

‘Yes, of course,’ the girl answered, before licking her lips and beginning the tune. If the girl’s impersonation was correct, I can understand how a grown man may be quake from it. It was a beautiful melody indeed, but thoroughly haunting.

‘Thank you, Ms White.’ Holmes nodded. ‘Continue.’

‘Well gradually, throughout the week, mother and I restored him to almost full health but exactly seven days after the first, at midnight, we all heard the same morose tune and again found no soul anywhere in the grounds. This, of course, sent my father back to his previous state. The whistling has been heard twice more since, my father now refuses to leave the house. The strain of looking after my father and the fear of what kind of power could transform one usually so stout into a nervous wreck any time he hears it is taking its toll on my mother – we have had to call of our visit to my aunt as she is bedridden with worry.’

The girl hesitated here, for a second or so her youth showed and she looked most vulnerable. ‘It is all a grate strain on my mind; it feels like the world is ceasing to make any sense. Thank God I have Marcus. That is Marcus Adams; my fiancée of three months whom you guessed existed earlier.’ The young woman reddened slightly in the cheeks before climaxing her story. ‘We have called the police but they have found nothing. My father, a proud man, wished not for you, Mr Holmes and Dr Watson, to get involved, but it is on my mother’s insistence that I come to you today as the ghost comes every week on this day. Please, will you help us, Mr Holmes?’

Sherlock Holmes sat still in his chair a few moments before replying; ‘How could I refuse such a most singular case with several interesting features. We will accompany you on the first train back to Kent.’ As I glanced at my friend, I noticed an excited glint in his eye that I was so familiar with when Holmes had a case on his hands. As the man himself would say ‘the game is afoot!’

Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of the Melting Man

By Jove, what a suprise! While rooting through old Word documents on my laptop, I came across this; an abandoned opening to a Sherlock Holmes story. See what you think.

The Adventure of the Melting Man

From the Reminisces of Dr John H. Watson M.D.

Of all of our incredible cases that have threatened to break a man’s view of the world, few have been as singular as the affair of the death of the eminent author, Vincent De Lacey.
The year was 1887 and it was a bitter February morning. The rain hammered on down on the cobbled streets of London with terrific force; I pitied any poor soul misfortunate enough to be out in such a storm. Fortunately, I was inside 221B Baker Street in front of a blazing fire Mrs Hudson had lit for us earlier that day. My wife had gone to visit her sister for a short period so I had temporarily taken up my old lodgings with my dear friend, Sherlock Holmes.  Holmes was busying himself on the opposite side of the room with the morning’s papers, reading through his favourite agony columns.  In my particularly comfortable armchair, I had begun to doze but a sudden call from my friend woke me:

‘Watson, look sharp, there is a poor young woman making her way towards us.’

I went over to Holmes and discovered he was peering out of the window. Soon, the door to our room was opened by Mrs Hudson, who led in the sobbing, soaked young woman Holmes had foreseen.

She was a simply delectable creature, her golden brown hair, carefully gathered under her hat, was beautiful if considerably wet from the rain. I instinctively lent the girl my seat in front of the fire and knelt down beside her with a comforting pat on the hand.

‘My dear child,’ began Holmes with a gentle smile. ‘You must be in dire circumstances to travel to us on such a day. Pray, when you have composed yourself; tell us what troubles you so.’ 

‘I’m sorry to trouble you, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, but I don’t know who else to turn to. It’s my father. Last night, he was fine, as jovial as ever, but this morning –‘ The young woman relapsed into her outburst of tears.

‘Carry on, my dear,’ I soothed. ‘What happened?’

‘When I came into my father’s chamber this morning, he had simply melted. away.’

And that's all I did. I'd largely forgotten about and am actually quite impressed by how I portray Watson's 'voice' in the piece. And the 'favourite agony columns' part completes fathoms me now, but must be a reference to Holmes' tastes within the real stories. The idea of the Mystery of the Melting Man has been with me for awhile and eventually found life in some form as a (very) short story I entered into a Crime Writing competition (you can read it here). It's an idea that I still think I can do something else with so I may come back to it again in the future. What I'm definitely doing, or at least planning to, is to write a Sherlock Holmes story this Christmas, proisionally titled 'The Phantom of Vortigern House'. So watch this space!

Story Time #3: Peter and the Wolf

Last week, my Creativity group went on a trip (with packed lunches and everything - I felt like a school kid again!) to a Wolf Sanctuary in Newbury. It was an amazing day. We got to walk with the wolves and even pet them (you also have to go through a process of making sure they accept you first - think the Hippogriff scene in Harry Potter 3). I think the fellah above is Motomo, he was cool. The only wolf there who wasn't raised by people so that was the closest he would come to the fence. Anyway, the link to Creative Writing was that our tutor set up a story competition afterwards - write a wolf story up to 1000 words based on the day's experiences. The winner gets to be published in the sanctuary's monthly magazine. So, without further ado, here's my entry into the competition. I've left the explanation we had to do on the end as you may find it interesting. Read on...

                                             Peter and the Wolf

Midwinter night in the forest; bitter cold and smothered in a blanket of pure white. There is a full moon; the only time man can venture out once the day has gone. Peter has left the comfort of the small cottage in the clearing and has gone with his grandfather to collect wood for the fire. He has just turned ten years old – this is his first time in the forest.          
The woods are feared in the village. Every child is told of the legends of the slavering, savage, starving wolves that live among the trees. They are the Devil’s acolytes. They come for your family in the night. They mean you great harm.

Peter and his grandfather go further into the forest. The old man sets to his work, contented, until a cold sweat erupts on his wrinkled forehead; the silence of the night has been broken by the low, melodious call of the wolf. The old man grabs the boy’s hand and runs back through the trees. Peter risks a glance back, catching a fleeting glimpse of something shooting towards them like a bullet – the speed it was going at! Suddenly, the boy trips, his fall cushioned by the soft snow. His grandfather keeps running; he has not noticed! Peter hears a course breathing coming closer. He is terrified but he is brave, he tells himself. He can face this wolf.

It was an awesome spectacle. Its pelt was as grey as storm clouds and its nose as black as the night itself. Peter could see how the sight of it could strike terror into a man’s heart. But there was so much more to it. It looks a proud creature; its sleek body held high, its slender legs standing firm – it knows it rules this land and that Peter is a foreigner.  The stories he had been told painted the wolf as a sly, cunning animal or a ravenous bloodhound. From where he stood, neither of these is true. After all, they haven’t harmed him. The boy stands and the wolf turns its head; the burnt orange of its eyes fixed on him. Peter stares closer and peers through the windows into the wolf’s soul.

It is afraid. Constantly. All the wolves fear the slavering, savage, starving humans, dreading that humans will come for his pack every day. The wolf is wise but cannot explain why it is persecuted so. It surely is in the company of wolves that man fell from grace.

Something is pushing at Peter’s legs, he turns; it is another wolf, smaller than the first. His yellow eyes are less melancholic though his pelt is the same gunmetal shade. This wolf is the other’s cub. Peter goes to pet the newcomer but the first steps forward. The boy faces the wolf - it seems to see into his soul too; sees his innocence and care. It relents. The smaller wolf is excitable, jumping and jittering as Peter rubs its underbelly, feeling its wiry outer coat and the thick fleece of fur beneath. Peter’s anxiety melted at the wolf’s warm touch and its giddy countenance. He is no longer afraid.

Another shape comes from the trees. This one is fairer than the others. It sees Peter with the cub, a look of apprehension in its eyes. But it gazes at the first wolf and seems to understand. It strides over to Peter. This is the mother of the cub and the first’s mate. Two of the pack have accepted him but the first wolf, the father, stands clear. It has spent so long mistrusting humans, believing that they mean him great harm. Yet this boy does not. It slowly approaches.

And so, under the cool rays of the moonlight, that makes the fallen snowflakes glisten like jewels, Peter began to walk with the wolf.

I was largely influenced by how we were told of the wolf’s persecution through the ages. I wanted to loosely use the tale of Peter and the Wolf to tell a story of a human who sees that both the humans and the wolves fear each other the same. The wolf pack is also based on Motomo, Mai and Nuka from the sanctuary.

A Snippet of a Script

Thought I'd share with you all (well, you, anyway) a short opening scene I wrote for my Scriptwriting seminar. We were asked to come up with something akin to the morning scene in Jaws i.e. a short scene that sets up main characters and shows their world in balance. Anyway, here it is sans title as I haven't come up with one yet. P.s. Excuse the eschew formatting, I'll blame Word.

1.      EXT. GRAYSON BACK GARDEN – EARLY MORNING

It is a bright summer’s morning and two young children are cheerily playing and running around together in a nicely kept garden behind a pleasant detached house. Our focus is with these children – one boy, one girl, both dressed in school clothes – the main sound we hear is their laughter with perhaps some birdsong in the background.

                       Ben

               Ha! I won. My turn again.

                   Maisie (V.O)

    What? That’s not fair. If you won I should g-

As we hear the children’s playful arguing the shot pans further down the garden to where another child – a boy – is sitting alone by a small garden pond. He, also dressed in school clothes, seems smaller and more fragile than the other two. Unlike the other children’s cheery expressions, he is visibly more sombre, engrossed in the pond. Shot changes to the other children who have stopped their play to look at the boy, in that way that children do when they see something they don’t understand.

2.      INT. GRAYSON HOUSE – KITCHEN – EARLY MORNING

A woman circa thirty is busy fixing lunches and fiddling with school bags. She is rushing around and going back and forth but she doesn’t break into a sweat. She’s a mother, she’s used to it. Suddenly, the phone rings and she hurriedly picks it from the hook.

                      SARAH

  Hello. Oh, hi Jennifer. Yeah, he’s settling in fine.

Mother walks over to window and we see from her point of view as she watches the boy still sitting alone by the pond. The other two are buzzing around, out of focus.

 He’s quiet, of course. But so is everyone around new people. I’m sure he’ll come out of his shell once he gets to know us better.

3.      INT. SOCIAL WORKER OFFICE – EARLY MORNING

A kindly woman in her forties is sitting at her desk whilst on the phone.

                        JENNIFER

I’m glad to hear that. Robert always is a bit reserved in his first few days. (She suddenly changes tack as if she has let something slip) It was so nice of you to take him in after all he’s been through; especially as you already had kids of your own. Are they getting along OK?

4.      INT. GRAYSON HOUSE – KITCHEN – EARLY MORNING

Mother is still observing children through window. In between their play the children are glancing at Robert with peculiar looks. Mother stares at this for few seconds before snapping back.

                           SARAH

Er, yes. Brilliantly. Sorry, I’d better go now. Things to do. Thanks for calling.

           Sarah puts the phone down and steps outside.

            Kids. Why aren’t you playing all together?

Ben looks and Maisie, looks back to his mother and shrugs in an exaggerated fashion.         Sarah goes over to Robert and stoops down to his level. She speaks quietly to him.

      Do you want to play games with Ben and Maisie, Robert?

 Robert doesn’t turn to look at her. He scrunches up his mouth a little as if debating the    question with himself. Then he firmly shakes his head.

    No? Ok. She stands up and resumes her louder voice. Kids, go play with Robert by the pond.

         Ben and Maisie start to moan, talking both at once, saying they don’t want to because the pond is boring. The Mother is about to protest when Sam comes to the patio doors. He is dressed in a suit with a briefcase. He flashes a warm smile and a wave to his family.

                             SAM

                     Bye Ben! Bye Maisie!

They call and wave back.

                     Bye Robert.

   No reply. We see Sarah looking worried.

  Sam goes back in kitchen and Sarah follows.

5.       INT. GRAYSON HOUSE – KITCHEN  - EARLY MORNING

           Sam is leaving but Sarah grabs him by the arm. She looks at him, biting her lip for a moment before she speaks.

                              SARAH

                   Are we doing the right thing?

                               SAM

 Takes her hand.  Oh. Not this again. Of course we are! How could taking a troubled boy under our wing be the wrong thing?

                         SARAH

         I know. I know. I just worry that–

                          SAM
There’s nothing to worry about! It’ll all come together soon I promise.

    They hug quickly but lovingly. He kisses her on the forehead.

                               Bye.

                              SARAH

                               Bye.

 Sarah turns away and lets out a quick breath as if to symbolise the relieving of her worries. She walks to the patio doors.

                 Kids, It’s time to –

She stops and gasps. We then see it from her eyes. In the pond, spluttering and flaying about, is Robert. Ben and Maisie are standing around it, watching.

6.       EXT. GRAYSON BACK GARDEN – EARLY MORNING

 Sarah runs towards the scene.

                         SARAH

        What the hell happened? Did you push him in?!

Sarah picks up Robert from in the pond; he is breathing heavily and quietly sobbing.

              You pushed him in, didn’t you?

                          BEN

              We didn’t push him. We didn’t –

                        SARAH

You did! I can’t believe you’d do something like this, Ben! Especially in front of your younger sister.  She is cradling Robert and looking at Ben. Apologise to Robert now!

                         BEN

       I didn’t push him! I didn’t push him!

                        SARAH

                      Apologise!
 

                         BEN

                         NO!

                       SARAH

Right. If you’re not going to apologise then you’re gonna get punished.

We start to hear Ben protesting and Sarah shouting back but this fades away as the camera focuses on Robert’s face in his foster mother’s arms. He is no longer sobbing or shivering but simply wearing the same passive expression we have seen on his face in all the way through.