horror and stories
picking up where i left off, yonks ago ...
the first 13 people to register on the netflix site had been chosen to write a horror story. the original layout was that we must: write a story in ten minutes, use a prop that will be given, include a specific character that would be given, and use a specific opening line.
i practiced a little, just to get a feel for what 10 minutes was like (it's essentially four paragraphs) and had several discussions with friends ... i'd decided to go with humor instead of straight horror for multiple reasons, but was having trouble with concepts that i could think of that were uniformly "funny." i was nervous and a little edgy.
once they called everyone forward, they announced that the rules had changed. in addition to using a character by name we'd have to:
* we would have eight minutes to write instead of 10.
* we would have to incorporate a sound into the stories (that would be acted out).
* we would be given a closing line instead of an opening line.
* we needed to include an occupation.
the audience was then asked to come up with suggestions for all items, these were culled by an announcer. the stories would have to include:
* a duck
* the name "stanley" (the event was at the stanley hotel -- the place where stephen king wrote the shining [and the location of my wedding rehearsal dinner, weirdly])
* an occupation of plumber
* the sound of an elephant trumpeting
* a closing line of "and he one had one finger and it was green"
i fired up the hiptop to keep track of time and wrote a story in about 7:30. for some reason, as they read the elements, i decided to fall back on pure horror and do a re-working of a story i'd written in high school, but move it up a notch in the universal studios sense.
people then went up to the microphone and read their stories in front of a giant (and very cool) inflatable movie screen. overall i was surprised at how good all the stories were -- especially given the constraints. none were truly "bad" and as my traveling companion said later they all seemed to have their own strengths.
there were stories of dementia and ghouls, preditors and loss. the better stories had all very clearly been written, or at least thought about, ahead of time. in my eyes there were three stand outs -- a dementia story by a woman, an evil butler story by a guy who didn't look all there himself and the clear crowd favorite (and eventual winner) about a plumber who goes to check the pipes at the white house and ends up taking off george bush's skull.
stories were judged by a sophisticated applause-o-meter (a guy holding a pole with a highway cone on it). the audience were encouraged to root for one person only.
i read seventh and it's safe to say the response to my story was in the bottom three at the event. ten or 15 years ago, a public response to my writing like that would probably have driven me to suicide. today, thanks to the books, columns, articles and (maybe especially) this site, i just thought it was funny. after i read to no response i laughed and turned around to the people next to me in line and said, "there are terrible things that happen to you in life and then there is this."
no matter. if you weren't in the top three, you got the same prize as everyone else: a three months netflix subscription, a netflix lawn chair and a netflix soft 6-pack cooler. it was fun.
i encourage you to try the eight minute story yourself, when you're done, you can compare it mine below. i would then encourage you to go read it in front of a crowd of total strangers -- don't forget to enact the elephant sound.
stanley the plumber's day got much worse when he swerved to avoid the duck and hit the telephone pole.
next thing he knew he could hear [sound of elephant] his 3-year old son's favorite greeting.
"i'm sorry, son, you have to leave the room." it was an authoritative voice that was clearly a doctor.
stanley could hear the sound of cardiac machines, and suddenly one of them flatlined [sound of machine flat-lining].
but why, stanley wondered, i'm not dead! he could open his eyes eough to see around the room. nurses were preparing saws and awkward tools.
"why did the machines go off, doctor?" a not-so-shapely nurse asked.
"only way to clear the room." the doctor continued, "remember, these limbs will work best if severed while the plumber is still alive."
but this wasn't the worst news. he could see menace and hurt in the doctor's face. and he only had one finger, and it was green.
the first 13 people to register on the netflix site had been chosen to write a horror story. the original layout was that we must: write a story in ten minutes, use a prop that will be given, include a specific character that would be given, and use a specific opening line.
i practiced a little, just to get a feel for what 10 minutes was like (it's essentially four paragraphs) and had several discussions with friends ... i'd decided to go with humor instead of straight horror for multiple reasons, but was having trouble with concepts that i could think of that were uniformly "funny." i was nervous and a little edgy.
once they called everyone forward, they announced that the rules had changed. in addition to using a character by name we'd have to:
* we would have eight minutes to write instead of 10.
* we would have to incorporate a sound into the stories (that would be acted out).
* we would be given a closing line instead of an opening line.
* we needed to include an occupation.
the audience was then asked to come up with suggestions for all items, these were culled by an announcer. the stories would have to include:
* a duck
* the name "stanley" (the event was at the stanley hotel -- the place where stephen king wrote the shining [and the location of my wedding rehearsal dinner, weirdly])
* an occupation of plumber
* the sound of an elephant trumpeting
* a closing line of "and he one had one finger and it was green"
i fired up the hiptop to keep track of time and wrote a story in about 7:30. for some reason, as they read the elements, i decided to fall back on pure horror and do a re-working of a story i'd written in high school, but move it up a notch in the universal studios sense.
people then went up to the microphone and read their stories in front of a giant (and very cool) inflatable movie screen. overall i was surprised at how good all the stories were -- especially given the constraints. none were truly "bad" and as my traveling companion said later they all seemed to have their own strengths.
there were stories of dementia and ghouls, preditors and loss. the better stories had all very clearly been written, or at least thought about, ahead of time. in my eyes there were three stand outs -- a dementia story by a woman, an evil butler story by a guy who didn't look all there himself and the clear crowd favorite (and eventual winner) about a plumber who goes to check the pipes at the white house and ends up taking off george bush's skull.
stories were judged by a sophisticated applause-o-meter (a guy holding a pole with a highway cone on it). the audience were encouraged to root for one person only.
i read seventh and it's safe to say the response to my story was in the bottom three at the event. ten or 15 years ago, a public response to my writing like that would probably have driven me to suicide. today, thanks to the books, columns, articles and (maybe especially) this site, i just thought it was funny. after i read to no response i laughed and turned around to the people next to me in line and said, "there are terrible things that happen to you in life and then there is this."
no matter. if you weren't in the top three, you got the same prize as everyone else: a three months netflix subscription, a netflix lawn chair and a netflix soft 6-pack cooler. it was fun.
i encourage you to try the eight minute story yourself, when you're done, you can compare it mine below. i would then encourage you to go read it in front of a crowd of total strangers -- don't forget to enact the elephant sound.
stanley the plumber's day got much worse when he swerved to avoid the duck and hit the telephone pole.
next thing he knew he could hear [sound of elephant] his 3-year old son's favorite greeting.
"i'm sorry, son, you have to leave the room." it was an authoritative voice that was clearly a doctor.
stanley could hear the sound of cardiac machines, and suddenly one of them flatlined [sound of machine flat-lining].
but why, stanley wondered, i'm not dead! he could open his eyes eough to see around the room. nurses were preparing saws and awkward tools.
"why did the machines go off, doctor?" a not-so-shapely nurse asked.
"only way to clear the room." the doctor continued, "remember, these limbs will work best if severed while the plumber is still alive."
but this wasn't the worst news. he could see menace and hurt in the doctor's face. and he only had one finger, and it was green.
posted by b1-66er at 11:53
1 Comments:
well I'm sufficiently horrified. (by the story -- not the experience.) I'm glad you posted this.
your point about "books, columns and this site" reminds me of something that hit me during a chapter in my life when my rite of spring (SIFF) led me to disappear into upwards of three movie screenings per day for a period of about a month -- and something that holds true now that I'm living in a city with an abundance of world-class architecture -- there seems to be a correlation between detachment and volume.
There's less pressure for that next movie to be the best movie ever -- the next building to be transcendent -- the next post to be absolutely perfect -- when it's part of a larger context. You realize that it's just a byte in a much bigger mash up.
or as you put it so well: "and then there's this."
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