u/HeGotBricks

“Elena, let’s go.” 

Her dad’s voice barely escaped the loud chattering crowd, and horns of Manhattan’s 5:00 PM traffic. Caught between a glass window and vehicles stalled at a red light, Elena’s gaze stayed fixed at a couple dancing a raw—unfiltered tango. 

Rising under the clothes she wore, her temperature covered her like a heat blanket. Soaking into her skin, her blouse had a shaded ring of sweat around her collar resembling a necklace—those days where one finds solace in a brief humid breeze—crammed on a busy New York City street.

An aroma of hotdogs sizzling on a grill at a vendor stand pulled her back to a competition in high school. Snapping her spine straight, she arched her back—balancing her foot on the tip of her toe, and sucked in a sharp breath.

“Elena.” 

Landing on the balls of her feet, a shock rippled from her ankle bone to her head and shook her brain. Glancing behind her shoulder, she kept her attention directed at the dancing couple, as she walked toward her father calling her.

“Sorry, Dad.”

He just stared at her and slowly shook his head, standing next to an opened taxi cab’s door. Valentina, Elena’s mother, stepped in the cab first. Snagging her purse on the metal frame, she tugged on the leather strap and freed her caught purse, before wiggling into a comfortable position, as Elena slipped in after her, and sat sandwiched between her mom and her dad.

The yellow on Valentina’s dress reflected the sun under her straw hat drawing a shadow on her face. Evading the sensory assault of burning incense, Valentina smothered her nose with a cloth and discreetly sprayed a hit of her flowery, Robert Piguet Fracas perfume. 

Under her breath, Elena snarled a giggle at her mom, and glanced at the driver’s face tag hanging from the backseat, then leaned over her mother and rolled down the window to escape the sun-baked heat bouncing off the vinyl. 

“The Manhattan at Times Square, please. Scoot over Elena, and roll up the window, you’re letting out the A/C.”

The driver nodded at her father and smiled before looking away. The driver had a clean shave, giving him a younger appearance against the black highlighting the gray in his hair.

“Dad, what street is this?”

Stretching out her arm past her mother’s waist, Elena rolled the window up, then turned to face her father. Rustling through his pockets of his Italian suit that rested under a soft alpaca coat, the Don yanked a napkin out, and dabbed the sweat beading off his forehead.

“I don’t know, honey.”

Elena’s father then turned to the driver shooting back in a thick middle eastern accent—muddling his English,

“You here for visit New York?”

Gripping onto the back of the passenger seat, Elena leaned forward,

“Yeah, we’re from Toronto.”

The driver stared at her through the mirror,

“Oh Canada, beautiful, beautiful place.”

The driver began to recite all the relatives and friends he knew, or ever visited Canada, which went on for a bit before Elena fell back into the blue vinyl sticking to her skin. 

Vibrating under her palms, the metal of the cab shook as the driver pulled away and drove towards the hotel—past the couple in the window of the dance studio. Elena shot her eyes up at the sign and took a mental picture of the name. ‘Danscotta.’ 

“8th and 48th.”

She repeated under her breath with her fists clutched and toes curled into the sole of her shoes.

——————-

Bubbles washed over Elena, lying in the bathtub. From the main room, a muffled sound battling through the Latin dance mix pouring into the left side of Elena’s earbud broke the trance she was in.

“We’re going for a play, and dinner, we’ll be back around 12:00am.”

Dressed in formal wear and waiting for a response, her parents stood there—dad with his arms crossed and face nearly red.

“Elena.”

He shouted, then stomped to the bathroom door and banged—calling out her name. The thud at the door startled her before she could respond.

“Yeah?”

Could they have no names and sit in an empty stadium on steel seats that were still sticky from last night’s baseball game, and share a bag of ketchup chips behind home plate?

Am I not able to do whatever I want? Or are there certain rules I should follow and become cliche? They don’t need names and you don’t need context. They eat potato chips and haven’t a name, nor a gender, and are sitting and watching an imaginary ballgame. What’s that tell you cheese cracker? 

Want me to tell you their birthday’s so you can set a reminder? Or how they grew up as Siamese twins, or would you rather they just be aliens. Can’t you just read it and fill in the blanks yourself? Why do you want to change the vibe? Do you really need a map? They sat there in an air of ketchup and talked. How would I know what they said, I was there, yeah, in that empty stadium. But I was ten rows back asshat.

Plus it was chilly as hell, and I didn’t have a blanket, a coat, a hat. I had mittens, I couldn’t write anything down. You know the fingerless ones you usually wear in grade 2?

Anyway I just wanted to tell you what they were doing.

Imagine thinking that things cud be different 

But they’re not, nor will they ever be 

I still hold onto the thought of you 

And what I couldn’t do

Holding onto you

I let you slip away, a fool I was

I admit that now, yes I do, of course I do 

You’d think I’d have learned 

But I haven’t. Nope.

I have not. I don’t know why

It’s like I’m cursed, forever roaming earth

Never feeling the pain of being hurt 

Where can I see the beauty in a rose 

When it dies in my hand

The color of the sky if it’s gray all the time

I stand outside

And see the world in a new set of eyes

Pathetic? Pathetic, he called me? That scab. Who does he think he is. He just sits behind his keyboard—probably in a pair of stretched out yoga pants that he stuffs a lifetime of defeat into. The cellulite started to look like a chessboard.

He didn’t understand me. How could he? He couldn’t. Why would he? He’s the Mac n cheese king. I’m just a peasant. A fool. But, he doesn’t know anything outside of a square screen. All he knows is the steady sound of buttons clicking. He didn’t even pay rent.

In the basement of his mother’s house, he hides in the dark with the flicker of a candle. When he’s not checking profiles, he’s making macaroni string necklaces. I hope he chokes on a dry noodle**.** That bastard. How dare he talk to me the way he did.

Did I retaliate? I did, I said with a smirk. I deserve respect. I demand respect. No. I command respect. Damn bullies. They’re everywhere.

Tomorrow I’ll wake up and forget he existed.

As for today, I’ll just simulate in my head every now and then, and write him as a character who plays goalie without any equipment and constantly takes slap shots to the groin.

I had to apologize. I had to. Not that I wanted to. And he still kept breathing down my neck. Believe that? The audacity. Damn coward. Damn. I’m the coward. I just sat there and took it, it sucks being a puppet. 

Maybe he just wanted someone to give him a hug. I would have. Of course I would. I’m sure I would. Aside from the bacon grease sweating down his cheeks and the fungus stench radiating from under his rolls, he could be a good guy. For instance, there was this one time. There was a guy, he needed help, and buddy sat there for hours with him. Actually, now that I think about it, that was someone else. 

Pathetic? Pathetic, he called me? That scab. Who does he think he is. He just sits behind his keyboard—probably in a pair of stretched out yoga pants that he stuffs a lifetime of defeat into. The cellulite started to look like a chessboard.

He didn’t understand me. How could he? He couldn’t. Why would he? He’s the Mac n cheese king. I’m just a peasant. A fool. But, he doesn’t know anything outside of a square screen. All he knows is the steady sound of buttons clicking. He didn’t even pay rent.

In the basement of his mother’s house, he hides in the dark with the flicker of a candle. When he’s not checking profiles, he’s making macaroni string necklaces. I hope he chokes on a dry noodle**.** That bastard. How dare he talk to me the way he did.

Did I retaliate? I did, I said with a smirk. I deserve respect. I demand respect. No. I command respect. Damn bullies. They’re everywhere.

Tomorrow I’ll wake up and forget he existed.

As for today, I’ll just simulate in my head every now and then, and write him as a character who plays goalie without any equipment and constantly takes slap shots to the groin.

I had to apologize. I had to. Not that I wanted to. And he still kept breathing down my neck. Believe that? The audacity. Damn coward. Damn. I’m the coward. I just sat there and took it, it sucks being a puppet. 

Maybe he just wanted someone to give him a hug. I would have. Of course I would. I’m sure I would. Aside from the bacon grease sweating down his cheeks and the fungus stench radiating from under his rolls, he could be a good guy. For instance, there was this one time. There was a guy, he needed help, and buddy sat there for hours with him. Actually, now that I think about it, that was someone else. 

[ Removed by Reddit on account of violating the content policy. ]

Title:  Carrots, Love and Onion Rings

Just as I made it home, I noticed the six flip to a nine. I just sighed—typical. The day stretched to night, and I just wanted to cozy up to some popcorn and a soda. 

Standing at the front door, I took a deep breath, inhaling the sweet aroma of a finished day. I reached out and twisted the knob. The metal stung with defeat—great. The doors locked. Everything in my hands, I placed on the ground and searched through my pockets as the lock clicked. Ironic right.

The door opened and Alexandria’s perfume smothered the air. She latched her arms around my waist and smiled a white, excited grin that said my day hadn’t ended just yet. The blue in her eyes lit up under the night sky and she gazed up at me—perfect, it’s sealed, I’m definitely not watching a movie tonight.

“I couldn’t grab the food for my mother and she needs it in the morning.”

“Alright,” I refrained from expelling the sarcastic response I could barely hold back. Rushing towards the kitchen, she shot back in a trailing voice,

“I”m jotting down a list real quick, and we’ll head out.”

“Sure,” I rumbled and shrugged. 

Why wasn’t it already done?

Shaking my head, I pulled myself upstairs to the bathroom and turned my back to a sound,

“I’ll just be a couple of minutes,” 

Ignoring her, I escaped to brush my teeth, wash my face and comb my hair. When I got to the washroom, the tube of toothpaste was flat—I just laughed to myself. So I grabbed the mouthwash and gurgled that.

Finishing up, I glanced at my phone and noticed the time. Instead of swapping into something more comfy, I figured I’d just head down to the kitchen. Alexandria sat at the table, I leaned on the door frame and snapped my fingers,

“You ready?”

“I missed a couple of grocery’s and I’m inspecting the list. You know, in case I missed an item. Just two more minutes.”

In the meantime, I tossed aside my work gear and jumped into some joggers. Hell I even smoked a bit of a roach. Walking back to the kitchen I expected her to give me shit for taking so long. Of course she was still writing that list,

“You’re still writing that list?”

“Im double checking it, I don’t want to forget anything,“

“Yeah, but you’re treating that list like it’s a novel.“

“Better than anything you could write.”

Without batting an eye, she snickered—never missing a beat—that’s Alex.

“Just add toothpaste.”

I crossed my arms and muttered under my breath, “Lists.”

“Lists are important.”

For some reason she just had to defend that. I clenched my teeth, uncrossed my arms and sat at the table with her.

“Do the carrot and the onion hook up at the end? What’s the arc? Will you do a found love trope? Like, The onion and the carrot find love together and spawn little baby brussels sprouts?”

The scribbling paused. The silence broke to the sound of her pen drop. Turning her head, she studied me with the side of her eyes,

“What do you know what a good story is?You don’t have any experience.”

She picked her pen back up and continued with her list, I took a breath,

“I can read a story and notice if it’s good or not”

“Except your own,” 

She sniped back with a smirk—I adore those back and forth battles we have, 

“Of course I can,”

I straightened my posture and continued,

“That’s how I know my writing is good”

“And you’re going on record making that claim?”

“Actually, it’s facts woman, not a claim.”

I proudly stated. 

“When you read something and it hits, you feel it.”

After ignoring me for five minutes, she stood up, scraping the chair against the floor and ran to grab her purse. Talk about relieved, I left to start the car and had a lighter step in my walk.

The traffic was brutal—why would I expect anything less—right. Something about being sandwiched in between stalled cars at night, reminds me of Christmas. Alexandria dialed the radio to Sirius and pouring out of the speaker, breaking the silence, erupted 

“Day-O.”

What are the odds? She shot her head towards me,

“Don’t you even start.” 

Unable to resist, I giggled. She knew exactly what I had in mind when the banana boat song played, sounding like surrender to me, and more like resentment to her.

By the time we made it to the grocery store and after she ransacked her purse, her pockets, and the floor. The list sat on the table forgotten at home. It was a horrible day that landed with a chef’s kiss as we both rolled over laughing. 

The end.

Some years later, Goldilocks roamed the deepest parts of the forest, where she collapsed at the root of a tree. She sat there with chubby cheeks and running down them were tears. Baby Bear found a scent and followed it full of cheer. 

Where he saw a girl all alone—blind with watery eyes and looked at her shaking and thought that she was just cold. He asked her what’s wrong?

But, she scrambled on her hands and the heels of her feet until her back hit a log. Baby Bear said don’t worry I just came here to help. Covering her face with her hands, she peaked through her fingers and started to shake. The smell of Baby Bear’s last dinner was fresh. Mistaking her fear for cold, he snuggled by her, and wanted her to feel warm.

Goldilocks couldn’t breathe she suffocated for air. Baby Bear thought that she just must’ve been scared. In the air her arms wailed, until they went limp and Baby Bear finally thought that she was happy with him.

what your opinion on this ?

example 1:

Margo, Marge and Marcy stood in a line preparing to sing. Margo reached to hold Marge’s hand and started a long, “hmm.” Marge latched on and joined humming a “huh” as Marcy opened it up.

“OH HAPPY DAY”

“Oh happy—“  ———-“Day.”

“WHEN JESUS WASHED”

“When Jesus—“ ———“Washed”

“HE WASHED MY SINS AWAY”

“Oh happy—“ ————-“Day—“

“Stop. Something’s off.”  Marcy scowled. 

“I thought it was perfect.”  Marge spoke with her spine straight. 

“What did you think about it Margo.” Asked Marcy. 

“I felt further away from you then Marge.”

“The song, Margo”  sighed Marcy. 

“Huh.” Margo mindlessly asserted with a stuck face, unlocking to Marge explaining the question. “Did you hear anything funny.” 

Margo laughed and recalled a memory. “Yeah what was it again?” She scratched her head. “Oh, got it, okay. God walks into a bar and orders three shots of holy water—“

“Bless your heart, sweetie.” Marcy interrupted, smiling as Marge began laughing. Marcy shook her head and said,

“Let’s take it from the top.” 

example 2:

They sat around until a tall man in a suit and a top hat strutted onstage and initiated a vote between fifteen union workers. He handed his cane off to a stage boy that came running up to grab it like that was his sole purpose in life. That one moment everyone gets where they feel like they’ve won the jackpot. But in hindsight they just stepped in a pile of shit and probably fed some of it too. He leaned into the mic,

“All for aye”

   -     “Aye. Aye.    -     Aye.”

   -      “Aye. Aye”.    -        -

“Aye.”  -        -        -        -

The man on stage scanned a quick count with his eyes,

 “Six Ay—“

The four men in the back row began cheering and hollering and already claiming victory. The fellow in the front row on the right basically told the four in the back row a few places they could go and it wasn’t anywhere pleasant.

“That’s enough—settle down—I’ll conclude this vote right now and disqualify it.” 

The roaring seeped to a silence,

“Aye for Nay.”

“Nay.  -        -       Nay.” -

“Nay.  -        -      Nay. Nay.”

   -     “Nay. Nay. Nay. Nay”

also when I switch perspectives I went into past tense for her dream. ok so in this who have two perspectives I think that’s what they call it. it’s different. is the present to past tense jarring ?

Meet Sam. Sam is a middle aged man who sees the value in a coin found under the seat of a cushion. Sam’s unaware that his next action will start a chain of events spiraling out of control. Jenna’s a diva—Gucci slides, Bentley’s and hot guys. Jenna sees the value of a coin as just more clutter in her purse.

Sam’s hands are shaking. He’s checking his bank account. More money seems to be in his account. He smiles, brushes it off and puts his phone down. then, turns his head to a whiff of bacon and eggs circulating in the air. A mirage to the zeros he once had in his account. 

Sam picks his phone up and decides to check again. 100$ more is in his account. He shakes his head in disbelief. He doesn’t know what’s happening. He thinks, maybe I should move it to my savings. 

Sam opens his account again. Sweat beads off the back of his neck. More money is in his account. He moves it to his savings and exits the app and opens it again. More money is in his account. Sam does this over and over and over again. 

More and more and more money is in his account. It grows every time he checks. How could he stop checking. He wouldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. He starts to tremble. His teeth start to chatter. He turns his phone off and takes out the battery. Sam looks out the window before shutting the curtains. He tries to sleep. But he just keeps rolling over. The chills now become hot sweats. 

He grabs his phone and then the battery, he turns it on and he checks again. More money is in his account. Sam’s account now reads in thousands. He runs to check the locks on his door. The windows. He even stopped and made sure the Fridge-door was shut. 

He grabs his coat. His keys. He looks around and for some reason bolts out the door. He jumps in his car and drives straight to an ATM. He pulls out 5k. Reads the receipt. 25k. Sam withdraws another 5k. Reads the receipt. 25k. He tries it again. Same results. The money doesn’t stop. Bing after bing. He feels helpless, he keeps fighting the urge to check his account. but—he can’t.

He is now a passenger in his body. He continues to drive and continues to check his phone. He drives—he checks his phone. His account is now in the six figure mark. 

Sam’s been on the road for six hours straight. Only stopping for gas and the occasional withdraw. He keeps driving away from something he can‘t understand. So, he just keeps driving. 

The stacks of cash in the back of his cab are sliding from side to side, each turn is sharper than the last. A thud from the left. A thump from the right. He hasn’t eaten in the last 24 hours. He remembers the scent of bacon and eggs. but his eyelids start to weigh on his face. 

He continues to drive, dozes off and wakes swerving to the right. A 5k bundle of cash flies from the back of the cab and jams under the brake.

“Stars Are Blind” pumped out of a factory car speaker which Jenna sang along to until she’s blinded by headlights and the music cuts.

A blinding white glimmer broke through the night, pulling down her sun visor, and unable to register why the vehicle remained idle while jamming her Gucci slide on the brake. 

She screamed clutching her fists and attempted to push open the door. It wouldn’t budge. Ramming her shoulder repeatedly against it until she gave up. 

As she pressed the button to roll the window down, she heard screeching metal, and removed her finger. The sound stopped. As she pushed down on it again. A blanket of burning rubber smothered her tongue and entered her lungs. Struggling to ground herself, the window suddenly retracted. A relieving breath of fresh air consumed her. 

Fading with the tremors, a flashing childhood memory of her trapped in a closest. Unbuckling the seatbelt, she slid out of the window and landed on her bed.

No. Beneath her palms, dirt slithered between her fingers. On the front lawn she sat up, gazing into a pink fluorescent hue bleeding from the sky. Warming her face with a vibrating sound, a musk after-taste of earth and plastic.

Looming over her, stood a man in a dark blue uniform, shadowing the light in an ominous overcast. An unfamiliar copper taste sat at the back of her throat as he spoke, she tasted every word.

“What. what’s going on?” she whispered.

The man looked at the blood seeping from her head, smelling like coffee and gasoline and air freshener. Scratches covered her oil stained hands. Flashing a brilliant red light, pulsed the strangers eyes.

“Not shh—. I jus—- the z-60-fo-tree. Ma’am… 10-4.” Crackled through an invisible speaker.

“Why does your voice feel like that?" 

Questioned Jenna, laboring to rationalize what little sense remained.

"Wa—Was there an earthquake?”

“Now, na— hold — ma’am,” his speech broke.

“I said I had the z-four-tree. What I actually meant was the z-ten-four-tree. I wanted the four… but I figured… 10-4.”

He spoke with smooth sounding voice. Straightening his posture, and crossing his legs, and winking with a crooked grin and then his dark blue suit faded behind the night. Jenna’s lips curled.

“Does anyone know what color last Tuesday was?” Rambled the man.

Drifting into his words, she clamped her eyes shut. A glass shattering sound weighed on her chest. Heavy. Suffocating. Crushing her ribs. Snapping open her eyes, she found herself standing on her neighbor’s porch. 

The door had a metal frame, but crushed like an aluminum can if she touched it. Touching the rubber doorbell left a hint of metal lingering in her mouth, tasting as sharp as a machete blade, ringing with the sound of screeching tires and steel being crushed. 

Scraping the wooden floor as the door slid open, a copper scent flushed in with a gust of wind. The odor shimmered in the air. The metallic tasting flashes of red and blue lights reflecting grew stronger.

“Unit-160 code 3. Unit 120 dispatch on your 10-76. 10-4.”

“Ma’am? Ma’am? Can you speak?”

Jenna laid her head on the steering wheel. Opening her glossy eyes to a waterfall of glass raining from her hair.

“Ma’am, don’t move. The paramedics are on their way.”

Genre: Sci-Fi Psychological Thriller (Sub-genre: Time-inversion Neo-Noir)

Summary: When a fatal shooting and a sudden windfall trigger violent, seamless fractures in time, two men become trapped in escalating, inescapable loops where their past actions collide head-on with their present reality.

Title: The  Looped Glitch

The barrel of the gun smoked—filling the air in a scent of gunpowder—pointed at Jared’s lifeless corpse with six bullets riddled in it. 

Three bullets leave Jared’s face—the blood spilled back into the opened holes—healing the wounds as the shells reconstructed into cartridges one after the other and perfectly load the gun in rhythm—the last one slightly trailed.

Casey lowered his arm and raised it again mid-air to a bullet being sucked out of Jared’s body and closing the hole and sliding into the barrel, it loaded the chamber with three other cartridges and gave the gun a heavier feel in his palm. 

Casey went from being relaxed to edgy in a split second. He dropped his arm to his side, then raised it again and a soothing sound he once heard left his ears as a bullet formed back into the cartridge that was fired inside the chamber. 

As Jared rose off the ground a bullet from his head traveled into Casey’s fully loaded gun. The smell of cologne stained the room. Holstering his snub nose, Casey turned his head and faced Jared who was dropping his arm to his hip and a throbbing swell in Casey’s head shrunk. The misty spray of saliva unglued from Casey’s face and shot into Jared’s mouth and he yelled,

‘You were where?’

And Casey stood there in a blank gaze.

Casey just stares at Jared yelling at him. 

‘Where were you?’

Jareds’s saliva sprays Casey’s face. Blinking his eyes, Casey catches an impact with his skull that makes his brain bounce. Casey’s vision clears.

Jared is breathing heavily with his eyes spread open. Casey reaches for his snub nose and doesn’t think. He just fires a shot. Jared’s body drops and makes a thud and thump. 

The sound resonates with Casey for a second and he relaxes in the moment of silence and stares at Jared and raises his weapon and lets off another shot. Casey squeezes out one more, then empties the last three into Jared.

Casey’s reality now is dark and cold as his actions were.

Meet Sam. A middle aged man who sees the value in a coin found under the seat of a cushion. Sam’s unaware that his next action will start a chain of events spiraling Sam out of control and into a place he’ll never return from.

Sam’s hands are shaking. He’s checking his bank account. More money seems to be in his account. He smiles, brushes it off and puts his phone down. then, turns his head to a whiff of bacon and eggs circulating in the air. A mirage to the zeros he once had in his account. 

Sam picks his phone up and decides to check again. 100$ more is in his account. He shakes his head in disbelief. He doesn’t know what’s happening. He thinks, maybe I should move it to my savings. 

Sam opens his account again. Sweat beads off the back of his neck. More money is in his account. He moves it to his savings and exits the app and opens it again. More money is in his account. Sam does this over and over and over again. 

More and more and more money is in his account. It grows every time he checks. How could he stop checking. He wouldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. He starts to tremble. His teeth start to chatter. He turns his phone off and takes out the battery. Sam looks out the window before shutting the curtains. He tries to sleep. But he just keeps rolling over. The chills now become hot sweats. 

He grabs his phone and then the battery, he turns it on and he checks again. More money is in his account. Sam’s account now reads in thousands. He runs to check the locks on his door. The windows. He even stopped and made sure the Fridge-door was shut. 

He grabs his coat. His keys. He looks around and for some reason bolts out the door. He jumps in his car and drives straight to an ATM. He pulls out 5k. Reads the receipt. 25k. Sam withdraws another 5k. Reads the receipt. 25k. He tries it again. Same results. The money doesn’t stop. Bing after bing. He feels helpless, he keeps fighting the urge to check his account. but—he can’t.

He is now a passenger in his body. He continues to drive and continues to check his phone. He drives—he checks his phone. His account is now in the six figure mark. 

Sam’s been on the road for six hours straight. Only stopping for gas and the occasional withdraw. He keeps driving away from something he can‘t understand. So, he just keeps driving. 

The stacks of cash in the back of his cab are sliding from side to side, each turn is sharper than the last. A thud from the left. A thump from the right. He hasn’t eaten in the last 24 hours. He remembers the scent of bacon and eggs. but his eyelids start to weigh on his face. 

He continues to drive, dozes off and wakes swerving to the right. A 5k bundle of cash flies from the back of the cab and jams under the brake as Sam tries to slam his foot on it and drives off a cliff.

For Sam these events take a turn for the worse. The Adrenalin had worn off. His body was just a bubble of gasoline fumes.

Title: The Smelly Man

I knew a man who farted so much he had to wear a butt plug. Near the end of the morning, the gas would flow out of his mouth, his nose, or his ears. It began to seep out of his pores, his hair and his clothes. 

He was a smelly man.

hey I’m pretty new to writing so I wrote a short scene. I would like to know if I’m doing anything wrong and what I could do better.

It’s basically about carney and tina they’re true crime supernatural podcasters and they go to Hannibal mo and weird stuff happens . this is the start of the scene. Thank you

Link: https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/0xjr6t4u3mpb57x9j65md/LivingRoomScene.pdf?rlkey=1is1hjs0vfiia9amcbmp42o90&st=fmqiulnu&dl=0

I’m a new writer ok. but that’s no excuse I want to be the best writer today.

INT. APARTMENT - DAY

Light from the afternoon sun shines through a broken blind in the living room onto the TV screen as the BIRDS chirp outside the window.

TINA (20s) sits on a leather couch scarred in white lines with a plate on her lap and a cheese sandwich in her hands. Her coffee next to her filling the air in a scent of caffeine.

CARNEY (20s) paces back and forth as TINA glares at her sandwich.

CARNEY

I got it.

CARNEY stares at TINA but looks right through her.

Tina

Got what?

CARNEY

Our next story. Will go to Hannibal.

TINA

Hannibal? Who’s that?

CARNEY

Hannibal Missouri. Remember? Remember that story about the girl with her friends drinking by the river.

TINA

Oh, you mean Anna-Mae. That creepy old guy told us about.

CARNEY laughs. TINA takes a sip of her coffee.

CARNEY

Yeah, the dingleberry man. 

TINA spits her coffee out into her hands and bursts out laughing staring at her hand dripping coffee. CARNEY grabs a paper towel from the kitchen and hands it to TINA.

CARNEY

The dingleberry man was standing under the cobwebs and saying this town is tangled in myth and legend.

CARNEY giggles. TINA’s drying off her hand and wiping the floor.

TINA

Yeah, and that town changed after that happened.

 

The temperature in the room drops. CARNEY shivers as the lights go off. TINA stares at him.

TINA

What are you doing?

The lights turn back on and the sun from the blind is back.

CARNEY

The light went off. You didn’t feel that chill?

TINA raises an eyebrow and remains silent as she discards the napkin on her plate with a half eaten sandwich next to it.

CARNEY

Why are you staring at me like that?

TINA

Because you’re being a weirdo, duh.

CARNEY

How?

TINA

I’m not twelve, you can stop the act.

CARNEY

What are you talking about right now?

TINA 

The lights. Your stupid comment, ‘you didn’t see the light go off.’

CARNEY

What? wait… What? You didn’t see that?

TINA

Enough can we just go back to the story.

CARNEY takes a deep breath, sighs and feels a scratching in his throat. CARNEY HORKS. He dashes to the sink and regurgitates a black, sticky ball of phlegm that slides into the hole of the sink.

Hey everyone, looking for feedback on this short scene. Let me know what you think of the pacing and the imagery.

Genre 

Psychological Sci-Fi / Sensory Thriller

Tone: Surreal, high-tension, and claustrophobic. (Similar to Black Mirror or Mr. Robot).

Summary:

After surviving a violent car crash, a young woman’s senses violently cross wires, forcing her to navigate a terrifying, glitching reality where she tastes dialogue, smells danger, and physically slips into forgotten childhood trauma

Short Cir.

TEASER

INT. CAR - NIGHT

“Stars Are Blind" PUMPS out of a factory car speaker as JENNA (20’s) sings along. 

The music cuts.

A BLINDING WHITE GLIMMER breaks through the night along with the sound of a car alarm blaring with a blinding flash of a white light. 

JENNA pulls down her sun visor. The vehicle remains idle and she continues jamming her Gucci slide on the brake harder each time as she struggles to accelerate her car on pure force and will.

JENNA SCREAMS—clutches her fists and attempts to push open the door. It doesn’t  budge. JENNA RAMS her shoulder repeatedly against it until she gives up.

She presses the button to roll the window down and hears SCREECHING metal. She removes her finger. 

The sound stops.

JENNA pushes down on it again. She smells  burning rubber and sees two burning tires roll past her. The smoke enters her lungs.

Struggling to ground herself, the window suddenly retracts and swallows a relieving breath of fresh air.

INT. CLOSET - DAY FLASHBACK TO:

Shaking, JENNA unintentionally recalls a childhood memory of her trapped in a closet. Yelling in the background, JENNA is tucked in a ball with tears in her eyes.

 

INT. CAR - NIGHT

Unbuckling the seatbelt, JENNA slides out of the window and lands on her bed. No.

EXT. FRONT LAWN - CONTINUOUS

Beneath her palms, dirt slithers between her fingers. On the front lawn JENNA sits up, gazing into a PINK FLORESCENT HUE bleeding from the sky, warming her face with a vibrating sound of waves beating off her skin and leaving a musk after-taste of plastic on her tongue.

Looming over her stands a MAN (50s) in a dark blue uniform, shadowing the light in an ominous overcast.

An unfamiliar copper taste builds at the back of her throat and she hacks as the MAN talks without a voice. 

JENNA makes a face tasting every sour word she sees.

JENNA

(whispering) What—what’s going on?

The MAN looks at the blood seeping from her head. A liquid that smells like gasoline and air freshener surrounds her and scratches cover JENNA’s oil stained hands.

Flashing a brilliant red light, the MAN’s eyes pulse.

MAN

(through invisible speaker- The words crackle.)

Not shh—. I jus—- the 60-4-tree.

Ma’am… 10-4.

JENNA labors to rationalize what little sense remains.

JENNA

Why does your voice feel like that? Wa—was there an earthquake?

MAN

Now, na— hold — ma’am. (His speech breaks.)

MAN (CONT'D)

(He speaks smoothly) 

I said are you the 4-3. What I actually meant was 10-4-3. I wanted to know… but I figured… 10-4.

Straightening his posture, and crossing his legs, HE winks with a crooked grin as his dark blue suit slowly fades behind the night. JENNA’S lip curls.

MAN (V.O.)

Does anyone know what color last Tuesday was?

Drifting off to his words, JENNA clamps her eyes shut. 

A glass SHATTER sound stabs her chest and JENNA labors to breathe. Snapping open her eyes, JENNA finds herself—

EXT. NEIGHBOR'S PORCH - CONTINUOUS

JENNA is standing on her NEIGHBOR’s PORCH.

The door has a metal frame that crushes like an aluminum can under her fingertip.

Touching the rubber doorbell leaves a hint of iron in her mouth—sharp feels like she cut her tongue on a blade and she shivers

The bell rung with a sound of CRUSHING steel that she felt hanging from her shoulders.

Her NEIGHBOR SCRAPES the wooden floor when the door slides open with a metallic GREY MIST that circles them both in a heavy earth scent pushing JENNA back.

The odor SHIMMERS behind the NEIGHBOR at the door.

Flashes of red with black under a blue light glow and a sour taste grows stronger in her mouth.

DISPATCH (V.O.)

Unit-160 code 3. Unit 120 dispatch

on your 10-76. 10-4.

MAN (V.O.)

Ma’am? Ma’am? Can you speak?

INT. CAR - NIGHT

JENNA lays her head on the steering wheel and opens her glossy eyes to a waterfall of GLASS RAINING from her hair.

MAN (O.S.)

Ma’am, don’t move. The paramedics

are on the way.

Hey everyone, looking for feedback on this intro scene.

Let me know what you think of the pacing and the imagery.

SUMMARY: After surviving a violent car crash, a young woman’s senses violently cross wires, forcing her to navigate a terrifying, glitching reality where she tastes dialogue, smells danger, and physically slips into forgotten childhood trauma

Genre 

Psychological Sci-Fi / Sensory Thriller

Tone: Surreal, high-tension, and claustrophobic. (Similar to Black Mirror or Mr. Robot)

Short Cir.

TEASER

INT. CAR - NIGHT

“Stars Are Blind" PUMPS out of a factory car speaker as JENNA sings along. 

The music cuts.

A BLINDING WHITE GLIMMER breaks through the night. 

JENNA pulls down her sun visor. The vehicle remains idle. 

JENNA jams her Gucci slide on the brake trying to make it accelerate.

JENNA SCREAMS—clutches her fists and attempts to push open the door. It doesn’t  budge. JENNA RAMS her shoulder repeatedly against it until she gives up.

She presses the button to roll the window down and hears SCREECHING metal. She removes her finger. 

The sound stops.

JENNA pushes down on it again. She smells  burning rubber and sees burning tires roll past her. The smoke enters her lungs.

Struggling to ground herself, the window suddenly retracts and a relieving breath of fresh air consumes her.

INT. CLOSET - DAY FLASHBACK TO:

Shaking, she has fleeting childhood memory of her trapped in a closet.

 

INT. CAR - NIGHT

Unbuckling the seatbelt, JENNA slides out of the window and lands on her bed. No.

EXT. FRONT LAWN - CONTINUOUS

Beneath her palms, dirt slithers between her fingers. On the front lawn JENNA sits up, gazing into a PINK FLORESCENT HUE bleeding from the sky, warming her face with a vibrating sound of waves beating off her skin and leaving a musk after-taste of plastic on her tongue.

Looming over her stands a MAN in a dark blue uniform, shadowing the light in an ominous overcast.

An unfamiliar copper taste builds at the back of her throat and she hacks as the MAN speaks. 

JENNA makes a face tasting every word he says.

JENNA

(whispering) What—what’s going on?

The MAN looks at the blood seeping from her head. A liquid that smells like gasoline and air freshener surrounds her and scratches cover JENNA’s oil stained hands.

Flashing a brilliant red light, the MAN’s eyes pulse.

MAN

(through invisible speaker- The words crackle.) Not shh—. I jus—- the 60-4-tree.

Ma’am… 10-4.

JENNA labors to rationalize what little sense remains.

JENNA

Why does your voice feel like that? Wa—was there an earthquake?

MAN

Now, na— hold — ma’am. (His speech breaks.)

MAN (CONT'D)

(He speaks smoothly) 

I said are you the 4-3. What I actually meant was 10-4-tree. I wanted to know… but I figured… 10-4.

Straightening his posture, and crossing his legs, HE winks with a crooked grin.

Then his dark blue suit fades behind the night. Jenna’s lip curls.

MAN (V.O.)

Does anyone know what color last Tuesday was?

Drifting into his words, JENNA clamps her eyes shut. 

A glass shattering sound weighs on her chest. She labors her breath. Snapping open her eyes, JENNA finds herself—

EXT. NEIGHBOR'S PORCH - CONTINUOUS

JENNA is standing on her neighbor’s PORCH.

The door has a metal frame. It crushes like an aluminum can under her fingertip.

Touching the rubber doorbell leaves a hint of metal lingering in her mouth—sharp feels like she cut her tongue on a blade.

it rings with the sound of SCREECHING tires and steel being CRUSHED.

Her NEIGHBOR SCRAPES the wooden floor as the door slides open and a metallic GREY MIST with a scent or earth flushes through the air.

The odor SHIMMERS behind the NEIGHBOR at the door.

The glimmer flashes off and on with red and blue lights, the reflecting GLOW tastes stronger in her mouth.

DISPATCH (V.O.)

Unit-160 code 3. Unit 120 dispatch on your 10-76. 10-4.

MAN (V.O.)

Ma’am? Ma’am? Can you speak?

INT. CAR - NIGHT

JENNA lays her head on the steering wheel.

Opening her glossy eyes to a waterfall of GLASS RAINING from her hair.

MAN (O.S.)

Ma’am, don’t move. The paramedics are on their way.

It’s short it’s my first and I have a long list like 43 other various size projects, also am I doing this right? Thanks

Logline: A petty convenience store theft turns fatal when time violently fractures, forcing a thief to witness a tragedy in reverse before reality snaps forward.

Pages: 2

Genre: Psychological Crime Thriller

Link to scrip: https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/1jauxjvaehbijytphqg20/Out-of-Time-A.pdf?rlkey=evemkt368sd7e7m5ajgx7cw78&st=1fvh62on&dl=0

Hey everyone, looking for feedback on this short scene introducing a sudden time-reversal mechanic during a robbery. Let me know what you think of the pacing and the imagery.

Title: If you could take it back

The barrel of the gun was smoking pointed at Helen’s lifeless corpse with six bullets in it. Three bullets leave her body in perfect rhythm loading the gun—slightly trailed behind one more. Casey lowered his arm. He raised it again to a bullet being sucked out of Helen’s body and sliding into the barrel, it loaded the chamber with three other cartridges in it. Casey went from being relaxed to edgy in a split second. He raised his arm again and a soothing sound he once heard left his ears as a bullet formed back into cartridge that was fired inside the chamber. standing up, a bullet from Helen’s head traveled into Casey’s now fully loaded gun. Holstering his snub nose, he turned his head and faced Helen who was dropping her arm to her hip. The misty spray of saliva unglued from his face and shot into her mouth and she yelled,

You were where?’

And he stood there with a blank look on his face. 

Casey stares at Helen yelling at him. 

‘Where were you?’

Her saliva sprays his face. She repeats over and over for him to explain himself. Blinking his eyes, Casey catches an impact with his skull that makes his brain bounce. His vision clears. Helen is breathing heavily with her eyes spread open. He reaches for his snub nose and doesn’t think. He just fires a shot. Her body drops and makes a thud and thump. The sound resonates with him for a second and he relaxes in the moment of silence and stares at her and raises his weapon and lets off another shot. He squeezes out one more, then empties the last three into her face

Title: If you could take it back

The barrel of the gun was smoking pointed at Helen’s lifeless corpse with six bullets in it. Three bullets leave her body in perfect rhythm loading the gun—slightly trailed behind one more. Casey lowered his arm. He raised it again to a bullet being sucked out of Helen’s body and sliding into the barrel, it loaded the chamber with three other cartridges in it. Casey went from being relaxed to edgy in a split second. He raised his arm again and a soothing sound he once heard left his ears as a bullet formed back into cartridge that was fired inside the chamber. standing up, a bullet from Helen’s head traveled into Casey’s now fully loaded gun. Holstering his snub nose, he turned his head and faced Helen who was dropping her arm to her hip. The misty spray of saliva unglued from his face and shot into her mouth and she yelled,

You were where?’

And he stood there with a blank look on his face. 

Casey stares at Helen yelling at him. 

‘Where were you?’

Her saliva sprays his face. She repeats over and over for him to explain himself. Blinking his eyes, Casey catches an impact with his skull that makes his brain bounce. His vision clears. Helen is breathing heavily with her eyes spread open. He reaches for his snub nose and doesn’t think. He just fires a shot. Her body drops and makes a thud and thump. The sound resonates with him for a second and he relaxes in the moment of silence and stares at her and raises his weapon and lets off another shot. He squeezes out one more, then empties the last three into her face

Chapter one

Cubby and Tyron would pay clients in crack to use their houses as trap-spots. Basically, underground stores they frequently juggled. A code they followed and wouldn’t push, or bend, or challenge. Rule #2: Sell an ounce and bounce. You’d hear them dropping rules with numbers next to them, ripping out a page from the double tap playbook. 

Cubby and Tyron stuck to a pattern and that was an unpredictable pattern. Except for their choice in how’d they’d operate when they’re at work. Mostly though, it was just psychological. A kitchen chair, or plastic chair, basically any kind of single seated chair was where they’d conduct their business from. Inside of an invisible circle, they worked between their sneakers and treated the floor which used to be brown like a desk for their scale.

Moving around in there, became equivalent to a cave diver and silt. The only difference was the house being the water and the furniture being the silt. On a good day, they’d count around twelve or so cockroaches. But underneath the dormant lookin’ furniture, it was very much alive. Hell if they were big enough they’d start seeing the furniture walk.

This one kid would lift something up and then spray the roaches with perfume and leave a trail before striking it with a Bic. The walls at that house bled grease, it looked like someone splashed a cup of coffee on the wall and just left it to dry. There’d be this cross of cheap perfume, stale cigarettes, and the scent of burnt plastic but not as heavy as plastic, it was different. And that was only in that room. Each room had its own signature odor. They came in flavors.

The owner kept scratching at them for more.  He’d pester them for drugs and they’d pester the owner for smoking it near them. You have to see the irony, it’s hilarious and only because they rarely left their circle and the owner hardly left that couch. Sitting there for hours holding in his piss and smoking from a glass stem.

The owner wore red-dotted swells on his hands, it didn’t cover the skin. But it was impossible to count just by staring at them. Almost mirroring a mosquito bites if they were smaller and opened at the top. 

Every so often, Cubby would chip off a piece of crack to the owner. A once powdered rock packed with hydrochloride bubbles, that Cubby converted to a smokeable form of cocaine, he didn’t have a lab or a chemistry set. Only a kitchen. A stove. A jar, preferably Pyrex not glass. Water and a pot. The secrets in the baking soda. When mixed with cocaine and cooked at a temperature at around 130 degrees, the baking soda bonds to the cocaine. 

Once It melts, the hydrochloride salts in the powdered cocaine are eliminated during the conversion and become crack-cocaine. If you used ammonia rather than baking soda you’ll have freebase cocaine. Both smokeable.

A reward system for clients who brought clients usually equaling 2/5 of a gram. Rule #4: never consign any product. All over the city, they stayed collecting prospects like Pokémon characters. They are a currency and each one will sell as low as 50$. Think of them as Pokémon. You could trade them. You could sell them. You literally have a workforce on your phone that operates and functions strictly on a drug paid salary. And cheap.