If you’re into comedy, drama, comedy-drama and/or Greek mythology, I highly recommend taking a look at OLYMPIA, which is funding on IndieGoGo right now:
I actually co-wrote an episode for this series a while back, but the project has grown in scope pretty substantially since then. I’m not sure any of my contributions will make it into its current incarnation (and in any case it wasn’t the pilot that I had a hand in) so I feel sufficiently distant from this to say that it looks like a very impressive endeavour that deserves your support if you can spare it.
OLYMPIA has just launched, so if you want to see it succeed then now’s the time to make that happen. You can be the hipster who knew about it before it was cool.
The project has a really solid team behind it, and a big part of the reason they’re looking for funding is so that they can go beyond the standard portfolio project and actually pay the people who are doing all the work, which is disappointingly rare these days. I personally can vouch for Claire Rose (who you may have seen on Yesterday’s Nazi Murder Mysteries) and Alex Carter (who filmed and edited one of my own videos). Other names are new to me, but their previous credits include titles such as Avengers: Age of Ultron, which I feel is kind of a big deal.
Long story short, I’ve chipped in for this and it would be just fantastic if you felt like helping it along too.
Flash Fiction Month 2018, Day 29
EXT. SAINT SWITHUN’S HOME FOR EXCEPTIONALLY BIG-EYED ORPHANS – MORNING
We see the sun rising over St. Swithun’s Home for Exceptionally Big-eyed Orphans, which is prominently signposted. Birds are singing. Peaceful flute music – you know the music I mean – plays.
Record scratch. The music stops.
INT. SAINT SWITHUN’S HOME FOR ETC. KITCHEN – CONTINUOUS
MRS. WITHERSPOON continues screaming, hands clasped to her face. She screams for some time, eyes wide with horror. Finally, we see what she was screaming about. There is a plate on the kitchen table covered with the smeared remains of a cake. Icing is splattered liberally all around.
MRS. WITHERSPOON: Who can possibly deduce who ate the orphans’ precious cake?
Tyres screech outside.
Brutal guitar solo plays.
TITLE CARD: “SATAN AND HIS ROBOT BUDDY PAUL” Continue reading
Flash Fiction Month 2017, Day 16
“Okay, so here’s how we’ll do it: there’s this robot apocalypse and the robots go back in time to kill the leader of the human resistance before he’s born.”
“Wouldn’t work,” said Zara. “If they go back in time and kill him, he never starts leading the resistance in the first place.”
“Yeah. I know. That’s the point.”
“But then how do the robots know to go back in time and pre-kill him? I mean, they’ve got no reason to kill him if he’s already been dead for years.”
“Okay.” Callum took a deep breath. “Same situation, but the good guys send a good robot to go back in time and stop the bad one from killing the guy. Only it turns out that the remains of the bad robot are what let humankind build evil robots in the first place.”
“Still wouldn’t work. If the evil robots have to go back in time for evil robots to be invented, who invents evil robots the first time around?” Continue reading
Flash Fiction Month 2016, Day 14
“Keep scraping, Larry, DEAR GOD KEEP SCRAPING!!!”
With only two minutes to go until the nine o’clock slot, and only static to fill it, things were tense over at Channel 5.
“The barrel’s empty, Greg!” whined Larry. “It’s completely empty.”
“Just keep going! We need something! Anything!”
“Uhh…” Larry struck…not gold, but certainly something. “Benefits: Too Fat to Work!”
“It’s been done! Keep scraping!”
“Okay! Okay!” Larry dug his teaspoon into the damp wooden boards at the bottom. “I think I’m hitting floor here…”
“KEEP SCRAPING!!!” Continue reading
Flash Fiction Month 2014, Day 14
“Take that, vile space thing!” shouted Captain Starjet, punching the alien with his bionic fist.
“Sorry,” said the alien as it staggered back, “but do you really have to call me ‘vile space thing?’ I don’t find it all that offensive personally, but it makes it pretty obvious that humanity is the brutish invader in this intergalactic war. Nobody’s supposed to work that out until it’s revealed that my people are actually kind and gentle outside of battle, and that the motivations behind this conflict are largely economic, rather than ideological.”
“Are not!” snorted Captain Starjet. “You’re just a gross tentacle monster that has to be vanquished in spectacular fashion. Frankly, I don’t care what you do outside of battle as long as you look suitably menacing while I pummel you.”
“See!” cried the alien, jabbing a tentacle in the air for emphasis. “That’s exactly why you’re the bad guy. Only that’s going to be a pretty rubbish twist if you give it away so soon.”
“Guys, guys!” called the director, making a time-out “T” with his hands. “Listen, you know I’m happy for you to ad-lib a bit, but this is just stupid. I actually can’t believe I’m having to explain this to you: you can’t openly discuss the plot on camera. If you absolutely must address these issues, you have got to do so with believable dialogue. Joe, maybe hint at a rich, wise culture outside the swarm-like battle-horde, but don’t just come right out and declare yourself the good guy. And Brian, the audience may be there to see Starjet punch some aliens, but that can’t be his only motivation for punching aliens. I mean, it’s not like he just gets up in the morning, flies into space and starts beating people up. He’s a reliable member of the Earth Defence Force fighting for—he thinks—a noble cau…”
“Allan?” Doctor Ling snapped her fingers in front of the patient’s face. “Allan, can you hear me?”
“Huh?” Allan looked around. “What?”
“You were having another flashback. This one sounded quite intense.” Doctor Ling put on her caring voice and leaned back, notepad ready. “Would you like to talk about it?”
Allan paused, still not quite sure that this room was real. “It…it was that film again: Splurg-puncher VI. It meant so much to me at the time, but whenever I think about it now…it was terrible. It was just an awful, awful movie. It wasn’t even tongue-in-cheek. Half the actors realised how much it sucked and just resigned themselves to it, the other half totally overcompensated. And…I can’t even blame them. It was such an awful movie. I can’t for the life of me work out how we reached film number six—not least because there weren’t even any others before it. I think I was going for a Star Wars thing or something…I don’t know.”
“You’ve mentioned Star Wars before, Allan.” Doctor Ling adjusted her glasses. “It keeps coming back: the character of Darth Vader in particular. Do you think this could really be about…your father?”
“I…” Allan looked around the room again. This was a sanctuary. In this room, he had already made so much progress. But there was still so far to go. “I don’t want to go back there,” he said, bluntly.
Doctor Ling placed a hand on his arm. “It’s okay, Allan. You don’t have to. You don’t have to because…” she stood, striking a theatrical pose as the walls spun outwards. “You’re on hit gameshow I Shrink You’re Right!”
The studio lights went up, revealing a cheering audience.
“Allan, get ready to spin the disk of disorders and pick…your…prize!”
Allan watched as the garishly coloured prop was wheeled towards him, lights gleaming as it span.
“Xzargthrax?” Skishzxabb held a small torch in one dainty tentacle, checking each of his comrade’s pupils in turn. “Xzargthrax, can you hear me?”
“Blehburble…” mumbled Xzargthrax. “Wonna…beach holiday anna…VCR.”
“Nurse?” Skishzxabb stood. “Bring a stretcher, and sixty blurgles of Phlarlzamine: this one’s having recursive hallucinations.” He shook his heads at the senseless violence. “Looks like Captain Starjet punched him good.”