May 2013 Issue of The Scribblers Newsletter

Welcome to the May issue of The Scribblers Newsletter.  It looks like winter is finally at an end and spring is here.

Gotham Writers Summer Blockbuster Contest

Summer is the season of movie blockbusters. Action, speed, explosions, sequels. The more the better! For our summer writing contest, we would love you to pitch us your best idea for a summer blockbuster movie. But if you come up with an idea that's really great, why would you give it to us for free?

So, instead, pitch us your worst idea for a summer blockbuster. Put your pitch in the form of a logline a pithy one or two sentence description.

Some examples of loglines:

Jaws
When a man-eating shark terrorizes a small New England resort town, and the mayor refuses to close the beaches, the Police Chief sets out to slay the killer beast.

Die Hard
A New York cop visiting L.A. is the only one who can stop the terrorists who have invaded a high-rise and taken the people inside hostage including the cops wife.

Here's an example of a bad blockbuster logline:

Going Nowhere
A Medieval Studies professor at Sarah Lawrence College tries to decide where to take a summer vacation, but he can't decide and so he stays home and watches television.
          
But you can probably do worse than this. We don't just want bad. We want pitches so bad, they make us laugh. Winner won't get a studio deal, but will get a free writing class.

All entries must be received by midnight July 16, 2013.  Enter Here

May Writing Prompts

1.  After a long night out, you return to your house to find that every picture and painting in your house can speak to you. What do the characters in the artwork and photographs say? Write a conversation between you and one of them, or a conversation between two of them.

2.  The divorce is final and she's finally out of your hair.  So is your house, your boat, your dog and your classic Corvette.  It took years or hard work for you to acquire these things while she sat at home doing nothing.  Your life has been stolen from you.  What will you do?

 

In The Line of Duty

 A new Progressive Story 

Part 1                                                                                                                        by John Matthews

     The motorcade proceeded up Constitution Avenue toward Embassy row.  It was headed for the Kuwaiti embassy where a book release party was being held.  The embassy had agreed to host the party in appreciation for the work of the person who was the subject of the book, US Army General David Petraeus.  The motorcade was not large compared to the Presidential ones, but it was still impressive enough to turn the heads of average DC tourists.  The principal vehicle was a black Humvee which carried Petraeus and Paula Broadwell, the author of the book. 

     Normally a general’s vehicle would sport a red flag containing four gold stars but in a nervous Washington, it was policy not to advertise who was headed where.  So the vehicle was anonymous.  It was surrounded by an escort of 27 motorcycles driven by Secret Service officers.  The motorcycles appeared to be randomly placed but in reality their positions were precisely calculated for maximum visibility and protection. 

     Officer Cranston rode the motorcycle stationed directly behind the exhaust pipe of the Humvee.  The person in this position had to eat a lot of smoke, but it was all in the line of duty.  The radio in Cranston’s helmet crackled to life.  “Peaches is about to enter embassy grounds.  Units one through nine maintain position.  Remaining units return to headquarters via random routes.”

     The general public thought Petraeus’ code name was “Honey Pot” and the press had made gleeful use of it.  But that was a distraction.  The Secret Service referred to Petraeus as “Peaches”   It was close enough to his real name to avoid confusion.  And “Honey Pot” was considered to be not such a good choice, given the rumors about an affair between Petraeus and Blackwell.  All the members of the Secret Service detachment had been given strict orders not to even mention the possibility of an affair to each other.    If anyone outside the unit asked about the rumors they were to strongly deny that any such thing was possible. 

     This was fine with Officer Cranston.  It certainly made the job easier when you didn’t have to join in joking about your boss’s hanky-panky, even though most of the detachment believed the rumors were true.  Petraeus and Blackwell spent a lot of time together.  She obviously idolized him and he ate up the attention of an attractive younger woman.

     Cranston was not one of the units designated to remain so it was back to headquarters.  It was tempting to take a straight route but discipline required taking a circuitous one to keep any onlookers from guessing the location of headquarters, which can’t even be told in this story.

     As the motorcycle passed a nondescript garage, an automatic door opened and Cranston’s cycle zigzagged in without even slowing down.  The door closed before it had even fully opened.

    Cranston lowered the kickstand and dismounted.  It had been a long day.  The officer pulled off the heavy helmet and thick waves of jet black hair cascaded to her shoulders. She shook her head and ran her fingers through her hair before picking the biggest bugs off the helmet visor.  She couldn’t help checking her eyeliner in her rearview mirror.  Not bad, but it will need a touch up, she thought.

     “What are you looking at, Kelly?” asked one of the other officers.  “Got a hot date tonight?”

     Kelly Cranston just smiled.  As a matter of fact she did have a date, but she made it a practice to keep her mouth shut about her social life.  

     When she reached her apartment, she showered and puzzled for a while over what to wear.   This date would be a little different because they weren’t going out.  Her date was meeting her here.  She had a couple hours before he was due to arrive. 

     Kelly was tired.  She finally decided the clothing choice wasn’t that important.  She just shrugged out of her bathrobe and tucked herself between the sheets to catch forty winks. 

     She awoke to the sound of a key in the door.  The door opened and a figure stood silhouetted in the doorway. 

     She rubbed the sleep from her eyes.  “Well, Peaches, you might as well climb into bed,” she said.

Part 2                                                                                                                        Colleen Weikel

            In the morning, Kelly Cranston was alone, as she knew she would be.  On the table in the breakfast nook was a small box beside a large manila envelope.  Opening the envelope she laughed at the poorly drawn map of the Washington/Annapolis area with a large red ‘X’ to mark the spot and the words ‘text me’ beside it.   The card was signed with 4 also poorly drawn blue stars.  She was amazed that this man who had been responsible for the safety of our troops in Afghanistan had such hideous penmanship and was unable to draw a simple star. 

Inside the box was a key.  The key to his heart?  No.  She had that already.  This she knew was the key to his hotel room where he would stay until Tuesday when he would return to New Hampshire for a few weeks before going on tour with Paula Broadwell, the ‘other woman’. 

Kelly thought it quiet amusing that everyone thought Broadwell was Peaches’ girlfriend since Peaches and Kelly had been seeing each other since their time in Iraq in 2007.  He managed to get her on his staff so she could follow him to Afghanistan, then home to the US.  She did get her job with Secret Service on her own, but had to admit that, were it not for her experience as his aid, she may not have stood a chance.  Since his retirement from the Army it was more difficult for them to get together, but they made it work as well as they could.

Cranston pulled out her iPhone and texted Peaches that she’d be there at 7.  She wanted to look extra good for him tonight.  

She was off duty today, so she got her hair done, a manicure and a facial.  Even if she didn’t look better to anyone else, she felt like a million dollars.  At her favorite boutique, she tried on a cream colored dress with an asymmetrical hemline.  It was perfect with her dark hair and flattered her figure.  She would wear it tonight.  Peaches would love it even though he was partial to last night’s outfit, too.

At 6:15, Kelly was calling for a cab when her doorbell rang.  She ignored it the first time, but after several impatient, demanding rings, she pressed the talk button on the intercom panel on the wall.

“Yes?” She said sounding exasperated.

“Kel, it’s me!” Called an equally exasperated voice from the lobby.  It was Jack Porter, the man who thought, as everyone else did, that he was her one-and-only.

“Jack, what are you doing here?  I was just about to leave.”

“Can I come up?”  He sounded as though someone had pissed in his cheerios.  Jack was like that a lot, but he was undemanding for the most part.  This was unusual and his timing sucked.

“Sure, c’mon up for a minute.  But I really do have to leave soon.”

By the time Jack reached her door, Kelly had sent a quick text to Peaches telling him she may be a little late.  She just had to get rid of Jack.

“So where ya going?” Jim asked as he lurched through the door.  He had an odd gait that was the result of a skiing accident when he was in grade school that usually wasn’t too pronounced unless he was very tired.  Judging by his walk, he must be exhausted.

“I have a private security detail tonight.  Have to blend in with a group of hoity toity cocktail party goers.  Boring as hell, but it’s good money.”

Jack ran his fingers through his shaggy blond hair and rubbed his beard.  “Damn!  I was hoping we could chill out and watch movies tonight.”

“Judging by the look of you, you should go home and sack out.  6 AM comes pretty early and you look extremely tired.”  She stroked his scruffy cheek, “What have you been doing?”

“Ah, some chick hired me to follow her boyfriend.  God!  I get so tired of these sleazy bedroom-peeping jobs.  But it pays the rent.  Too bad I can’t be in Secret Service and work semi-normal hours.  Paid vacations, sick leave, you know, all the stuff you get.”  He rubbed his bloodshot eyes and turned toward the door.  “You’re right; I should go home and sack out.  See you tomorrow night?”

“Sure,” she said and kissed his cheek.

Part 3                                                                                                                         Jamie Baker

            As Kelly’s door closed behind him, Jack leaned down and scooped up the fat pug that sat like a Buddha at his feet.  The dog’s name was Wilson, after Tom Hank’s soccer ball in the movie Castaway.  Like Hank’s soccer ball, Jack’s Wilson was silent and pokerfaced.   Jack tucked the dog under his arm and stepped onto the elevator.

On street level, Jack put Wilson down again.  The dog plopped down on its wide bottom and waited impassively while Jack peered up at the 9^th floor windows of Kelly’s apartment.  Jack wasn’t fooled by her.   He knew about her affairs and she knew he knew.  She was a serial romantic, addicted to the passion and insanity of infatuation.   When the newness wore off, she came back to him, the one and only man she’d ever stuck with for more than the length of a summer romance.  Their personal lives were much like their professional ones, built on lies and secrecy and charades.    He wouldn’t want it any other way. 

            Jack hadn’t planned to be a private eye.  Growing up, he’d wanted to be a Maryland state trooper like his father’s brother, Uncle Steve.   The injury to his leg killed that dream.   During the months of rehab, Steve Porter encouraged his nephew not to give up on the law.  By the time Jack entered 9^th grade, a new dream had been hatched.  First a degree in criminal justice, then law school, then the state’s attorney office.  Jack would be a prosecutor. 

            Jack hated the last 2 years of college.  He completed the degree program in criminal justice only because his bad leg kept him out of the military and he didn’t have a plan B.  A week after graduation, with $35,000 in student loans, he applied for employment with several government agencies and by the end of the summer, he was working as a parole officer for the state of Virginia. 

            Jack worked a case load sometimes as low as 50 parolees but more often closer to 80.  He joked to his uncle that instead of being a cop, the strong arm of the law, Jack was the long arm of the arm, because most of his 60-hour week was spent hunting down  his clients, who he often called his prey.   He couldn’t stand sitting in the office where the other parole officers morphed into soft, overweight chair jockeys.  Jack called them government eunuchs.  He spend long hours on the street tracking his clients,  ferreting them out in bars, crack houses, tenement apartments, and even the occasional work place. 

            At the end of 6 years, Jack hated the parole department even more than he had hated college.   The only part of the job he liked was the gum shoe work.  Observing and following people without being detected was exciting and mentally challenging.  Studying people when they didn‘t know they were being watched was interesting.  Jack was often amazed by the stupid or unlikely or ingenious things that people did.  Watching them in their private moments was better than HBO.   Jack resigned from his state job, got his investigator’s license and went to work for a private security firm.   

            That was where he was reunited with one of his former clients.  Dewey Lubuck was 34 years old and still got carded to buy cigarettes.   Short and slight, he was pink cheeked and had never shaved.   He’d graduated cum laude in electrical engineering, but unable to get a job that paid enough to cover his student loans, he’d pursued a career in white collar crime.  He’d done 18 months at Roxbury for check fraud.   When Jack joined Steele Secure, Dewey had already been there for 4 years.

            Dewey started the business with his girlfriend and business partner, Natalia Bronski.  Natalia was 5 inches taller and 50 pounds heavier than Dewey.  She was also at least 60 IQ points smarter.   They got along well because he wasn’t overly sensitive about his weaknesses while she was very generous with her strengths.   Dewey’s specialty was designing and installing digital surveillance systems.   Natalia was a computer genius, capable of hacking any computer system without leaving a trace.    What they lacked was a talented field investigator.   Jack had been there 6 months when they offered him a partnership. 

            Wilson looked up when he sensed Jack’s hand reaching into his pants pocket.  Would it be a cookie? Nope.  The little dog lost interest when he saw the hand emerge holding a cell phone.

            Jack thumbed the speed dial and waited, with the same impassive look as Wilson’s, for one of his partners to pick up. 

 (To be continued in next months' issue)

 

And Finally

 

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Happy Writing!