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Poetic Son
fredwatford Released Jul 18, 2015

 

INT. STUDY - EVENING

A dimly lit room with a desk facing a single window. Books litter what little floor space isn't covered by bundled up wads of paper. Smoke emanates from the solitary figure slouched over the desk. Light shines through the blinds casting bars on the man and the fog that surrounds him. The mechanical hammering and occasional ding of a typewriter fills the room with sound.

     

POET

(vo)

My parents didn’t know I was a poet; they thought I was practicing suicide notes.They took me in for evaluation that revealed an I.Q. half again higher than a feverish hummingbird

 

The POET takes a long drag from his cigarette. 

 

POET

(mumbles to self)

In Fahrenheit

 

The cluster of words 'thatreallycausedconcern' are typed across the screen just before it is ripped out of the typewriter, crumbled up, and thrown onto the floor with the others.

 

 

INT. STUDY - MORNING

It is the same room with the same desk. Gone are the wads of paper and what books are present are neatly ordered on the shelves that adorn the walls. The furniture is polished and the floor is swept. A man and woman sit across from their teenage son. The woman's eyes are moments from emptying out onto the open pages of the black and white composition notebook in her hands. Its pages filled with barely legible bits and pieces of words and doodles. The man holds his chin so high that the boy he speaks to is barely in his field of vision.

 

POET

(vo)

To them, genius was akin to madness. Armed with my journal of verse, they committed me to psychiatric observation for my own good, at sixteen. I was given the alliterative diagnosis

...

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fredwatford Apr 24, 2015

In the violent dark, she bites my lip. A flash of pain. Alcohol dilutes my senses save for her inescapable taste; a sweet perfume of flowers, lipstick, and sweat. Bodies...

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I think it would be a great place to start. A mini-doc of the history of Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty. We could include short interviews with people whose family came to...

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There should be a collab based around camp fire tales. You could shoot this around a camp fire at night and the illustrators could bring the tales to like.


  • An Adventure Story like...
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“This is?” 

She says, crumbling into the dirt, tears falling from her eyes like spent bullets.


 

“Is what happens when…”

The words leave my mouth as a mumble, barely audible in the...

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I don’t remember the face of my first love. Not really. I remember that she had long blonde hair and a little squishy nose. She was far too pretty to have been with the awkward...

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fredwatford Mar 27, 2015

“Ok son, tell me where it is.”


The white sterile walls and unforgiving florescent lights are incongruous with the clouds of grey smoke escaping the man sitting across the metal...

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201
fredwatford Mar 22, 2015

frigid fingers

fail to find purchase

frantic fighting

forward to surface

FUCK

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INT. DORM ROOM – NIGHT


A dimly lit dorm room lined with generic brown furniture. The white tile floor is scattered with two sets of clothes. A young man and woman, both in their...

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Year after year of falling asleep in each other's arms have forged an ever-so-slight dip through the bed's middle.


Spent, they allow gravity to pull their sweaty bodies together. 


...

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fredwatford Oct 08, 2014

Red hot fire inside

Each ember a memory

It pushes warmly against my skin

Circuitous in its meandering

Testing. Eager to burn.

Its tongue never touches

My lips on its way out

But consumes...

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