Friday Freewrite

Thank you so much to everyone who participated last week! For the prompt “Drawing on skin”, we had four fills:

Female Gaze by SL Huang
The puckered lines in the flesh stare back at her, the effect alien and disturbing, almost obscene.

Untitled by Andrea Speed
At first, Tony had thought it was just a line of ink, a pen mark he hadn’t been aware he had made. But the next day, the line was not only bigger, but seemed to be a vague outline of a shape on his forearm.

Untitled by me
He watched the designs take shape under her expert brush, intricate and detailed, curling around his arms and legs, across his belly and chest — turning his body foreign and strange to his own eyes.

Sweets by Dawn Kimberly Johnson
He wanted the finished product unbroken, and went very slowly around Steven’s cherry pink nipple with the paintbrush.

And now, this week’s Friday Freewrite prompt!

First of all, you have NO IDEA how much I wanted this week’s prompt to be Sharknado.

Actually … um. Why not?

This week’s prompt is: Bad sci-fi/horror movies

Your characters can be watching one … or in one. (Not necessarily an actual, specific one.) Dinosaurs rampaging through downtown Manhattan! Aliens with terrible planning skills in poorly designed battleships! SHARKS ON A PLANE!

MV5BOTE2OTk4MTQzNV5BMl5BanBnXkFtZTcwODUxOTM3OQ@@._V1_SY317_CR6,0,214,317_
Your visual inspiration. Enough said, indeed.

Also, here’s a fanfic example.

Have fun. 😀

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I'm a writer and artist living in Fairbanks, Alaska.

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Posted in Flashfic, Free Fiction, Friday Freewrites
12 comments on “Friday Freewrite
  1. […] next challenge is up on Friday Freewrite https://laylawier.wordpress.com/2013/07/12/friday-freewrite-2/ This week is “Bad SciFi/Horror movies”.  The prompt seems to be inspired by the […]

  2. Revealed

    “Here come the last five!” Stacey shouted.

    “Thanks, Stace,” Olly shouted back, since he was closest to the trailer door. He stood aside as four big, strong extras lumbered past him to fill five empty makeup chairs. Because of the giant lizard tail he was sporting, the last guy got stuck in the door, and Olly rushed forward to help him wriggle free.

    “Stace, a hand here?” he called over the extra’s shoulder.

    “Sure.” She came to their rescue and deftly unhooked and lifted away the apparatus, allowing the guy to fit through the door. “Okay, hon, toss me that uniform jacket.” The extra did as instructed, quickly unbuttoning the horrid, gilded, pointy-shouldered jacket and revealing a chiseled, taut torso. For a moment, Olly thought the guy’s six-pack might be strategic shading, but upon on-the-sly inspection, he saw it was the real thing.

    He pulled his gaze away and approached Stacey before she could shut the door and flee. “Hey, thanks again for getting me this gig.”

    “You’re welcome, sweetie. You really saved my ass when Theo dropped out.” She glanced around Olly at the crowed, busy interior of the trailer. “With the number of extras, we couldn’t have survived with just four makeup techs.” She turned and left, off to put out some other fire, no doubt.

    Olly turned and gasped upon finding the lizardman standing there, looking down at him with sinister red eyes set beneath a protruding brow. “Oh… uh, sorry about that,” Olly said. “Please have a seat.” He gestured to the chair in front of his lighted mirror.

    Lizardman mumbled something as he took his seat.

    “I’m sorry?”

    The extra reached up and removed a set of fake pointy teeth. “No problem. I’m just glad to be rid of that tail and out of that itchy jacket.

    “I can imagine.” Olly chuckled. “Now let’s have a look.”

    He examined their reflection in the mirror for a moment, his hands resting on the extra’s bare broad shoulders. They made quite the picture: Olly with his buzzed blond hair, glasses, and skinny frame; the extra with muscles for days, a bumpy skull like the landscape of some distant planet, ridged brow, and sharp, dangerous-looking cheekbones. Not to mention the green tint on his face.

    “Let’s get those contacts out… uh….”

    “Scott.”

    He smiled. “I’m Olly.”

    “Good to meet you. I don’t remember seeing you this morning.”

    “I got here about an hour ago. Emergency fill-in.”

    As Scott took out his eerie red contacts and deposited them in their receptacle, Olly soaked a cotton swab in adhesive remover to begin taking off Scott’s alien cheekbones.

    “It’s going to feel so good to get these off. They itch like crazy!”

    “I hope you’re not allergic,” Olly said as he carefully soaked the edges of one cheek appliance with the remover, then grabbed a Q-Tip to work beneath the application.

    “Nah. But I’m looking forward to scratching my face.”

    They both laughed, and Olly continued uncovering the real Scott. He managed to hide his delight at the bright green eyes once hidden behind the contacts. After peeling away both cheek appliances, he went to work on the brow ridges.

    “So, how do you like the job?” he asked.

    Scott sighed and grimaced. “Well, I guess it’s no secret Lizard Battalion 2 is horrid, but every little bit helps pay the bills and pad the résumé.

    Olly shrugged. “I like that the hero of the movie is a woman. That’s different, right?”

    “Yeah, but if no one sees the film, what’s the point?”

    Olly nodded as he carefully worked at a brow ridge. Scott hissed, and Olly stopped immediately. “Sorry. Let me—” He turned to his counter and grabbed a thin paintbrush, which he dipped in the remover and gently slid beneath the appliance to free up Scott’s eyebrow. “—just work a bit of remover under here and… voila!” He straightened with the appliance held in his hand in triumph.

    Scott looked him up and down, then smiled up at him, his face oddly unbalanced now that part of his makeup was off. “Will you get to do Miranda Mitchner’s makeup?”

    “Nope, she’s got her own crew.”

    “Shame.” Scott glanced away and back. “She’s hot, don’t you think?”

    “I suppose.”

    “You suppose? Dude, she’s got that rack and—”

    “How nice for her, but I’m gay,” Olly said, a bit annoyed as he tossed the paintbrush on the counter, “and her rack doesn’t really do anything for me.” He smiled tightly, the light of it not reaching his chocolate brown eyes.

    “Oh.”

    “Yeah. ‘Oh.’ Let me get this other brow off; then you can use those wipes there to remove the base makeup, while I pull your skullcap. After that you’ll be free to go, maybe hook up with Miranda.” He winked.

    “Hardly.”

    “What do you mean ‘hardly’?” Olly asked as he lifted the edges of the lumpy skullcap away from Scott’s forehead and continued doing the same down the side of his face, careful not to tear the piece. They were on a budget and needed to reuse as much as possible. He leaned closer, inadvertently detecting Scott’s scent. It was intoxicating, not stale sweat like he would expect after a hard day’s work. Just all… man. “A moment ago you were singing the praises of her ‘rack’.”

    “I did that to see what you thought of her.”

    Olly fixed him with a confused frown and then peeled the cap from Scott’s head revealing a thick fall of jet-black hair. He knew he was staring but couldn’t help himself, couldn’t stop watching as Scott vigorously scratched his scalp, moaned in relief, and finger-combed his hair out of his face. Olly felt a lopsided grin forming on his lips but was helpless to hide it before Scott caught his eye.

    “Uh… why would you care what I thought of Miranda?” Olly asked softly, glancing up to see what the other artists and extras were up to—translation: if they were listening.

    Scott slowly drew his thumb over the top of Olly’s hand. “It was my clumsy way of finding out your type.”

    Olly gazed at the now handsome man sitting in his chair. “She’s… not my type.”

    “Mine either.”

    They shared a knowing smile.

  3. andreaspeed says:

    I decided to write this as a mock trailer. I think the title of the piece will be self evident.

    *fade in*

    Scene: Christmas tree, lit up with colored lights. Festive holiday living room, exuding warmth.

    Voice Over, Ominous: Christmas comes but once a year.

    *camera continues panning the room*

    V.O.: Christmas on a full moon should be extra special. Except, with the light of the moon comes … changes …

    *scene smash cuts to cops standing outside a snowy crime scene. Detective Masters, a grizzled detective, replaces a sheet over a dead body*

    Masters: It looks like he was torn apart by some kinda animal.

    *Masters notices something in the snow, pulls out a small shard of metallic wrapping paper*

    *smash cut to Santa’s workshop, where elves work on toys*

    V.O: This Christmas, terror comes to town ….

    *smash cut to Masters talking with Federal Agent Rogers*

    Masters: Santa Claus is a myth!

    Rogers: So are werewolves. But it’s look like we’re dealing with both.

    *smash cut to camera prowling living room decked out for Christmas*

    V.O: Better not pout …

    *camera continues to prowl a present strewn floor*

    V.O: … better not cry …

    *camera scans over open presents, and what looks like a glass of wine *

    V.O: … better go hide …

    *camera pans to a severed arm in a pool of wine colored blood, and stops*

    V.O.: Santa Claws is coming for you.

    Coming December 2018

    It’s a ho-ho-Holocaust.

  4. slhuang says:

    Artistry

    “How can you stand being in such a bad movie?” said Julian as the credits rolled up my TV screen, his British accent making the snotty comment even more pretentious. “You’re an actor. You brought people to tears with your Henry Five, for god’s sake. You do another movie like this, the best thing they’ll say about you is that your career peaked in college, and if you want my honest opinion, they probably won’t say anything at all.”

    Julian always said that: “If you want my honest opinion.” I rarely did.

    I didn’t know why I thought it would be a good idea to invite him over for the television premiere of ArachnoDroid. Julian was an artistic snob, and he’d never pretended otherwise. I guess I thought we could still have a good time of it–pound back a few beers while we made fun of the bad CGI and I told him behind-the-scenes crap about what it was like to kiss the fox of a lead actress (awkward) and the gossip about the one name actor who’d been down on his luck enough to work on the thing (he’d been stoned every day he’d been on). And then we’d whoop about my name in the credits, there in black and white, and I’d say, “What’d you think?” and Julian would roll his eyes and say, “Well, YOU were good.”

    “Seriously, Tony–why do you do this shit?” said Julian. “You’re better than this.”

    I didn’t know how to answer that. Because they fucking paid me was the easiest answer, but it wasn’t one Julian would ever accept. Julian and I had met at our hipster Boston arts college, when I was studying to be an actor (not that anyone in LA gave a fuck about a degree, I found out later; all it got me was a boatload of student debt) and he was already calling himself a photographer. I couldn’t begrudge him the title: he was a brilliant photographer; his pictures twisted you inside in ugly uncomfortable ways and you still wanted more. But after graduating, he’d stuck his nose up at every job he’d been offered and was working at Starbucks for $8.65 an hour.

    He claimed he got more artistic fulfillment not having his “craft” dictated by anyone else, but he’d also been too broke to buy a new camera when his disaster of an ex-boyfriend broke his old one. He hadn’t shot anything in over a year.

    He still called himself a photographer.

    The fact that I was making a living–well, scraping by, but STILL–as an actor was a fucking accomplishment. To Julian, doing something for the money was lower than never doing it at all (which I was starting to realize I thought was the most bullshitty bullshit that had ever been shatted out of a bull), but that wasn’t the real reason I didn’t give him the excuse about needing the money.

    I didn’t say it because it would have been a lie.

    I’d fucking loved shooting ArachnoDroid. I’d been over the moon when I’d gotten the part–who doesn’t want to play a katana-wielding hero who fights gigantic robots? Fuck, that was thirteen-year-old me’s biggest wet dream! It didn’t matter that the movie was crap, or that the lines were fucking unsayable, that I’d spent my shoot days waving around a green-taped sword and shouting things like, “It has EIGHT LEGS! THAT’S WHAT THE SPIDER DNA WAS FOR!”

    I didn’t care if I never “made it;” I didn’t care what “they” said about me or whether Julian thought I was pissing away my talent. Because I’d gotten to spend my days waving around a sword and shouting about spider DNA. And I’d gotten paid for it.

    “You’re a fucking sellout,” said Julian, and I thought, I have the best fucking job in the world.

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Held for Ransom - released November 14

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