A Mind of Their Own

I talk a lot about my love of writing, but the only writing of mine you've read is this blog. Today I decided to write something a bit off the cuff, as it were, in the form of a script. My friends and I often wrote like this in middle school during lectures (so naughty). We'd pick characters and pass the paper back and forth - a sketch RPG, so to speak. I'd forgotten how much fun it is.

A Mind of Their Own

by

The Scarred Bluestocking

Author: I’ve had an extremely tough day at work. My customers are rude, my insubordinates are insubordinate, and I’m just in a FOUL MOOD. It’s puppeteer time….

Character 1: Uh-oh. Everybody hide!

Character 2: But I don’t even know my name! She’s supposed to give us names!

Character 1: Just hide!

Character 3: Pfft, I’m not scared. She needs us or she wouldn’t have a story.

Character 1: Are you crazy?

Character 3: I FEAR NO DEATH.

Character 2: Please would you give me a name? I don’t want to die without a name! Please, oh glorious one with the magic fingers pressing out our lives on that many-buttoned surface!

Author: Oh, fine, if it will shut you up. Character 2, your name is Bluebell.

Bluebell: And if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, what do I look like? Is my hair luxurious and blonde and flowing? Please say it is.

Author: You’re a horse. A dapple-gray talking horse.

Bluebell: Darn.

Character 1: Oh good, now I can hide behind your rump.

Character 3: You pansy.

Character 1: How do you know my name and SHE doesn’t?

Author: Your name is not Pansy, you idiot. You’re a wussy boy and your name is Wicker.

Wicker: Please don’t tell me I’m a talking piece of furniture.

Author: I just said you were a boy. You’re eight years old and scared of everything. Your mother named you after Bluebell’s neigh. Whinny plus nicker.

Character 3: So, what, am I his daddy?

Author sighs, exasperated.

Author: Who cares who you are? You so bravely stepped forward, and by the trope rules of martyrdom, you die first.

Character 3: Tell them who I am so they can mourn me.

Author: You really aren’t scared?

Character 3: I die easy. All you have to do is type, “He died,” and I’m dead, aren’t I? No pain. And I’m immortal besides. Every time someone reads this episode from the top, I am reborn.

Author: Ah, was that your inspirational monologue? Typical. You hero types are all the same.

Character 3: You’re the one writing.

Author: Wisecracker, are we? Well, you’re not his father. You think you’re a man, but you are a tall, thin woman. Wicker’s older sister, Winifred.

Winifred: Really? You’re making me a girl?

Author: But you always were.

Winifred: I protest!

Author: Well, you are going to die. Does that solve your problem?

Bluebell sticks her head between Author and Winifred.

Bluebell: I need more page time.

Author: Oh, go eat some hay.

Bluebell: Onto my back, Winifred! We shall escape yet!

Wicker: Wait! Wait for me!

Bluebell and Winifred make for the margins, Wicker barely holding on to Bluebell’s tail.

Author: Mutiny. Get back here!

Bluebell: I run and run and run and run and gallop and canter and gallop and run….

Winifred: Shut up and do it.

Author: No!

GREAT HAND SMASH

W   r       r h  o l w

 S    f                                   h  j o e                     w    f

                       V n       s                              d

G               d d   fbds         

                                                d                                                        ad   n

          O         p                            s d                                        

                                                  w o    n                   w    

Bluebell: Ow.

Author: No, no, no. Bluebell was supposed to live. 

Bluebell: My shoulder….

Winifred: No look at what you’ve done. You have no business writing if you can’t even kill the right character.

Wicker: Bluebell? Poor horsey.

Author: Screw this.

DEUS EX MACHINA: A friendly white ray breaks off from the sun and floats down, all magic-like, resting on Bluebell’s shoulder. When the ray disappears, Bluebell’s wound does as well.

Author: There.

Winifred: So, after that unnecessary detour, why haven’t you offed me yet?

Wicker: Don’t kill my sister!

Winifred: Shut up, pansy.

Author: I will kill you. Though I wonder why you want to die?

Winifred: I’m an obnoxious nincompoop who is rude to her brother, cares nothing for this horse, and is giving you lip. Obviously, I’m the death choice.

Author: And if I kill Wicker?

Wicker: I told you we needed to hide!

Winifred: I won’t let you.

Author: How can you stop me? You forget my hands are creating you as you speak.

Winifred: We’ll see about that.

Author: If you stop me, you’ll be a mute for the rest of your life.

Winifred: I’ll learn ASL.

Author: Good luck being seen.

Winifred: I’m done with this.

Winifred whispers to her brother and Bluebell. Author cannot hear and is infuriated.

Author: I’m supposed to know your thoughts, you Hell-bound witch!

A spark erupts from the keys as she types the exclamation point.

Author: OW!

Winifred: You were saying?

Author: Winifred, sadly, has left this wor—OW.

Winifred: Try again.

Author: Wicker will soon cry a torrential downpour when he sees the body of his sis—OW!

Winifred: Keep trying, please.

Author: Winifred is dea—MOTHERF….

Winifred: I told you, I am IMMORTAL. Placing me onto these pages has ensured that. What are you but my mortal creator? And you have created me. You can’t take it back.

Author: Aha, but you don’t know about the Backspace key.

Winifred: You don’t know what I know.

Author looks at keyboard – the Backspace key is missing. So is the Delete key.

Author: Uh-oh.

Lightening erupts from all the keys. Author screams in pain as she types the last sentences.

Winifred: I win.

Author: You…win. I need…some ice.

THE END

Today's deviant ditty:

"Center of the Sun" by Conjure One feat. Poe