Marcus V. Calvert's Blog, page 52
April 28, 2014
Title Schmitle
“Her Majesty’s Poltergeists” was a screenplay that a buddy of mine and I worked on about . . . 10 years back. He thought up this beautiful title but then gave me a plot that was so weird, so borderline Monty Python, that common courtesy prevents me from mentioning it on this blog.
But the title was so good that I wrote a screenplay around it. It was violent, funny, British, and had ghosts in it. A big difference between writing a short story and a 120-plus-page screenplay is that the short story’s a lot easier to do.
So, whenever you’re stuck for a short story idea, don’t always try to construct a plot in your head. Think of a messed-up title instead. In fact, think of a few and scribble them down somewhere. Hell, make a list of them and pick one. Then write a story around it.
IT CAN BE DONE. Think of “Machete”, wherein (movie god) Robert Rodriguez wrote a full-length movie around a fake trailer.
Now, I double-dog-dare someone (anyone) to write a short story around any 10 of the titles below. I just went to my day job and kept a piece of scrap paper nearby. By the end of the day, I had a healthy list of titles in my head (try it, this might work for you).
10 Titles
1. Party Cam
2. Love’s For Other People
3. A Soul For A Soul
4. Ghost Pimp (I finally wrote this one!)
5. Beauford The Ninja
6. Santa, version 12.0
7. My Kid The Rap Star
8. The Zombie Games
9. Samurai Nun
10. Why I Married A Dragon
You can write any genre you want – from a love story to horror to sci-fi. Don’t worry about length either. Just wrap your mind around the title and see what shakes loose. For copyright reasons, I don’t wanna see it. But if you want to post a one-line comment on what the story was about, I’d appreciate it.
April 10, 2014
An Easy Mark
http://www.amazon.com/I-Villain-Marcu...
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Anderson Moach sat in the corner booth of The Bladed Dragon Chinese restaurant. The trendy and overpriced tourist trap had nine large-screen TVs, each of which showed nothing but martial arts movies. Moach was a tall assassin who wore casual attire over his wiry frame. He eyed the packed house and nursed a pot of tea currently with two empty cups. Resting on his lap was a gray gym bag with a silenced MAC-10 (and spare ammo) inside.
At 44, the hawk-faced killer saw Pillar City as one of God’s bigger mistakes. The floating metropolis had been a criminal hub for almost a century now. The only reason he’d risk coming back here was to repay an old debt. Moach checked his watch, surprised that Ling would be late to her own –
“You’re looking well.”
The startled assassin looked to his right to find Ling Chang sitting next to him. His weapon was (somehow) now cradled in her dainty hands. The psychic oracle kept the MAC-10 under the table as she briefly appraised it. She wore black slacks, comfortable black shoes, and a yellow blouse. Her brown leather purse now rested between them.
Thin and graceful, Ling wore her graying black hair in a tight bun behind her head. A pair of silver bifocals covered her plain, round face. While she barely looked a day over sixty, Moach knew that she was much older. In fact, Ling had barely aged a day since she had recruited him some sixteen years ago.
“You’ve brought ten extra clips,” Ling said with a smirk. “Expecting trouble?”
“I’d rather be slumming in Tehran with an American flag on my back,” Moach griped. “Why am I here?”
“No, I’m not calling in that favor you owe me,” Ling smiled as she discreetly returned the submachine gun.
Moach’s eyes angrily narrowed because her e-mail suggested otherwise. Ling poured herself a cup of tea.
“I do have 100,000 reasons for you to kill someone. An easy mark. Lightly-defended.”
“Why me?” Moach frowned. “You short on manpower?”
To his surprise, Ling nodded. She reached over and tossed down the tea like it was a shot of whiskey. Satisfied by the taste, she poured herself another.
“The world’s gone mad since Clean Sweep,” Ling frowned. “With the heroes gone, my workload’s increased ten-fold.”
Moach could empathize. Before the heroes were slaughtered, Ling’s teams could barely avert most of the threats she foresaw.
“Who’s the mark?” Moach asked as Ling emptied the second cup.
“A child,” she replied. “Barely four years old. Almost slipped past my Sight.”
“What makes her so special?”
“Three months ago, she was kidnapped, augmented, and brainwashed. A week from now, she’ll resurface with a psychic scream.”
From his experience, psychic screams could kill almost anyone who heard them – even psychics like himself.
“How bad?” Moach winced.
“Based on my vision, the child will kill most of New York with one eight-second scream.”
Ling poured herself another cup and waited for Moach’s questions.
“Who’s behind this?”
“We currently lack the resources to investigate even half our threats anymore,” Ling shrugged.
Moach sighed.
“What if I was to . . . ‘settle’ this for you? Kill the girl and the guys who took her. Would that make us even?”
“It would be a start,” Ling replied with a proud smile. “Since I cannot afford to adequately pay you, feel free to steal whatever you wish from them.”
Moach’s mouth curled with a tempted grin.
“Just remember: you’re on your own,” Ling cautioned.
“That’s how I like it,” Moach replied.
“Also, whatever happens, you must kill the child,” Ling insisted. “We cannot risk another act of mercy. Can you do that?”
Moach stared off, fully aware of what Ling’s reference. Back in 2000, Moach fell in love with a potential threat . . . and let her live. He took sufficient steps to nullify her actions (or so he thought). Instead, 9/11 happened – just as Ling foresaw it – because he showed mercy.
Afraid that Moach had gone rogue, Ling’s superiors in the U.N. wanted him dead. It was she who allowed the assassin to fake his suicide and “retire” from the scene.
“I need their faces,” he said.
Ling gently touched his right hand. Images of the child, her captors, and the impending mass killings flooded his mind. Now that he had seen the bastards’ faces, Moach could find them anywhere.
That was his power.
As for the girl, she was close . . . less than a few blocks east.
“Consider it done,” Moach assured her. “Cash, please?”
“In your lap,” Ling smiled as she emptied the cup and rose from the booth.
Moach looked down.
In his lap, there was a stuffed manila envelope with his MAC-10 resting over it.
“How do you keep doing that?!” Moach started to ask before he noticed that Ling was gone.
