Archive | October, 2015

“THE LADY OF THE LAKES” Preview Comic Script

15 Oct

Below is a two page Horror story I wrote for the Halloween edition of the Prompt. It combines local folklore and a predatory protagonist/antagonist?

It’s just a quick exercise in comic book scripting that I’m sorely in need of. I was lucky enough to get some pro-critiquing from 2000AD and Image artist PJ Holden. PJ told me it was too long by a country mile and I was a bastard for putting horses in it.  Artists hate drawing equines, which was news to me. Now I know better. No more horses.

Either way, this is just a quick piece. The hardest part was compacting it into two pages and 4/5 panels each. The original draft was 7 panels per page, before I had an intervention.

Still learning.

Any critiques are welcomed as always.

Love – Mark

PITCH

A woman is hunted through Belfast in the early 1980’s, by a man intent on savagery.

The woman isn’t just a victim. The man isn’t just a killer.

A ancient murderer walks in present day, having run 5000 miles from Louisiana to Belfast for sanctuary.

One of these people is harboring a terrible secret. One wants a terrible revenge.

Only one can live to walk away.

kelpie_short_detail_by_porcelianDoll

THE LADY OF THE LAKES

By
Mark McCann

24 Deramore Avenue
Ormeau Road
Belfast, BT7 3ER
07872924289
Mrk.mccann@gmail.com

 

PAGE 1
P/1 Ext: Winter. Snowflakes fall sparingly. From above – a pensive woman moves through a dark stretch of Alley (think Gina Torres) – it is wide/strewn with litter. Her shadow casts out behind her, illuminated by a street light. She glances over her shoulder, fearful. Two men are creeping in the shadows behind.#

Text
Belfast, 1982
BOX
Had to kill three men to get a bead on her.
GOON #1
(Whispers 🙂 Show her the blade and take what she’s got.

P/2 Ext: The men are tackled by a shadowy attacker – A hand reaches around one man’s neck, pulling him backwards – the other man drops forward, his knee kicked out from behind him. Knife falling from his grip.

BOX
She’s been running from me since we first met. Near five thousand miles across the water. I been following her that long. That far. She likes the water. Me, not so much. Not anymore.
DEMOS
Not tonight, fiends. Run.

P/3 Ext: Over shoulder; the woman turns, terrified. A man (think Idris Elba) stands over the fallen goons. He wears a black coat, woolen jumper, red checkered scarf. He holds an arcane blade. One goon is head-locked beneath his arm – the other is clamoring for his dropped knife.

BOX
Here on the land I can rely. Take her dry. Out of her element. Nowhere for her to go here.
GOON #1
Who da fuck!
DEMOS
Run. Now. Thank your gods it’s not you.

P/4 Ext: The woman, front on, fearful. The goons running away from either side of her.

BOX
I want her vulnerable. Desperate. It’ll add to my pleasure.
DEMOS
Thought you could run? I always catch my prey.
WOMAN
No. Please.
GOON #1
He’s a giant blade on’im!

PANEL 5
Ext: Close on the woman’s face from the lips upwards. She smiles, a sadistic delight in her eyes. The goons disappear into the periphery behind her.

BOX
When I take my revenge.
WOMAN
Finally. I thought they’d never leave.

PAGE 2
P/1 Ext: Helena (Gina Torres again) holds to the back of a mad stallion as it leaps into a deep pool in a wooded, gothic area of the swamp lands of Louisiana. A trail of dust should be seen to the stallion’s rear, relating to the path of galloping its cut.

Text
Louisiana swampland, 1 year earlier
HELENA
STOP! PLEASE, JESUS!
BOX
I never believed in anything. Not gods and especially not monsters. Definitely not Celtic shape-shifting ones.

P/2 Ext: On the verge over the pool, Demos reaches impotently. He is wounded, screaming. Below the horse, mid morph between a demon stallion and an evil demonic woman (think evil Chloe Moretz,) trails a struggling Helena into the mire.

BOX
Kelpie, they call them. Came here with the Irish. Swam in on the back of immigrant ships up ‘the Big Easy’ in the 1700’s. They play at being horses. Seduce their victims. Then drown them.
DEMOS
HELEEEENA!
KELPIE
Mine now. Forever. Hahahaha.

P/3 Ext: Demos looms, knife in hand, as the Kelpie pulls away – as if terrified. We can see it is morphing away from Demos gaze.

Text
NOW
BOX
There’s no water here. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to drown.
DEMOS
Helena liked horses. You wear her form, but you’re not her. I’m going to enjoy this.

P/4 Ext: Demos is thrown down as the Kelpie rears up in furious horse form – stomps his chest. Demos’ mouth explodes blood.

KELPIE
I would think Helen enjoyed my other form, surely. I gave her the ride of her life. And you the chase of yours.
DEMOS
NO!

P/5 Ext: Close up – the Kelpie in Demos form, smiling as it shrugs his coat on. The real Demos lain dead – eyes wide in horror – blood spilling from his mouth in the periphery.

KELPIE
There’s more than one way to drown a man Demos. Feel your lungs filling with blood? We’re all made of water, m’boy. It’s life for some. Death for many. Don’t worry. You’ll live on Demos. In me.

A wee look at Return of The Scapegoat Kid (Session 1)

7 Oct

writers_cramp

So, as everyone know’s I’ve been knocking out a novel called Return of the Scapegoat Kid for a while now.

It’s a tale of tale of meth, misbehavior, madness, mayhem, melancholy and a load of other M words. At it’s core it’s about estranged brothers working together (by default) to solve a family mystery. It also features car crashes, drug deals gone awry, naked fights on front lawns, country car chases with the po po and other revelations, painful or otherwise.

Hopefully it’ll make you laugh, then cry. Then laugh again as you cry. Tears of happiness, not woe. But if it is woe, then that’s okay too. As long as you emote something, I guess. That’s my hope anyway.

Here DIRECTLY BELOW are some disjointed happenings to see how people like the feel of of the novel. the style, and the flavor. Feel free to tell me if you love it, hate it or are generally ambivalent. Constructively, if at all possible.

If you do take the time to read it, know that I’m deeply appreciative.

Love and kisses – Mark

~ A brief Interlude: Clancy returns to drought and Big Tam and ‘Himself’ decide enough is enough ~

 

A former barrister and man of certain stature, Clancy Powers was used to being the fucker, but rarely the fucked. When he’d returned from shopping and walked out back for a gander at his pride and joy. His savior no less. He’d been surprised by what could only be considered a revolting development.

Not even the buzz of new gloves a knee mat and a variety of bird boxes could take the negative hit off Clancy’s realisation that his water was off, his plants were parched and his entire pond full of tropical fish had been drained. The fish hung in clear easy-seal plastic bags filled with water, held by clothes pegs on his washing line above the garden.

A small note was taped with duct tape to the rim of the pond that said; ‘Pay up you JEW! Or else it’s dry season for the long haul.’ Clancy could practically hear the ‘heh, heh heeeh’ issued silently at the end of the note and instantly regretted his decision to put off paying the irascible plumber. He, who having done the job, had been difficult enough about it that Clancy fancied making him wait a while for his lettuce.

“Wee hooer, bastard took all week to plumb that fucking pond!” Clancy said aloud. “Even if he was wile cheap, that’s no excuse for the tardy attitude’o him. I’m near sure he had drink on him one’a the times as well.”

It was pointless moaning. The only options open to Clancy right then were to drive half a mile to Marty Finnegan’s with his two, two litre water drums and ask if he wouldn’t mind giving him a filler.

Marty hated shysters, and Clancy was pretty sure he’d sent down one of his cousins for a post office robbery in ’02,’ so he didn’t relish asking.

“You wee fucker, Plumb!” clattering the drums into the back seat of the car, Clancy raged red. He resolved to phone him when he got back. Failing that he’d dial that wee wastrel George he hung around with. He could get George’s number off of his da Tony Yung if he phoned the Dragon Inn.

Then when he got him, he’d tell him it was fix the flow or face the fucking blue heelers, bai.

“I’ll phone them on him. The peelers. Then he can try turning off their water and see what happens,” Clancy said. The statement didn’t make a lick of sense. Clancy raged as his car grumbled up his drive way. “Phone the peelers, and see how he likes that, the wee fucking cowboy.”

***

Meanwhile some miles away sat outside Saint Colmcille’s High School in Crossgar Jay ‘Himself’ Ahern and big Tam McGardy were killing time waiting for Timmy Nelson, Crossgar’s prodigy drug dealing schoolboy. The pair arse slid suede seats, hunched low in anticipation of Timmy sliming out the front door of the school. To square them for the ounce he’d strapped from them a week ago. Another week and they’d be applying interest.

It was three thirty and the kids were rolling out en masse. Neither of the rural hard nuts could spot Timmy amidst the tsunami of bodies. Not that they were looking. Their joint salacious attentions were drawn elsewhere. Namely, the tender virginal attendees of the fairer sex, and the varying lengths of skirt on display.

Tam sparked a joint and supped from a bottle of EnergYzer. Jay eyed him and his bottle of caffeinated piss-water with visible disgust.

Tam said, “Want a toke?”

“I’m not touching anything you’ve sucked on wi that dirty auld pish you’re drinking still on yer tongue, bai.”

“I’ve no sniff on me. This levels you out just as good, sure.”

“It’s fucking stinking.” Jay closed the discussion and looked across to the front of the school. Untainted teenage girls giggled and gaggled their way out the front doors.

Jay said, “Look at yon thing there Tam. Fuck, I’d bust the fucking jam roll clean aff of her.”

“She’s about fifteen, you filthy hooer.”

“She’s aulder than that. I can see right up her skirt bai. The wee white triangle. She’s clean asking for it.”

Tam said, “I’d rather take a run at thon big thick thing beside her.”

Leaning across Jay, joint in mouth Tam pointed at a curvy, motherly looking teenager with a skirt just above knee length. She had a gormless look that worked wonders for a dealer with devices.

Tam said, “She’s that look about her. You know, when you know they’ll do whatever yer after. You just have to fire a few drinks into them, and anything goes.”

Jay was in a bad mood, not for indulging chubby chasers, “Auld fatty, bai. What’s up with you and these birds like a milk mans fridge?”

Tam said, “They’re like pink scooters. A great ride until your mates catch you on one!”

The pair laughed, riotously. Manically.

The car shook and they lost track of themselves. Then the window knocked and brought them back to reality sharpish.

Jay said, “Well Timmy. Where’s that cabbage, bai?”

Timmy, a gaunt teenager, cropped brown hair and gange sunk eyes, peered in. Brown rimmed and yellow toothed, he forced the crumpled bills through the window; “I’ve four scores, but I’m a twenty short.”

Tam said, “Fuck me Jay, he’s short on the Lettuce.”

“I can scarcely believe it Tam.” The pair looked at Timmy, feigning disappointment. Secretly unperturbed. Tam tutted.

“When’ll you have it? She goes up by a fifty the later you cough her up.”

“Fifty percent!” Timmy rubbed his thighs, then hunched further in the window in an effort to keep his voice down.

“Fuck me bai’s, you’re pure bum raping me here.”

“Where’s your initiative Nelly, bai? Used to be you couldn’t clear the green fast enough. Sure tell you what,” Jay reached into the glove compartment and handed Timmy a bag of grass buds, “Take that there on strap. It’ll help you get that cheddar a wee bit faster, no?”

For a moment Timmy looked at the bag, then to Jay, then back to the bag. An inward dialogue played out. Timmy’s addiction versus his common sense. His addiction won by knockout in the first round.

“Right, sweet.” He grabbed the bag and pocketed it.

Tam said, “That’s an extra fifty you owe now, as well as the twenty with a ten on top. You’re late wi that we’ll just call it a cool hundred.”

“Fuck. Right. That’s dead on.” Timmy swung away from the car and began to slope back towards the still spilling hordes of kids coagulating around the schools front gates. An equally shady group of boys, dark eyed and tired looking, met Timmy on his approach. They were all around sixteen.

Leaning out the window Jay hollered after his young prodigy and burgeoning drug addict; “Here Nelly bai, don’t smoke her all at once.”

Timmy looked back over one shoulder, scowled and sloped on. Tam and Jay laughed as they peeled off towards the town centre, ogling more skirt as they went.