A Bloody Song

A Bloody Song

A Short Film By JD Glasscock

All Rights Reserved

INT -- WAREHOUSE -- NIGHT

A close up on the dial of a boom box, changing radio station from heavy rock, to pop, to heavy metal for a second to a blues/jazzy lounge song. Camera comes out to a guy starting to do a slow rhytm dance as he saunters over the table which has numerous tools upon, a wrench, screwdriver etc and leaning next to it, a chain saw. The man picks up various tools, weighing them, etc though doesnt touch chainsaw.

MAN

It's gonna be a bloody song Johnny Boy, a bloody bloody song Johnny, Johnny, Johnny. (He turns around with a screwdriver in hand waving like a baton looking past camera) But you know that's how the music rolls when they call for my strings, when they hit those digits, you used to be the one doing the calling Johnny Johnny. (Grin, more dancing) You know the lullaby of this sleepy time. It's what always happens to rats, Johnny. And all of us in the end, in this business, put on the rat suit, it's in our very skin, in our very genetics from womb to tits to first toddler steps, always, always, a road of rats, eyes too big, always looking for the cheese. Hell, some day, I'll probably be in that chair Johnny boy. (Laugh) But not today, today is your very own special tune, A slow bloody beat just for you sweet boy, just for Johnny. I'd make it quick, but they don't want it quick sorry to say. So were gonna make it a long slow groove, bones and meat and a hell of a lot of you screaming. That's how they want this diddy Johnny, that's how they want it. So get ready my sweet sweet boy, you gonna bird chirp me a beautiful beautiful bloody chorus.

Finally the camera turns and is looking close up on a sweat dripping deer in headlights eyes, then expands out to a duck taped, tied to chair man shivering. Then into camera comes hands holding a chainsaw, pulling the string to start it up. The chainsaw revs, the man silently screams.

The End.

SHADOWS OF THE MOON

Short by JD Glasscock

INT -- LIVING ROOM -- NIGHT

Dark and shadowed, a woman in a form fitting dress with a glass of wine looks at a photo of a military man on top of a desk underneath a large window looking out at a full moon. A half empty wine bottle sits on top of dresser next to a completely empty wine bottle. She takes another gulp of wine staring at photo.

INGA

I can't....(Tears in eyes) Can't.......a year....a year......your gone, gone..........I was the moon, now, im a fucking swamp.can't do it, can't........I can't be weak, caged, can't be a grave waiting to be dug. I was strong once......and then you, you were ashes, and I , a corpse, a fucking dead thing waiting for breath to let go.....(She puts glass down, a glint of something in her eye, She peels off her dress slowly, unsure at first but gaining cofidence and looks out the window, a negligee underneath) No more. No more. I'm a god damn woman. a woman with tits that need to be touched(Grabs tits) an ass that needs to be grabbed. I need life in me, inside me........I need fucking, lots and lots of fucking, till you, you are a memory, a yesterday, a shadow in the rearview, a weight left to empty promises. Thats what i need(Determination) Yes.........fucking, lots and lots of it, strangers, dreams, nameless, meaningless fucking......I need to know what it is to be who I was.....strong, The Moon, worth something........worth anything more then this broken spidercracked glass, .............Yes, fucking yes!!!!!! I will be a tomorrow different then today, a loom of creation and god damn freedom.......I will be hunger and courage...........I will be The Moon that the old road had made me............>(She slams down photo. SHe looks out the window at the moon. She drops her negligee off) I will be!!!!!! I am Goddess.........I am moon, and the shadows are forget me nots to nothing(Her eyes roll out to a full moon)

Chinese threads

poem by jd glasscock

im a chinese dress maker with a fondness for chocalates and a mix of nuts served on silver platters with scantily clothed strong women creating dreams out of ethers and explaining to me the meaning of clouds in cumuli and how the moon whispers in words so soft only upon a lake in the deep of glades can one hear.........i am told its a sultry chimed sound of wind, like a baby's first breath

A Dream within Sleep

poem by jd glasscock

She is destined for the scream, a tomb tiled in terror north of lunacy. Her eyes are the moon in etherial reversal of fortune......her limbs branches stretching into roots, into a parable of monsters in backwashed memory....in truncated howls against a dead drop cliff reaching bottom in a slow lid blink of insanity.....she wakes...the dream was palpable and the sweat of her flesh runes fables in rumination of bruises etching fists in yesterdays too close to today........she can never run fast enough, far enough to become the solliloque of a distant sun......and sleep is an aperture to that which she hides from.......a soft hum reverberates in the closing of a tuneless eve....the TV is static, emergency broadcast....