Writing Contest #10 Voting Thread!!! VOTE NOW!

[ielle77]

Okay gang, thanks for participating, here are the results now have at it and tell us which Highway man Ghost story YOU like Enjoy!

Canuckey

The Left Hand
By Jason Sanders

PAGE ONE

Panel 1. Its midnight on a cold and foggy road, trees line the path, their wilted branches droop to the ground. Through the mist, an old-style coach can be seen bouncing over the ruts that pit the path, a hanging lantern on the roof swings wildly.

Panel 2. A closer view of the carriage. Inside the dimly lit area, a man with a wide-brimmed hat and a handkerchief covering his face can be seen staring out the back, looking for something in the mist.

CAP: HOW LONG HAVE WE BEEN DRIVING? MINUTES, HOURS, DAYS?

Panel 3. The man slumps in his seat, facing towards the front of the coach. He pulls down the mask. The shadows exaggerate his features. A long scar runs from the forehead, down his nose, to the chin, halving his face.

CAP: SILLY OLD WOMAN. THE GOD HIMSELF COULDN’T FIND ME AGAIN, LET ALONE THE DEVIL.

Panel 4. The man holds up a pistol, as if showing it off to an unseen audience. The faint light glints off of it.


PAGE TWO

Panel 1. Another shot of the carriage maneuvering through the foggy area. The cabbie snaps his whip at the horses.

CAP: STRANGE DAYS, STRANGE DAYS. T’WAS ONLY THIS AFTER-NOON THAT THE DEED WAS DONE.

Panel 2. A flashback, so make the image slightly blurry or over saturate the colours. This is a shot of the same carriage bounding over a road, exactly like the previous panel, except that it’s day.

HIGHWAYMAN (OP): HO THERE! SLOW DOWN!

Panel 3. FLASHBACK- The coach comes to a stop in front of the Highwayman on horseback. Facing away from the reader, the Highwayman begins directing the driver with his pistol.

HIGHWAYMAN: PASSENGERS GET OUT!

HIGHWAYMAN: YOU, DRIVER, THROW THE STRONGBOX DOWN.


PAGE THREE

Panel 1. FLASHBACK- The strongbox is on the ground and the two passengers, a young man and his elderly mother, are being searched by the Highwayman.

MAN: LET MY MOTHER GO. SHE HAS NOTHING!

HIGHWAYMAN: OH, EXCUSE ME. BUT IT’S COMPANY POLICY.

HIGHWAYMAN (SMALL): YOU UNDERSTAND OF COURSE.

Panel 2. FLASHBACK- The young man jumps towards the Highwayman, whose pistol goes off, hitting the attacker.

MAN: YOU-

SFX: BLAM!

MOTHER: NOOOO!


Panel 3. FLASHBACK- The elderly mother holds her son in her arms, and looks up at the highwayman with hatred.

MOTHER: YOU FIEND! MAY YOU DIE A THOUSAND DEATHS BY THE LEFT HAND OF VENGANCE!

Panel 4. FLASHBACK- Close up of the old woman’s eyes. Her large irises stretch abnormally, taking up nearly all of the white. Tears stream out of the strange eyes.

Panel 5. FLASHBACK- Close up of the Highwayman’s face, his eyes are wide with terror, but the handkerchief around his mouth conceals much of the fear.


PAGE FOUR

Panel 1. FLASHBACK- The Highwayman brandishes his pistol at the driver as he pushes the old woman out of the way.

HIGHWAYMAN: DRIVER! TAKE ME TO TOARITO!

Panel 2. The Highwayman shakes himself awake as hears something outside the cab.

VOICE (OP): --SLOW DOWN!

Panel 3. Inside the carriage, the Highwayman pulls up the mask up to his face, and uses his left hand to point the pistol ahead, in practice.

VOICE (OP): PASSENGERS GET OUT!

CAP: THE LAW, THEY’RE HERE NOW. I WON’T GIVE UP WITHOUT A FIGHT.

HIGHWAYMAN: BANG. YOU’RE DEAD.

Panel 4. Throwing the door open, the Highwayman leaps out of the coach, gun in hand.

Panel 5. He shoots at a shadowy figure in the mist.

PAGE FIVE

Panel 1. The shadowy figure moves closer with his left hand pointing a gun at the reloading Highwayman. A wide-brimmed hat like the Highwayman’s can be seen on top of the Stranger’s head

STRANGER: I NEED YOUR TRANSPORTATION.

Panel 2. Close up of the figure's left hand holding the pistol, as it fires.

SFX: BLAM!

Panel 3. Suddenly, the Highwayman’s eyes open wide as he wakes up on the ground, his handkerchief still covering his face.

HIGHWAYMAN: GASP!

Panel 4. The area is empty, the gunman and coach are missing. The Highwayman stands up and begins reloading his gun, surveying the road.

HIGHWAYMAN: I’LL JUST CATCH THE NEXT ONE…

Panel 5. Same as the beginning image. Its midnight on a cold and foggy road, trees line the path, their wilted branches droop to the ground. Through the mist, an old-style coach can be seen bouncing over the ruts that pit the path, a hanging lantern on the roof swings wildly.

CAP: HOW LONG HAVE WE BEEN DRIVING? MINUTES, HOURS, DAYS?


Panel 6. Black.

CAP-OLD WOMAN: A THOUSAND DEATHS… ALL HIS OWN MAKING.

------------------------------------------------------------

NWArtist

Give The Devil His Due

PAGE ONE

DECEMBER 24th 1718
The Great North Road, From London To York.

Panel 1
The cloaked figure hunched down into the saddle,
enveloped in the misty shadows, the Winter moon
casting long shadows across the landscape.

Dialogue Box: Shadows crawl across the snowy English countryside like the tentacles of some hell spawned beast,
seeking to pull travelers farther still into their wintery grasp.

Panel 2
One “Black" Tom Claypoole watches the steam rise from his horse’s nostrils like smoke. As the big black stud stamps and snuffs in the cold night air.

JACK: “Yer a damn fool Tom Claypoole… trampin around on
a cold night like this, when ya should be warmin yer bones in front of a hearth, with a hot toddy in yer belly…..an Maggie in yer bed!”

Panel 3
A sound like thunder snaps him back to the task at hand:
A coach coming down the road, rending the still night air like raging surf smashing against the rocks. The coachman’s cries
and the crack of his whip slash the night air like a knife blade,
as he urges the team on.

Panel 4
Black Tom He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, leaving a wolfish grin slashed across his face….his yellow
eyes narrow.

Panel 5
BLACK TOM: “Well, it seems the devil’s ta pay tonight…HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRR!!!”
spurring his horse hard in the flanks, he charges out of the shadows like a demon flying from the gates of hell.

PAGE 2

Panel 1
BLACK TOM: “STAND AND DELIVER!”.
Two to long gleaming pistols, are pointed directly at the coachman.Tom has centered himself in the middle of the road,
his great horse rearing and pawing at the air.



Panel 2
Claypoole leans forward in the saddle, gesturing with a pistol towards the coachman.
JACK: “The box…throw it down….along with any pistols ya may have!”
COACHMAN “There isssssss nooooooooo boxsssssss” (the reply rattles out of the coachman in a long hallow gasp) and I haaaaaaaaave nooooooo Weaponssssssss…..Pleasssssse let usssssssss passsssssssssssss”.

Panel 3
BLACK TOM: “Well friend…..here’s a right and proper send off!….”
KLA-POW!
The dragoon pistol explodes and bucks in his hand, smoke
wafting through the night air as the coachman
tumbles from the seat.


Panel 4
BLACK TOM: .“You in there…..OUT!!” he growled. As he bangs
on the roof top. With a pistol .”OUT Now!”
From inside the darkened coach comes a voice

STRANGER: “There is no need for further violence I assure you”

Panel 5
Claypoole leans forward attempting to penetrate the dark
void of the coach. Pale moonlight shines through the trees in patches, partially revealing a figure inside, Red velvet curtains drape the windows..

BLACK TOM: (leering) “I’ll have your purse….yer jewels and….
anything else I’ve a fancy ta have!”



Panel 6

(from inside the coach)
STRANGER: “As you wish”

PAGE 3

Panel 1
(two figures exit the coach)
Black Tom watches as a tall, gaunt figure emerge from the coach, his long yellow hair pulled neatly back in a long que, tied with a black ribbon, black bucket sleeved coat with ornate silver buttons. A red waistcoat with black embroidered dragons, trimmed in yellow, with smaller silver buttons. He wears black velveteen breeches and shiny black boots. On his head is a black tricorn hat topped with red Mirabou. His gaunt features are accented by a very large, and sharp prominent nose. High cheekbones, and a large slit for a mouth. His lips are thin and almost seem to have
a bluish cast to them. His eyes …his eyes seem to almost be a smoldering red.


STRANGER: “My name is Mr. Scratch, and This (he gestures)
is my “ward”… Mistress Abigail”
A beautiful young mullato woman emerges from the coach. Her skin the color of the rum, lips red as blood and hair as black and soft as raven feathers. She wears a pale green gown. A cloak is draped around her shoulders, and a large ruby encrusted necklace is around her delicate neck. her eyes never rise to meet his, and she stares only at he ground.


Panel 2
BLACK TOM: “Mr. Scratch is it?……HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA….
Well “Mr” Scratch…Your Purse now, if ye please!”

Panel 3
The stranger merely smiles a thin smile and reaches into his waistcoat pocket, producing a small leather purse jingling with coin. He hands it to Black Tom with a hand that has more resemblance to a claw. It’s then that Black Tom notices the ring…
a large Silver dragon, with ruby eyes. Within it’s gaping mouth
lies a very large ruby. The dragon’s silver tail wraps entirely around the gaunt man’s finger.

Panel 4
BLACK TOM: (dismounts his horse, and still holding his pistols
on the travelers)
“That ring… I’ll have that too….if ye please”

Panel 5
STRANGER: (pleading)
“Please….my father gave me that ri……”

Panel 6
BLACK TOM: “You insolent PIG!…..
Black Tom viciously beats the gaunt man across the face
with his pistol: CRAAA-CK!


PAGE 4

Panel 1
STRANGER: (on his knees bleeding) HUUUUUGGGGGNNNN….

STRANGER: (weakly) as you wish…….


Panel 2
And as the man falls to his knees, Black Tom sticks the pistol to his head, and…KLA-POW!! Smoke curls from the dead man’s mouth.

Panel 3
ABIGAIL: (Screams in absolute horror)
As Black Tom reaches down and pull the dragon ring from
the dead man’s finger

Panel 4
As Claypoole grabs Abigail:
BLACK TOM: “I’ll have yer jewels……AND anything else
I’ve a mind to…Miss!”
He rips the necklace from her throat, then savagely tears
at the front of her dress

A voice behind him, stops him cold…
STRANGER: Oh my dear Mr. Claypoole….this certainly won’t do.
Black Tom whirls to find the gaunt man standing in front of him…with a leering smile

Panel 5
BLACK TOM: (Black Tom begins backing up in horror)
Buuuut….yo….you…you’re DEAD!??!…and ho…how do you know my name???”

Panel 6
STRANGER: “Yes, my dear Mr. Claypoole (moving closer)…I told you that MY name was Mr. Scatch…..and I know many…..MANY things about you."
(the strangers eyes Begin to glow with a hellish fire)

PAGE 5

Panel 1
Horrified and Enraged, Black Tom lunges at the gaunt man,
his blade slashing… Making a vicious arc through the air.
He cuts off the gaunt mans head, sending it flying.

Panel 2
Black Tom whirls on Abigail, sword in hand….
BLACK TOM: “Now Slut!…”

Panel 3
Abigail begins to glow and change….tentacles writhing from her arms and Her body, her mouth turns to a maw….a hell blaze erupts around them. Grasping Claypoole, she begins to feed
on him, slowly draining his life force and soul.

BLACK TOM: NOOOOOO…..AAAARRRRRRAAAHHHHHHHH!!

A disembodied voice calls out behind them….
“GO to the Devil Mr. Blackpoole?………Indeed?…..I AM the Devil!"



Panel 4
Mr. Scratch retrieves his ring from the smoldering skeletal remains of Thomas Claypoole, and returns it to his finger.
(it begins to snow)

SCRATCH: Oh Thank you Mr. Claypoole… I believe this belongs to me.
Oh…….I almost forgot………Merry Christmas!
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

Panel 5
Abigail and Mr. Scratch walk back to the coach arm in arm
SCRATCH: “Shall we my dear?”

FIN.

------------------------------------------------------------

insta_lunch

The Highwayman
Uzochi Zoe

“Theft is theft and raid is raid
Though reciprocally made.
Lovers, the conclusion is
Doubled sighs and jealousies
In a single heart that grieves
For lost honour among thieves.”
-Robert Graves, The Thieves

PAGE ONE

INT. BALD FACED STAG INN. MID-DAY.

Panel 1: This is an English Inn seen from the inside, from a black-wood table in a corner that three men sit around silently. They look indistinct and plotting; simple clothing though it is worn and dirty, three mugs of a dark liquid on the table. They are looking out at us. The surrounding tables and patrons are a blur that hints very vaguely at bodies taking the motions of fun. A coat of arms is above the three men’s heads, (the triple-horned shield variety) the only symbol that needs to be clear on this is a white wolf in the center. HORIZONTAL.

Caption: Bald Faced Stag Inn.

Panel 2: Close-up on central figure. This is James McPherson. Broad soldiers, a look of nobility though he’s a thief. Sans the altered bowler hat that became trademark of Highwayman, he still looks as if he could go riding at any minute. Short hair, dark eyes. He is speaking to the others, though not looking at them, but instead at his hands.

James: “I’d come from Wimbledon Common, that place sick-making and black, and yes, it was Abershawe they’d thrown in the gibbet. Had not the decency to clean his piss from the cage, stupid bloody Portsmouth sods. You know they caught him in Southwark, at The Three Brewers? I’ve gotten drunk there. I’ve ****ed in the public house offices above the bar. Do you know what this means?”

Man on the Left: “Keep your sausage out of every piece of skirt in Southwark and you’ll keep your neck from breaking?”
Man on the Right: {quieter, drunk, trailing off} “I echo that. ‘Southwark is slags and sores.’ ”

Panel 3: James begins to stand up, the Man on his Right’s head falls onto the table. Perspective has switched slightly to the left, which is the way James will leave.

James: “No.”

Panel 4: Small panel closed-up of James’ face. He looks anxious, stressed out, his face is scrunched up, angry, fingers holding the top of his nose, bothered.

Panel 5: Another small panel close-up. Jame’s face has changed completely. Maniacal smile, he looks histrionic, laughing as he talks.

James: “It means our job just got easier. Get up. We’re going.”

PAGE TWO

EXT. CITY OF CROYDON. MID-DAY, AFTERNOON.

Panel 1-3: Series of panels showing the two gentlemen (without the Man on the Right) getting to their horses, and riding off. This is a typical London town setting and looks a little dreary and raining and dark even in the mid-day light. Reference the half-timbered towns of Dinan in Brussels; though it’s in Germany, it is classically medieval English in design. These cobbled paths are what they are riding on as they veer into the forests beyond the town. In the first panel, there is a vertical rectangular mini-panel.

Panel 1 MINI-PANEL: A gibbet with the remains of Jerry Abershawe, a famous Highwayman. Common way of displaying criminals, this is a cage hanging high in a town square where a dead body still stands inside, supported by a thick wood beam. This panel shows a close-up of the cage, and more importantly, on Abershawe’s jaundiced flesh and face. His mouth is open, bits of the skeleton showing, open like a laugh or a scream. He is dressed in a mock highwayman’s outfit made garish yellow and bright purple with far too many frills and a ridiculous (over-laced) cravat. An “X” has been drawn on his forehead in dried blood.

Panel 2 Man on the Left: “Gallows humor is grim business. I’ve never understood how men can jest with that length of rope choking them, and the crowd jibbering on like idiots before they go stiff. Life’s hard enough for a mug of thieves without expecting a guffaw at the end of every musket. James…?”

Panel 3 Dialogue Caption: {as the men ride off} James: “Yeah. I agree, I suppose.

Panel 4: James takes a drink from a bottle of (whiskey? Some unknown manly drink? Something tawny gold like mead) and makes the horse go up on its hind legs. They are passing the town quickly.

James: “To Jerry Abershawe, the Laughing Highwayman. May you joke your way out of the devil’s teeth and giggle at the noose that killed you, though your woman is alive and in need.”

Caption (Bottom of Page): Louis Jeremiah Abershawe takes the name Jerry only for play, and he is young, and it is always Spring. Love is his cliché; some woman becomes his “Summer” or “the flame bringing light to his soul” every few months, and when he leaves them crying in the shadow of abbey overhangs or meeting halls they care for a little while, but eventually forget. He does the same. They have never been more than his ornaments and that is fine.

Caption: The women never care for too long, except for once, one. Vivian.

Caption: {a quote from a newspaper headline, different type-font, smaller} THE LAUGHING HIGHWAYMAN CONVICTED, SENTENCED TO DEATH.

PAGE THREE

Panel 1: A beautiful woman is shown, her back turned, facing a large decorative gold-leaf mirror. A girl stands behind her, brushing the woman’s hair. The girl is much smaller and wearing a plainer dress, but is also obviously not a slave, perhaps a close friend or sibling. The woman’s hair is black. She is sitting with one hand in her lap, and with the other holding her chin, quizzically.

Caption (Should look like old paper, this is a journal entry): August 9, 1795. He hangs like garbage in a village where they would not know his name save for the papers and I haven’t slept well for a month. I cannot help but remember ‘I killed this man, my love. I killed him. I killed him.’ My sister hears me screaming sometimes at night, and I want to explain, and maybe that is what I will do, but as I write this I feel the sharpness of new shame and can’t imagine it. God damn you to Hell Jerry Abershawe. I love you and God damn you to Hell.

Panel 2: The woman (Vivian) picks up a journal on her dresser and has opened it. There is more than one still sitting there. The captions reflect moments, separate journal entries.

Caption (Journal Entry): July 20, 1791. I have just had the pleasure of meeting one Louis Jeremiah Abershawe. He is handsome in such a way as to never inspire fear or remark for ruggedness. He is not square-jawed or distinctly brave in the way these Croydon tarts worship with their rigid breasts and soft legs. He is girlish and pretty. He is a side of myself I would not have seen save for a highly stylized mirror capable of wearing lace like a sword and riding pants that remind me he is a man. I want him to be mine. I would hear his poetry and see him paint us in green fields, in flowers, in love. Oh, I know these emotions are quick but I pray they do not die, alone in the shadow of his favor. He will want me soon enough. I hope.


Caption (Journal Entry): March 5, 1794. There is nothing but hate in my heart for that thing, it swallows me nearly whole from the inside and leaves nothing but my teeth to gnash together a thousand curses. I curse his mother, his father and his house’s name. I curse his siblings, I curse any stupid stupid woman who runs into his petty grace or charms with whatever desire she readies for his wound. He is a Highwayman. A thief. His whores and friends and half the bangtails in London are calling him Jerry and overjoyed by his disgusting laugh, which he wears like a title.

Caption (Journal Entry): October 1, 1791.We made love.
I can taste nothing but his tongue and his want, I know nothing of where or what. We made love. Whoever has hidden the world and replaced it with his scent and his swaying woman’s walk that yet conveys inner strength and his words, whoever made all else ugly and odd in his company, never change. Show me nothing else but Louis, who I can call Lover. I give him that gift without reservation. We are Lovers. Crumple the world in God’s fist so that nothing will exist but now and then.

Caption (Journal Entry): June 30, 1795. You deserve your end Jerry Abershawe. Would you like to know what happened, when they hang you? When I hand you this will you laugh? Will you smile or plead for your life? Will you recite your poetry when the noose knot grows tight and the lights dim and the hands of God push you further into the dirt?

Caption (Journal Entry) (continuing): I’d called them from several miles around the roads to Portsmouth through the usual means, and they sounded their approach with bells, and they came swiftly with rage. I can’t hear you Louis…Jerry. Even in my mind, I can’t hear you protest, I can’t hear your pretty, meaningless words. What would you say now? What would you say?

PAGE FOUR

Panels: This will have not quite the look of a flashback, but be drawn in order to tell the little back-story. The art will mimic the words, with the only exception being that Vivian, small, frames the drawings in the upper left and lower right hand corners of the page. As many panels as necessary without looking cluttered, artists pick up your discretion and run with it.

Caption (Journal Entry): You thought me just the little rich Duval girl, that my sympathy for the life of a Highwayman was girlish and unthinking, you did not know that my grand-father was Claude Duval. Claude Duval the gentleman who stole his victim’s wife for merely a dance, Claude Duval the greatest highwayman and the gambler and the womanizer and the wizard. I’ve read his journals, studied his notes for years, made them second nature. I could reach into the sulfurous flares of hell now and snatch your soul on a whim, I knew spells as a child that could bind you forever inside a goose egg.

Caption (Journal Entry): I called the spirits of your victims Abershawe, maybe seventy, maybe one-hundred dead babes and bitches and older men knifed in the cold and left to be absorbed by the roads.

Caption (Journal Entry): First I prayed for them, I created an astral tie to you through them. I blessed their taken souls and carved the word ATEH over a wood altar with the names of demons you never knew existed. I mixed my blood with the feathers of a thrush, its brown neck broken, its feathers wet. I exposed my breasts and whispered your name to Heaven.

Caption (Journal Entry): I whispered your name to Hell too, my love. It will be expecting you when you are sent there.

Caption (Journal Entry): When they came, I heard bells. I saw them holding hands, and sometimes appearing in the misty half-shapes of the carriages you had stolen from them before they died. They were so sad to see, and they were hungry. They went into the forest, they found you with your prick inside some pig’s hole sweating and…you disgusting man…they found you. Did you beg before you lost your sanity? Could you even have known?

PAGE FIVE

Panel 1: This is Louis Jeremiah “Jerry” Abershawe in absolute terror, terror that turns to hysterical out-of-control mirth and doubles him over with pain and tears. He is going insane. He is wandering a cobblestone road back towards London, nearly naked, skinny.

Jerry: “James Macpherson…young James, young Jack…where you at Jack, can’t catch that...”

Panel 2: Abershawe is looking over his shoulder as a caste of police ride towards him.

Panel 3: The police get closer as Abershawe falls to his knees. A tiny panel within this one shows his face as he grins, we can see where he is missing teeth.

Caption (Journal Entry): When the police came for you, your ghosts had driven you mad. You couldn’t even defend yourself in court, they found you shitting behind a bench before the Judge arrived. I watched.

Caption (Journal Entry): I looked into your eyes and you didn’t recognize me at all.

Panel 4: James Macpherson is riding with the same man he left the bar with. This shows him moving with grace on his horse rapidly through the forest.

Panel 5: A close-up that shows the bag at James’ side. A weathered photograph and a scrap of paper are hanging out of it. We can see Vivian’s face on the picture clearly. The scrap of paper is indistinct, but the same color as her Journal entries.

Panel 6: Final close-up that makes the scrap of paper readable, and it is definitely from Vivian’s journal. It reads “Every friend of the Laughing Highwayman will die by the life and blood you take. You will not cackle with your heads removed.” A strange sigil in black ink is stamped on the bottom of the paper.

Panel 7: Low HORIZONTAL sliver of a panel that shows James and his accomplice riding along. This panel is just big enough to fit the dialogue balloon in and to establish that it’s coming from James.

James: “Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha…”

[insta_lunch]

heh heh.....i voted for myself....don't know if i wasn't supposed to or not....but..uh....heh...bye bye now....

[ielle77]

crap, that's what i forgot. No you're supposedly not suppose to but as it was my fault for not saying so, oh well, we won't worry about this time lol. That's what i get for trying to rush a voting poll while correcting papers at work ROFL. Sorry Banshee

[banshee]

LOL (shakes her head). Live and learn. by the next one u do (hint hint), I think we can be ok.

you MUST NOT VOTE FOR YOURSELF..

[ielle77]

Hope you'll all forgive me if i BUMP this up so that newbies may see this on the homepage and be inspired to vote. Only time I'll bump, i promise

[banshee]

Bump up the thread on bulletin board, honey

just cos it's spring break... LOL

[banshee]

Ok folks, congrats to NWArtist

Welcome to the Thread of Fame!

[ielle77]

Hey congrats! Sorry didn't say congrats sooner, just got back from vacation. Way to go NWartist!

[canuckey]

Yeah! Congratulations NWArtist! Good job on the script.

[NWArtist]

Thanks guys, that was a lot of fun!
Thanks to Banshee and ielle for hosting that one.

-JP