Paul vs Cactus

FADE IN:

INT. HOUSE - DAY

A white curtain blocks the window’s view.

PAUL, stout and tanned, moves the curtain and surveys the outside

GARDEN

Desolate, dry and lifeless except for a giant cactus in the middle of the yard.

Nasty, green, vaguely phallic, it displays a freaky pink flower on top. Opposite to the cactus glitters a mailbox.

HOUSE

Paul pulls the skin on his cheeks, grabs his big gun.

He kneels in front of the door, opens it and crawls outside in the

GARDEN

Like a majestic cobra, on his belly, gun stuck in the belt on his back.

Paul crawls to the mailbox, stands up to open it when

WHOOSH!

The cactus fires a thorn at him. Paul crouches down.

He checks inside the open mailbox from the ground and tries to keep his head down when

WHOOSH!

The cactus fires again.

PAUL

Son of a --

The thorn sticks in his left cheek.

Paul draws out his gun, stands and aims at the cactus when

WHOOSH! BANG!

Another thorn sticks in his hand, the bullet misses the cactus.

Paul falls on his back like a reversed turtle. He kicks the mailbox closed, rolls on his belly and crawls all the way back inside the house.

WHOOSH! WHOOSH!

The thorns fly over his head and impale the door.

INT. HOUSE - LATER

Paul moves the curtain from the window. The thorns fired are grown back on the cactus.

Paul shakes his head and sits at the small desk under the window. He opens a

LAPTOP SCREEN

E-mail sender: Maria

Subject: Help is on the way

Message: Wait for my sign.

BACK TO SCENE

Paul checks the bullets in his gun then throws it on the desk.

PAUL

Bloody Eyetalians with secret codes!

Paul seizes his gun and dashes to the window. The cactus’s flower catches his eye. He aims at it, opens the window and

BANG! WHOOSH! WHOOSH!

The pink flower explodes. Paul slams the window, the glass blocks the thorns.

PAUL

There you go, old man!

A big smile opens on his face. He closes the curtain, throws his gun away and presses play on a CD player.

“Bad boys bad boys whatcha gonna do...” cheers up the house. Paul dances like a warrior around a bonfire.

EXT. GARDEN - DAY

Paul crawls to the mailbox.

WHOOSH!

The cactus misses him. Paul opens the mailbox and retrieves a postcard.

WHOOSH! WHOOSH! WHOOSH!

The cactus misses him.

BANG! BANG!

Paul misses the cactus then crawls back to the house with the postcard.

INT. HOUSE - LATER

Paul sits at his desk and examines the

POSTCARD

On the front, an immaculate beach in Sardinia.

On the back, one word: WATER

BACK TO SCENE

Paul turns the postcard in his hands, again and again.

PAUL

Bloody Eyetalians!

He drops the postcard, stands up and spies outside the window.

Paul scratches his head as he sees the exploded flower and the missing thorns on the now naked cactus. His teeth shine.

Paul recharges the gun.

EXT. GARDEN - LATER

Paul confronts the cactus. It has no more thorns to fire.

PAUL

Is that all? Come on, bring it

on!

Paul points the gun to the cactus.

A strong wind brushes his hair with an eerie sound.

Paul looks around him, perplexed. He points the gun again and the wind cries.

Paul lowers his gun. He looks at the mailbox then at the cactus and back.

The wind cries again.

The eerie note gives Paul goose bumps on his tanned arm.

He looks at the mailbox.

LATER

Paul confronts the cactus armed with a plastic bottle. He waters the cactus and waits.

The pink flower grows back on top of it, as well as its thousand deadly thorns.

Paul swallows.

The wind blows. No thorns fired.

Paul lowers his head, smiles and shuffles back inside the house with the empty bottle.

FADE OUT.

Wish I had the time to write

I bet this must be the number one mantra of every (unpaid-unproduced-unwanted) screenwriter. Or any other writer, for that matter.

People like me, who have been stuck with a flat day time job, while working on writing projects on the side, hoping to get an extra day off, counting the minutes until the long awaited weekend, just to concentrate, relax and finally write the script that's going to change your life.

People like me, who used their lunch break (1 hour tops) to write one scene per day.

The importance of having a routine.

I was normally taking my lunch break along the Thames, in Old London. The forementioned one hour was reduced by the time it took to walk there, so we're probably talking about 45 minutes, but I never failed to write down one tiny little scene. Every day, little by little, the scripts were coming out on paper.

Now I have all the time in the world, since I'm starting a new life in a different country and I don't have a job (yet) and what do I do instead of writing?

Bullshit.

The TV pilot I'm working on is still on page 7.

None of the scripts I have completed seems to be in good shape to be considered by anybody.

In the last desperate attempt to break the creative stasis, I entered a "one-scene" competition, that run along a main screenwriting contest. This is the comment I received on my effort:

Scene opens with solid pop and good character business. We know who these people are from the get-go. Would've loved to know what Eric's deception actually was. It's never made clear. It sounds like it leads somewhere cool, but we never find out. Breezy style is a plus. Nice work!

Mmm, maybe I can still write after all.

Nope.

There was also a numeric score associated with the feedback, in my case 88. The minimum to pass was 94, so in a nutshell to quote Kenny Powers, I was fucking out.

No worries, who needs $3.000 and a little gratification, right?

I had some more time to think and rethink this whole new scenario of my life, with lots of time, and zero writing and suddenly I had a revelation.

What if a writer to write needs a challenge? An incentive?

My challenge was: complete the scene before the lunch break is over. I was under pressure, because I know that moment in time during the day was perfect. After work, with all the stupidity I had to go through the entire day, writing anything good was going to be much more difficult, almost virtually impossible.

The incentive: any paid writer should be able to get all the incentive to write from the check in the mail.

So after proper consideration, I guess I'm going to find another day time job here in Texas, see if something changes in the equation. See if this is the push I need.

I had my chance to play the writer 24/7 (thanks to my husband generosity) and I blew it.

Discipline.

And a little challenge.

A new job.

A new life.

Whichever works, I don't care.

Rain

"I can't stand the rain 'gainst my window..."

I'm thinking about the version by Graham Central Station.

When I moved from London, UK to Texas, I was expecting (hoping) to leave the rain behind. Not that I pretend not to see the rain again but...

Must be the weather spell (la macumba meteo) following me around the globe.

Like the hurricane in Amsterdam, while we were trying to walk around with a free tour. (Caitlin, if you're reading this, you now what I'm talking about)

Like Xmas in Egypt, back in 2006, the coldest in the last 20 years. The local tour guide told me in disbelief: "It's actually snowing in Jerusalem right now, can you believe it?"

Like the million times I went back to Sardinia, bringing all the rain with me, didn't matter if I was flying over from Bologna or London, same effect.

My mom suggested I should try to go to central Africa, to bring water to the people that need it the most. My brother said something like: hey, I mean, I'm happy to see you again but everytime you come back, it rains-don't come back often :)

Whenever a trip was around the corner

BANG!

The weather spell was striking.

A small black cloud, pretty much similar to the Fantozzi's cloud that followed our hero everywhere.

Now, the question is: who put the spell on me? And the question after that is: should I be so paranoid to think my presence on the planet in a specific location is controlling the weather?