“Standing on the brink of
discovery, he looked to Mr. Mittens to see him to the end.” Everyone stared
eagerly at Paul, anxiously awaiting the brilliant climax. “And then,” Paul
slowly continued, “the credits role.” A cry went out from Egypt. “AAAAAAAAHHHH,
What?” It was a very angry cry. Thomas, a pudgy ginger who was supposed to
co-write the group’s short film was the first to voice an intelligible opinion.
“I hate it,” he bluntly stated. “How are we ever supposed to win the contest
with a lame ending like that?”
“Okay, well I haven’t hear any
other ideas,” responded Paul. “And whose idea was it anyway to write a short
story about a zombie apocalypse and teenage underdog with eczema who tries to
cure his girlfriend with his favorite stuffed animal?”
“Well it’s not like anyone else
decided to help!” Screamed Thomas.
“Okay, guys… back to the drawing
board.” Paul announced.
“NO!” Another cry went out from
Egypt. Claire, a fellow group member put in charge of make-up and costumes
finally piped in. “We don’t have time to make an entirely new story. We might
have time to tweak a couple things, but we have to stick to teenagers, zombies,
and a stuffed animal kitten. Plus, I’ve already spent most of our budget on
fake blood and a fog machine.”
Complaints and hopeless moaning
filled the air. “CALM DOWN, GUYS.” Thomas yelled. At least he was good at
getting people’s attention. “Let’s just all brainstorm tonight and then we’ll
meet again tomorrow and see what we’ve come up with.” Everyone begrudgingly
agreed and sulked home that night, especially Thomas.
Film was Thomas’ passion, and he
didn’t have very many of those. A pudgy
ginger since birth, Thomas got the feeling that not even his parents loved him.
As soon as he learned to read, Thomas spent the majority of his childhood
buried in books. Fantasy was his genre of choice, every since he decided that
fiction was much better than reality. This happened to be around the same time
in which his mother died, his father left him for alcohol, and his grandparents
could barely afford to house him. Yes, that is when his dreams became better
than reality. Unfortunately for Thomas, fearing reality had taken its toll. No
friends, a senior film project that sucked, and no hope for a future filled
with zombies, fairies, and Mr. Mittens was impossible. “Oh well,” he thought to
himself. “At least I get another eight hours of dreaming tonight.”
By Jordan Wilson
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