up the ladder, through the window, the raining night sky

the funny pages

He hated the newspapers. The broadsheets even more so than the loathsome tabloids. However, he was obsessed with the newsagent. Something about his eyes and voice and stature drew him to him. So everyday he would go in to his shop to buy one of the day's publications. It did not matter which to him and which one he bought differed from day to day according to his want. His want changing according to which title he wished him to say out when he put the publication on his counter; The Sun, The Guardian, The Telegraph, and so on. This went on until one day he read in the obituary section that he had died. He had seen him that morning in the shop when he bought the paper he was now reading but there he was dead. There in black and white. He never went in to his shop again. It was the last newspaper he ever bought. He was awfully young.

the best of both systems

Another heart warming story from the dole que/ care system..

birds flying. written after midnight

I was walking with two friends and I saw all these starlings flyin' together, made me feel good, like some things do for a while. Eventually they'll fly away from each other, never to fly together again, taken away by other winds, through no other intention beyond wind.

Fashion

Dear Mr Vuitton,
We do not know each other but I was hoping that you could help me with a question that I have been pondering of late: How is it that some ghosts wear clothes? Are these clothes the ghosts of clothes? I know clothes dye, but do they die?
Hope all is well on the other side,
Your pal,
Samuel Kastin.

extract, including song, from an abandoned play

A country lane. 3 boys sit by and on a wooden fence. 2 whistle. 1 sings;

Marvin (along with the guys' whistling tune). Oh what a day for daydream
What a day for a daydream, oh boy
You can dance by barbed wire
You could fall down and broken your button nose
A trickle of love songs will drip down onto your blouse
Before your heart's break by kisses from all the sad clowns
Oh, it's the loneliest Saturday night.

The circus is in town.

Peeking

The sun is shining and it is HOT.

Shot of man's eyes looking at something directly in front of him. They are pained, tears well up to the point of running down his face. A woman is talking to him, pleading as the camera zooms out into a shot of his whole face and the top of his shoulders..

Molly. Stop peeking please. Come on, don't just sit staring Fats, just give me a bit of privacy for once and respect my wishes.

From the shot we can now see that there is a trail of smoke rising above the man's left shoulder. He is in a restrained agony.

Molly. I don't peek with you, do I. Stop being a funny guy Fats, don't be scum.

He puts his right hand above his right eye, dropping something when it is covering his eye.

Cut to: Shot of magnifying glass smashing on the floor.

Cut back: Man holding his right hand over his right eye.

Molly. That's better... Hey! Don't be sneaky! The other 'and 'nd all.

He puts his left hand above his left eye. There has been a hole burned into it, so that it goes all the way through his hand. He looks through the hole in his hand. There is a gasp.

Molly. You bastard. You always have to peek!

We hear the sound of a door slamming as she presumably leaves.

Fats. (to us) You should see her when she cries.

We continue this shot with his hands over the eyes for a while.

Cut to: Man's POV, through the hole in his hand. The television is on, to the left of the shot where the camera would have originally been located, it shows a Man covering his eyes with his hands.