Don’t Look Down

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I see the “Men” sign on the door, and I cringe. Then, I sit on the toi­let. If I look down, I’ll cringe again.

In a way, the bath­room cap­tures the essense of my expe­ri­ence being a trans woman: I don’t fit with my group, and my body is wrong.

Last week, I saw Star Trek Into Dark­ness with some friends.

Even before the movie, I had to use the bath­room. I didn’t. I Hate Bathrooms.

By the end, I really had to go. I don’t think I could even talk straight.

I found the bath­room. As always, I was con­fronted with two choices. I knew the one I must choose.

Say­ing my men­tal “fuck you,” I tore my eyes away from the “Men” sign and entered.

There was a line. Men were going at the uri­nals, and — after lift­ing the seat — in the stalls, as well.

Finally, my turn.

And, I real­ized, as I sat down (I’ve never done the whole stand­ing thing)—

I was out of place.

I wasn’t sup­posed to be there.

The door said “Men.”

This is wrong.

With so many men in one place, I real­ized just how out-of-place I was.

I wished I could have made a dif­fer­ent choice.

Not pre­sent­ing as female, I would not have felt com­fort­able in the women’s restroom (and I doubt those in the restroom would have felt com­fort­able with me). But, even pre­sent­ing as male, I was far from com­fort­able in the men’s.

The choice wouldn’t have mat­tered any­way. No mat­ter the choice, inevitably, I would have to look down.

And look down I did.

I saw what has been there for all my life. Usu­ally, that very fact — that it has been with me for all this time — is enough to allow me to ignore its existence.

That night, I couldn’t ignore it.

I uttered my sec­ond “fuck you.” I’m not sure if it was for the bath­room, or for my body.

It’s not so bad in my own bath­room. In my bath­room, I don’t have to think at all. I know where every­thing is. I could do it with my eyes closed — and, indeed, that’s in effect what I do at night when it’s dark.

I can get out my phone, and dis­tract myself. It works very well. In my own bath­room, I’m almost fine.

It’s the only bath­room I feel com­fort­able in.

Other than my own, I don’t feel com­fort­able in any bath­room. In some bath­rooms, how­ever, I feel less com­fort­able than in oth­ers. Smaller bath­rooms, smaller stalls, smaller seats… I have to think more; I have to avoid the walls, avoid the large toi­let paper rollers. It becomes impos­si­ble to avoid me.

And that’s why bath­rooms are awful.

It’s bad enough that they make me feel apart from my group.

They then add injury to that insult: they remind me about my body.

Fuck you, bathrooms.

To Mom

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Beau­ti­ful and ter­ri­ble alike,
The world which you break apart,
Until you are ready,
To cre­ate a new world.
To cre­ate us.

It seems super­hu­man:
How do you take these parts
and make us whole?

You can’t be human,
You’re Mom.

But what do humans do?
They take bits and pieces,
They cre­ate wholes.

Being Mom is being Human.

But being You is being Great.

Although we can often for­get,
You are not just Mom,
You are a person.

Not mine.
Not my brother’s.
Not my sister’s.
Not my father’s.
Not my nephew’s.
Yours.

Every­one has a birth­day,
You gave us ours,
and so much more.

And today I think…

I can do so many things,
For you taught me,
How­ever much I fought it.

I can cre­ate amaz­ing things,
For you encour­aged me,
How­ever often I failed.

I can weather my tri­als,
For your sup­port pro­tects me
How­ever far away you may be.

And today I think…
You deserve more than a birthday.

You deserve
A day for you
To know
What you mean
To me.

A day for you
To know
You are loved.

I love you Mom.

Your daugh­ter,

Alex

It was just a joke.

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It was just a joke. Noth­ing worth get­ting so upset over.

It’s not like you hear dozens of jokes like it every day. Not like those jokes are aimed at you. Not like they’re aimed at the group you are a part of. Not like they’re aimed at a group that bears the brunt of such jokes not just once, not just twice, but con­stantly, hour after hour, day after day.

Not like any of the jokes per­pet­u­ate stereo­types about you and your group. Not like they exclude you in some way. Not like they tell you that you aren’t one of us. Not like they tell you that you’re not really sup­posed to be here.

Not like your group is often attacked with more than just jokes. Not like any of those jokes ever stray too close to those attacks for comfort.

No, no, no. The joke was just that: a one-off joke. Noth­ing to fuss over.

Why are you so angry?

You’re not going to win any points like that.

Go back to the kitchen.

— Sin­cerely, The Internet

Female

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For the longest time, I’ve left the gen­der field blank. I could not stand to put in a lie, but I could not yet be open with the truth.

I no longer have to hide.

My gen­der iden­tity is female.

It is a bit of a has­sle. Well, quite a lot of a has­sle. You see, my gen­der iden­tity does not match the gen­der I was assigned at birth. “It’s a boy!” they said.

I really wish they could have con­sulted me first: from my per­spec­tive, the prac­tice of assign­ing gen­der at birth can at times seem rather arbi­trary… but it does, indeed, work for the vast major­ity of people.

It just sucks for peo­ple like me.

Over the course of the next few years, I will be going through a tran­si­tion, so that I may change my gen­der pre­sen­ta­tion from male to female. It will be a long process. I won’t be ready to actu­ally switch my gen­der pre­sen­ta­tion for awhile yet — prob­a­bly not for another year or two.

The process, how­ever, should begin within the next cou­ple of months.

I’m still me. I always have been, and always will be, me. My gen­der is one aspect of me, one which has always been there, but it is just that: one aspect.

I am still a soft­ware engi­neer. I am still a writer. I am still a fem­i­nist. I am still a huge fan of Up, Harry Pot­ter, Doc­tor Who, and I am becom­ing a fan of Bat­tlestar Galactica.

I love my fam­ily — my dad, my mom, my sis­ter, my brother, my nephew, my cousins, my aunts & uncles. I love my friends, and I love my team.

Thank you.

If you have any ques­tions — whether about gen­der & gen­der iden­tity, or about my opin­ions on the moral­ity of Albus Dum­b­le­dore — please ask.

Watson’s Fury — An Adaptation of “The Final Problem”

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“Watson’s Fury” is a short screen­play adap­ta­tion of the Sher­lock Holmes short story “The Final Problem.”

PDF ver­sion (more accu­rate formatting)

EXT. FOREST — JUST BEFORE SUSNET

The for­est stretches up the moun­tain to the house sit­ting on the edge of the tall cliff. The sun­set, viewed from the house, is magnificent.

The wind rus­tles the leaves in the trees as the sun cooks the dead frog lay­ing with its back to the hard stone in a for­est clearing.

A stick prods the frog once. Then again.

WATSON, twelve, a girl in ill-fitting jeans and t-shirt, pro­poses a pos­si­ble per­pe­tra­tor of this heinous crime.

WATSON

Per­haps it was the butler?

SHERLOCK, also twelve, looks rather like a boy even though, under­neath her Sher­lock Holmes hat and cape, she wears a much-too-frilly pink and white dress and a neck­lace with an ornate pendant.

Per­haps it’s her hair­cut. Per­haps it’s her face.

She dis­agrees in her most offi­cious voice.

SHERLOCK

I find that… unlikely.

Wat­son pos­i­tively flum­moxed, stares at Sherlock.

WATSON

Yet he had motive! And he would cer­tainly have been able!

SHERLOCK

Why yes, my dear Wat­son, if not for one sim­ple fact.

(beat)

This is the but­ler! Don’t you see? It is, my dear Wat­son, elementary!

Wat­son huffs.

WATSON

He never said–

SHERLOCK (CONT’D)

(with drama)

I say it.

Ten­nis shoes poke out from under her skirt as she lifts it to step over a muddy patch.

SHERLOCK (CONT’D)

Get­ting your dress all muddy…

(grum­bling)

Next time can’t you bring some­thing less… Fluffy?

She trips and falls, butt on the ground. She grabs her neck­lace to check it’s safe.

WATSON

(laugh­ing)

Or maybe not a dress? That’ll be a chal­lenge. They’re like all Mom buys me.

Sher­lock rolls her eyes and glares, but there’s no heat to it.

With help from Wat­son, she stands, and they make their way out of the woods.

SHERLOCK

(back to Sher­lock voice)

I believe that, how­ever nice it may be to express my fem­i­nin­ity in such obvi­ous fash­ion, it may be wiser, in future jaunts in the woods, to uti­lize cloth­ing of a more practical–

WATSON

(hissed)

Sher­lock! Your dad’s car!

She points through the trees. Sher­lock looks.

SHERLOCK

Shit!

WATSON

Sher­lock!

(mock­ing tone)

We’re ladies! Mom says ladies must never say words like “shit.”

SHERLOCK

(small smile)

Oh shut up.

WATSON

How can we get back in with­out him see­ing, well…

She indi­cates Sher­lock and all she’s wearing.

SHERLOCK

We can still get to the back door before he gets to the front. He’s got to open the gate and garage and – and then he’ll most likely stop at the bath­room, so–

Wat­son doesn’t give Sher­lock time to fin­ish. 

She grabs her, and they run towards the large house on the cliff.

INT. SHERLOCK’S HOUSE — MOMENTS LATER

The two slip into the fam­ily room through the back door, the secu­rity sys­tem beep­ing at them.

SHERLOCK

(whis­per­ing)

Why couldn’t we have stairs on both sides of the house?

Wat­son tugs Sher­lock behind a couch.

Moments later, Sherlock’s father walks through the room. 

He doesn’t stop. He just walks right on by. A door opens some­where, then closes.

Sher­lock and Wat­son slowly and care­fully extract them­selves from their hid­ing spot, and tip-toe across the house.

INT. SHERLOCK’S BEDROOM — MOMENTS LATER

Qui­etly, they shut the door.

They col­lapse to the floor, laugh­ing loudly in relief.

The father yells up from below, voice fil­tered through two doorways.

FATHER (O.S.)

So you two are up there!

SHERLOCK

(top of her lungs)

Are you yelling from the bathroom?

Beat.

FATHER

No!

Wat­son looks at Sher­lock. They laugh again.

Flush.

Door opens.

FATHER (O.S.)

You two are as thick as thieves!

SHERLOCK

(yelling back)

What?

FATHER (O.S.)

I said–

Thump, thump – feet start to climb the steps.

Wat­son looks at Sher­lock, panicked.

SHERLOCK

I’m, uh… I’m going to the bathroom!

Sher­lock scram­bles for cloth­ing strewn across the floor; Wat­son helps, toss­ing a cou­ple of socks to her. 

Wat­son shoves Sher­lock into the bath­room and shuts the door.

INT. OUTSIDE SHERLOCK’S ROOM — DAY

Sherlock’s father turns the knob and walks in.

Wat­son sits on the floor, read­ing a book of Sher­lock Holmes stories.

FATHER

Where’s John?

Wat­son purses her lips.

WATSON

Sher­lock is in the bathroom.

FATHER

Emily–

WATSON

Wat­son.

They stare each other down.

The bath­room door shuts.

Sher­lock leans against it wear­ing boy’s clothes, decid­edly unhappy.

EXT. SHERLOCK’S DRIVEWAY — NIGHT

The car door shuts.

Sher­lock is slow get­ting out of her side.

Her father grabs her arm and pulls her out firmly, the car door THUMPS shut.

INT. SHERLOCK’S FAMILY ROOM — CONTINUOUS

A door opens. Two sets of foot­steps enter; one stomp­ing, the other stumbling.

The door slams shut.

The foot­steps come nearer…

Sherlock’s father tosses her onto the giant armchair.

He paces. He may be about to hyperventilate.

She looks any­where but him.

FATHER

You were doing it again.

SHERLOCK

(grum­bling)

I’m doing it now.

FATHER

You said you’d stop.

SHERLOCK

I was try­ing! I’m a girl and the only way I can not cross-dress is if I dress like one!

FATHER

You’re not a–

He catches his breath.

He sits on one of the arms of the arm­chair, and snakes an arm around Sherlock.

FATHER

John…

SHERLOCK

Sher­lock.

FATHER

John! Look, it’s not… It’s not the cross-dressing. It’s that – you’re not a girl.

(beat)

I mean, look at you! You’re grow­ing facial hair! Chest hair start­ing to come in, I bet? Your feet – and even though you’re just thir­teen, you’re already get­ting tall.

He moves in to hug her, suf­fo­cat­ingly close.

FATHER (CONT’D)

No one’s going to – you never get a job, and there’s cra­zies out there who’ll–

(beat)

You have to fight it.

Sher­lock turns to look at her father. He’s so close their noses almost touch.

SHERLOCK

I don’t know how to fight it.

FATHER

You just have to choose to.

(beat)

Look, these feel­ings, they’re like… Mori­arty, right? Mori­arty was Sher­lock Holmes’s enemy, wasn’t he?

(beat)

Sher­lock kills Mori­arty, right?

Sher­lock looks away, but nods shakily.

FATHER (CONT’D)

You have to fight it. You have to stop – you have to stop Moriarty.

(beat)

John. Tell me you’ll fight.

He clasps her hands.

FATHER (CONT’D)

Sher­lock.

Her eyes snap back to his.

FATHER (CONT’D)

Sher­lock. You must stop Mori­arty, at all costs.

INT. WATSON’S BEDROOM — DAY

The bed­room is overly fem­i­nine, pink and white are everywhere.

Sher­lock fidgets.

WATSON

Want to try on–

SHERLOCK

No.

Wat­son looks at her, concerned.

WATSON

Are you–

SHERLOCK

I’m fine. I’m just – my emo­tions are–

(beat)

I feel like I’m Sher­lock and Moriarty’s com­ing for me.

WATSON

Well, as long as you don’t pull a Sher­lock tak­ing him out…

Awk­ward beat.

WATSON (CONT’D)

Meet in for­est for sunset?

SHERLOCK

(beat)

Fine.

INT. SHERLOCK’S BEDROOM — DAY

Sher­lock opens the door to find her father search­ing through her closet.

SHERLOCK

What are you–

Her father doesn’t answer. He places some arti­cles of girls’ cloth­ing into a large trash bag.

SHERLOCK

They’re Watson’s.

FATHER

The point is to remove temptation.

SHERLOCK

Get out!

FATHER

Sit!

He points at the bed.

Sher­lock is trans­fixed as her father goes around her room. 

He’s not just tak­ing clothes. He’s tak­ing any­thing from pic­tures on the wall to stuffed ani­mals and finally, to–

Sher­lock tries to stop him as he lifts the neck­lace from round her neck, but he firmly pushes her back into place.

SHERLOCK

That was Mom’s!

Her father takes a deep breath.

But – slowly; as if unable to bear it him­self – he lets it coil itself into the bag.

Sher­lock stares at the bag as her father slowly extri­cates him­self from the room.

EXT. SHERLOCK’S BALCONY — JUST BEFORE SUNSET

Sher­lock stands on her bal­cony, over­look­ing the land far below her.

She glances to the for­est, then back at the val­ley beneath the cliff, beneath her balcony.

EXT. SHERLOCK’S DRIVEWAY — CONTINUOUS

The father’s car snakes up the long dri­ve­way, tak­ing its time in the sunset’s light.

EXT. FOREST — CONTINUOUS

Wat­son reaches the clearing.

Sherlock’s not there.

She looks around.

EXT. SHERLOCK’S BALCONY — CONTINUOUS

Sher­lock folds a piece of paper. 

She scrib­bles “To Wat­son” upon it, and pock­ets it.

She walks to the railing.

Slowly, she pokes her head over. She quickly looks away. Then, slowly again, peeks back over.

She closes her eyes.

EXT. FOREST — CONTINUOUS

Wat­son exits the for­est, look­ing around. She looks up towards the house.

She can see, just sil­hou­et­ted against the sun­set, Sher­lock, sit­ting on her balcony’s railing.

Wat­son freezes.

Then, eyes wide, she runs.

INT. FATHER’S CAR — CONTINUOUS

Sherlock’s father has a per­fect view of the cliff.

Sud­denly, his eyes widen. 

The car jolts to a stop.

Then, he slams on the gas.

EXT. FOOT OF CLIFF — SUNSET

The father runs up, but it’s far too late.

On the ground sits Wat­son, cradling Sherlock’s dis­fig­ured body. The note lies, dis­carded, next to her.

She looks up.

She blinks.

She blinks again.

Then, she drops Sher­lock and charges at the father and tack­les him to the ground.

She pounds on him, yelling.

WATSON

YOU KILLED HER! You – you – you told her she had to fight who she was, that she was Moriarty–

(whis­per­ing)

Do you know what hap­pened to Sher­lock Holmes when he fought Moriarty?

He tries to push her off; he tries to get to Sher­lock, but–

FATHER

He – But there were more stories!

WATSON

He was sup­posed to die. The author wrote him back.

She grabs a pen, and hands him the paper.

WATSON (CONT’D)

Go on! Write her back!

(beat)

If it’s so sim­ple, just do it! Write her back into the story. Make her not die. Make her alive.

She col­lapses onto the ground, away from the father.

WATSON (CONT’D)

It’s all wrong. She should have lived. She wasn’t Mori­arty. You were. You were the one behind this… You are the one who should be dead!

(beat)

She wasn’t Mori­arty. She was her.

(beat)

She was Sherlock.

FADE TO BLACK.

The Blue Dot

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He gazed at the blue dot. It was so close, and yet, so out-of-reach.

But he knew. He always knew.

He wanted to go there.

Carl Peters gazed up into the dark sky from which the vis­i­tors came, and to which they left again.

It filled him with won­der: the sky; the stars; the sometimes-sun… And most of all, the blue dot.

He did not fear the blue dot — not like the other Scruf­fles (their white pow­dery coats shiv­ered with the thought).

Per­haps Carl did not fear the blue dot because he had not been alive when the vis­i­tors had come; when The Tem­ple had been dstroyed; when thou­sands of Scruf­fles had lost their lives.

He did not fear it.

He wanted it.

But he could never go there.

The uni­verse was his oys­ter. He and all the other Scruf­fles could travel any­where in their lit­tle gray ships — their Blopers.

They could travel through time; through space. They could see any­thing and every­thing, from the births of suns to the deaths of entire galaxies.

But they could not see the blue dot.

Scruf­fles never vis­ited the blue dot. Not since many years ago. Not since the visitors.

No-one went to the blue dot.

No-one talked about the blue dot.

No-one thought about the blue dot.

Except Carl.

He gazed at the blue dot. “I want to go to there,” he thought.

Carl had a very nice Bloper. Top-of-the-line. But, of course, it could never take him to the one place he wanted so very badly to go; it could not take him to the blue dot, not since all Blop­ers had been mod­i­fied; not since the vis­i­tors had come; not since the blue dot had been for­bid­den; not since it had ceased to be talked about; to be thought about.

It’s so strange, he thought. It seemed so near. Nearer by far than any­where else. Why should it be so hard to reach?

Over the years, Carl tried his hard­est. He trav­elled the uni­verse, saw the sights. He left as a young Scruf­fle. He spent ages and ages explor­ing. He went to the begin­ning of time, and to the end of the uni­verse. He saw the birth of the sometimes-sun, and its death.

But like all Scruf­fles who leave for adven­ture, for all his time away, he even­tu­ally returned home to rest, mere sec­onds after he left.

And for all his time away, for all his body creaked and ached with age, it felt as if it had been no time at all.

And so one day, Carl scut­tled his aged body over to his Bloper. He tore it open, he looked inside, he ripped parts out, and put it back together.

Finally, it was ready.

It was time.

He took off, and flew.

He dived at the blue dot. It was really big.

It grew, big­ger and bigger.

Around him, every­thing became hot.

His entire Bloper glowed bril­liantly and shook vio­lently, rather less solid than it had been when he was younger. But it held together.

And then he landed.

He left his Bloper. He crawled along the grainy surface.

He looked up.

Blue.

Gender Identity

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At birth, and usu­ally even before that, we take a peek at our babies’ genitals.

“Is there a hole, or is there a pole?” we ask, before loudly exclaim­ing
for the world to hear: “It’s a boy!” or else, “It’s a girl!” and cer­tainly
never any­thing else.

Then, it’s a mad race to buy the toys and the jam­mies and cel­e­bra­tory cakes — all color-coded,
of course. We wouldn’t want any­one to get con­fused. A boy? It’s all in blue!
A girl? Pink pink pink!

Before they are even born, we begin push­ing them into the gen­der roles which
we expect them to occupy. In time, they’ll grow and learn how to be proper men or
proper women.

And the best part? They do most of the work on their own! They, see­ing the other
lit­tle boys and girls around them, shape them­selves to be like the others.

Why? Because they want to fit in. Who doesn’t? Our daugh­ters see the other
girls around them, and want to be like those other girls.

They iden­tify with those girls, and when one iden­ti­fies with a group,
one can’t help but desire to fit in. It’s human.

But what hap­pens if a boy doesn’t iden­tify with all the other boys?
What hap­pens if he instead iden­ti­fies with all the other girls?

We can brain­wash a lot into our chil­dren, and it is a good thing we can: we can
teach them right from wrong, to be polite, to fol­low the golden rule.

But we can­not con­trol which gen­der they iden­tify with.

Before they’re even born — per­haps even while we’re rush­ing around try­ing to
find the pink or blue toys and cakes — our chil­dren get their gen­der iden­tity
hard­wired into their brain.

Gen­der iden­tity isn’t mag­i­cal. It isn’t some weird force. A boy who iden­ti­fies
with girls isn’t going to auto­mat­i­cally love pink, want to play with dolls, want to be
a princess and dream of rid­ing unicorns.

Then again, being a girl doesn’t mag­i­cally do any of those things either.

But when an appar­ent boy who iden­ti­fies with girls sees the other girls lik­ing those
things… he’ll won­der why he doesn’t, too. And when this “boy” thinks that
girls are sup­posed to do cer­tain things or act in cer­tain ways, “he” may won­der…
shouldn’t he be doing those things too?

Imag­ine his con­fu­sion when we tell him that no, he mustn’t do those things,
for he is a boy! He under­stands that we say he’s a boy, but he doesn’t
under­stand why he feels like he should be like the girls!

One group could pos­si­bly empathize with him, but that group is the very
one he is for­bid­den from being a part of: girls. He feels the same need
that all of the other girls feel; that often-unreasonable need to meet, or
at least come close to, society’s expec­ta­tions for girls.

Those expec­ta­tions are already often impos­si­ble to reach for those
we do acknowl­edge as girls. But for the poor “boy”?

He can’t even get in the neigh­bor­hood. Not even on the same planet. And if
he but makes the slight­est attempt, to at least con­vince him­self that
he’s doing some­thing right, he’s torn to shreds by those who think he
should be male.

If we truly value what is inside, rather than what is out­side, then how
can we say this “boy” is in fact a boy?

She’s no boy. It’s obvious.

She is who she is: a girl.

The Storyteller

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“The Sto­ry­teller,” a short story about an sto­ry­teller who has stopped telling sto­ries, and a young writer who wants to under­stand why.

PDF ver­sion (more accu­rate formatting)

INT. HOME — DAY

The sun shines through the win­dows onto the ancient STORYTELLER bestow­ing wis­dom to the YOUNG WRITER.

She hangs on his every word.

STORYTELLER

The story wants to be told. It is beg­ging to be told. I can hear the char­ac­ters now, scream­ing in my head!

YOUNG WRITER

Then why not write it, may I ask?

STORYTELLER

I couldn’t pre­sume to, no more than I’d pre­sume to write you.

He shakes his head nostalgically.

STORYTELLER (CONT’D)

Some say that when when you write a char­ac­ter enough, they tell you who they are. But it’s the oppo­site: with a flick of a pen, you can rewrite their entire life story…

He laughs.

STORYTELLER (CONT’D)

And they want you to! They want to be changed!

He turns to the young writer, sud­denly serious.

STORYTELLER (CONT’D)

Have you ever asked God for help? Have you ever asked him to make you stronger? To help you over­come those obsta­cles ahead?

YOUNG WRITER

Every night.

STORYTELLER

(know­ing smile)

Yes, indeed you do.

(beat)

They speak to me. They want things. I can give them what­ever they want… But if I do…

He shakes his head.

YOUNG WRITER

I just… I just want to under­stand. Please! You used to write the most beau­ti­ful of sto­ries, but then… What hap­pened? Please!

(beat)

Make me understand…

The sto­ry­teller sighs.

STORYTELLER (CONT’D)

Give me three con­cepts, and I will give you three sto­ries. But!

(dra­matic)

Only… Only if you are very sure. If you are to under­stand, you must first change, and change… Is an unpre­dictable thing. I can never know what story I’ll come up with until I start. You have been warned.

The young writer hesitates…

She resolves.

YOUNG WRITER

Three ideas? A man kills for ice cream… Some­one tries to cre­ate utopia… A woman seeks vengeance for her sister’s death.

The sto­ry­teller considers.

STORYTELLER

Doable enough, I suppose.

(sigh)

If you are absolutely sure?

He sighs. Opens a blank book. Begins to write.

STORYTELLER (CONT’D)

Ask, and ye shall receive. There once was a man. He wasn’t an old man, nor par­tic­u­larly young…

EXT. FAIR — DAY

ADAM, not old, not young, wades through the crowd, smil­ing, carefree.

He sees some­thing on the ground.

ADAM

Cool!

He picks it up. Looks at it. In the glare of the sun, it’s impos­si­ble to see quite what the object is…

He stuffs it into an over­sized pocket.

Strolls to WENDY, ice cream vendor.

ADAM

Ma’am, could I have some apple ice cream, please?

WENDY

Three dol­lars.

He searches through his pock­ets. Wendy’s smile fades. A cou­ple of dol­lars. Cou­ple of quar­ters. A penny.

He offers it, hoping.

WENDY (CONT’D)

I’m sorry, but you need at least three dollars.

He looks around hope­lessly. Nobody offers to help.

Wendy sighs. Moves the cup of ice cream towards the trash.

ADAM

WAIT!

Wendy turns back to him. She drops the ice cream.

He’s point­ing a GUN at her.

ADAM (CONT’D)

Give me my ice cream!

VOICE (O.C.)

Adam! What are you doing?

Adam starts. Turns towards the voice– BANG!

He turns back to his arm. The gun. Wendy. The blood.

He faints.

INT. HOME — DAY

The young writer is not pleased.

YOUNG WRITER

That made no sense. And apple ice cream?

STORYTELLER

You asked for sto­ries. If you’re still unhappy after the other two, feel free to com­plain, as much as you’re able, but no more interruptions!

INT. HIGH-TECH OFFICE — DAY

JOHN sits behind the desk, speak­ing to investors.

JOHN

I want to return to The Gar­den of Eden. Pure bliss… Where all can be chil­dren for­ever… Where the insan­ity of the world can be left behind…

He walks over to a woman. It’s hard to make out her features…

JOHN (CONT’D)

And today, gen­tle­men, it has begun! We have altered adult minds – minds like those belong­ing to Eve, here–

He chuck­les at her name. Holds up her hand to show off her bracelet, engraved: “EVE. Eden, Inc.”

JOHN (CONT’D)

Back to their child-like states. Our robots…

He indi­cates robots stand­ing behind Eve.

JOHN (CONT’D)

Our robots are their par­ents. Their guides. Eve is one of two. I have changed the world, gen­tle­men. Noth­ing will ever be the same.

EXT. FAIR — DAY

The woman – DIANA – rushes up to Wendy, but it’s too late.

Diana takes the man’s gun. BANG! He’s dead.

She searches him. A bracelet. “ADAM. Eden, Inc.”

She looks up. Two robots approach.

DIANA

Take me to your boss.

INT. HIGH-TECH OFFICE — DAY

John COWERS in the cor­ner, the muz­zle of the gun point­ing up his chin.

JOHN

Just the two! Just Adam and Eve!

WOMAN

Then where is Eve?

INT. HIGH-TECH OFFICE — LATER

John lies on the ground, a BULLET HOLE through his head.

INT. HOME — DAY

The sto­ry­teller lifts his pen from the paper.

YOUNG WRITER

And? What about Eve? This is ridicu­lous! Why was there a gun lying around–

STORYTELLER

Because I wrote it. Do you not see?

(con­sid­ers)

I sup­pose not. Very well. I will change you. I will make you under­stand, if only briefly…

The sto­ry­teller turns back to the paper. Scrib­bles something.

STORYTELLER (CONT’D)

Do you not feel it? Your life chang­ing around you?

YOUNG WRITER

What do you mean?

Feet pound up the stairs.

The door slams open. It’s Diana!

STORYTELLER (CONT’D)

You’re Eve.

Diana shoots. The young writer – EVE – falls to the ground.

The sto­ry­teller closes the book.

BLACK.

Santa: A Short Story

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SANTA

The snow crunches beneath your boots. It still falls, glit­ter­ing in the yel­low light of the streetlamps.

You glance left. Then right.

You try to catch your breath. A peek around the corner—

Your heart jolts as you jerk your head back. The flash of red echoes around in your mind.

You try to quiet your breath­ing. There’s an alley aheaad. Maybe you can hide there?

You try to move qui­etly, you really do, but these boots, these awful, bulky boots, crunch so loudly in the snow. You know every­one must have heard you…

You’re sure you’d remove them if you could, and brave the snow in your bare feet, but you can’t. They’re as stuck as the white beard upon your face. You never wanted the hair, but there it is.

You had no choice. No con­script does.

Anyone’s son, anyone’s daugh­ter, it doesn’t mat­ter. If they are cho­sen, they become like you. They get the boots. The beard. The cloak. The hat.

They are conscripted.

You peek into the alley­way. Empty.

Duck inside.

The tall dark stone build­ings tower above.

“Santa?”

You gasp.

A crack of light shines through a barely-opened door. A child’s eyes gaze through the crack, searching.

“Santa?” the child calls again.

“Ryan? Ryan, close the door!” hisses a ter­ri­fied voice from inside.

A man peeks out. He spots you. His hand darts to his mouth.

“I’m ter­ri­bly sorry, Santa, he’s just a kid, he didn’t mean any­thing, please for­give, please… no coal?”

“Don’t call me Santa,” you reply automatically.

Then you remem­ber where you are. Who you are run­ning from.

You dart into the sahdows.

“Dad, I want to talk to Santa,” whines the kid.

“Shh!” His father closes the door. Then the blinds. Finally, the lights.

You run.

You can’t run home. You can’t run to family.

They think you should accept your fate. You were con­scripted. It’s your duy. It’s what they raised you for.

Never even gave you a name. Just “Santa.”

You were made to start watch­ing your sib­lings by the time you were five. They made you start watch­ing your par­ents when you were seven.

You knew when they slept, when they woke. If they were good… Or…

At first, it was just the way it was. You were a Santa. One of SANTA’s foot­sol­diers. It’s how you were raised. How you were born. No sooner were you out than they had plopped on the red hat, the red cloak, and the tini­est pair of boots.

But then…

Per­haps it was the beard that started it. Only San­tas grew beards. Only Santas…

Your eyes droop.

You can’t sleep. They’ll know. They always know.

This won’t work. You need to get out. Away. Some­where where even they can­not reach. Some­where beyond The Wall.

They always know. You know that, now, after Annabelle…

You liked Annabelle. You really did. You were sure she couldn’t have liked you the way you liked her.

But she had a name. She had thrown off the name of Santa, and had made one for her­self, a name she only ever entrusted with you.

Annabelle. Anna. Belle. Anna-bella, Annabelle.

And you knew you wanted a name, too.

“Fol­low me,” she whis­pered, beck­on­ing for you to leave the dorm with her, care­ful not to wake the other Santas.

Nobody would know, you had thought.

It was easy. You would spend all day learn­ing how to watch; how to know; how to mon­i­tor the cam­eras. You and Annabelle knew exactly how to dodge them. You had assumed that cam­eras were all there was.

“My uncle’s house is near,” she told you as she pulled you out through the impos­ing front gates.

You ran through the streets, barely both­er­ing to dodge out of the way of the San­tas seem­ingly on every street corner.

What you were doing hadn’t sunk in yet — you were far too giddy for that.

“He’s just down the road,” she told you. You looked where she was point­ing, and then—

“Ooph!”

You fell as she tack­led you into the snow. Your red coats shone in stark con­trast to the white.

She strad­dled you, and whis­pered into your ear…

“You need a name, not-a-Santa.”

You looked up into her eyes, bit your lip ner­vously, and smiled. “And what,” you asked, “should my name be?”

She stroked her long, white beard.

She leaned in towards you, her hand brush­ing away the fluffy white ball of her red hat. Her lips were inches from yours…

Crunch! Booted feet were trudg­ing through snow in the nearby alley!

She rolled off of you and pulled you to your feet, then down the street.

She knocked on her uncle’s door. He didn’t answer, so she took out a hair­pin and picked the lock in sec­onds, in full light of the streetlamps.

You thought you saw a flash of red around a con­rer… but she pulled you inside and closed the door.

She gig­gled at your clumsy attempts, but hers were no bet­ter. Nei­ther of you had ever had the oppor­tu­nity — nei­ther had ever been allowed.

You raised the razor to try again.

Slowly, her beard comes off.

She had never wanted it any more than you had yours.

The last traces almost erad­i­cated, you leaned in towards her.

“Your turn,” she said.

“This first,” you returned, and leaned in…

CRASH!

You fell off of your perch on the bath­room counter, right into their arms.

Black boots. White beards. Red coats.

“You show great promise, Santa,” rum­bled the Santa in front of you. He was quite old.

His eyes twin­kled behind his glasses. He felt warm, even within the harsh cold of the stone room, even across from the hard metal table.

“There are sev­eral,” he con­tin­ued, “who think you should get coal.”

Your eyes widened in fear.

“But I think different.”

“Any­thing,” you said. “Any­thing! Not that…”

He smiled. “Ho-ho-ho, very good. I know you can be a good Santa. But you must rid your life of temp­ta­tion, Santa.”

You offered a promise you weren’t even sure you could keep: “I’ll never speak with Annabelle again!”

Santa frowned. “I can see the cor­rup­tion of Santa, whom you ille­gally accom­pa­nied out of this com­pound, taints you still, my dear Santa… But do not worry. We know exactly what to do. Come.”

He beck­oned. You followed.

He led you to the coal chamber.

You shiv­ered in spite of the heat of the room ema­nat­ing from the pit of glow­ing coals at its center.

Sev­eral San­tas were rak­ing the coals, get­ting them nice and hot.

The Santa guid­ing you handed you a rope.

For a moment, it didn’t sink in. For a moment, you for­got what the rope was.

Your eyes fol­lowed it up, up to the plat­form above the pit, up to where she stood.

Annabelle.

“You must remove temp­ta­tion,” repeated the Santa beside you.

He put his hand on your shoul­der. He no longer felt warm. His hand was a brick of ice upon your shoulder.

“Pull,” he com­manded. “Pull, and remove your temp­ta­tion. Just a tug. It’s not dif­fi­cult. Just pull.”

You looked up into Annabelle’s pan­icked eyes.

You couldn’t. You shook your head. You couldn’t! You wouldn’t!

You dropped the rope.

Santa shook his head at you in dis­ap­point­ment. Almost neg­li­gently, his large, old hands grasped the rope, and pulled.

The bot­tom of the plat­form opened.

Annabelle dropped…

Your eyes fol­lowed as she fell, fell into the pit, fell into the hot coals.

She screamed in agony as she burned!

And you screamed with her. You screamed as you fled, out of the coal room, out of the acad­emy… Into the night.

You run! You’re almost there!

The Wall lies ahead. All the good lit­tle kids know never to approach the wall. Out­side of that wall, it was dan­ger­ous. Out­side that wall, the San­tas could not pro­tect you. Out­side that wall, the San­tas could not watch over you.

It was coal to the hand for any who neared it — the scars on those few who fool­ish enough to try deterred the rest. Any who actu­ally reached it…

You near The Wall.

It must be your imag­i­na­tion. Is it brighter? Are the clouds not so dark here? Is it not snow­ing?

The wall stretches up in front of you.

San­tas run at you from all directions.

You’re sure you can make it! You’ve got to!

You jump.

It’s warm here.

Your face is bathed in the heat from the sun as it shines with a bright orange fire through the woods all around.

There’s not a flake of snow to be seen, not a cloud to be found.

You won­der how Annabelle would have found it.

You can almost feel her here with you now.

You can almost hear her whis­per a new name — a new name just for you — into your ear…

You can almost feel her lips against press up against yours…

It’s so bright here…

You close your eyes, and smile.

Supervillain Lover: Part 6 — The Finale

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This is the sixth and final part of Supervil­lain Lover, my screen­play about a young woman who once loved a super­hero, but is now forced to become the hero her­self, when all she wants is to fly away.

You can read the WHOLE THING, all 127 pages, as a PDF, right here.

Alter­na­tively, you can read it part-by-part.

See also: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, and Part 5.

You can view it as PDF, or read it inline after the break.

Con­tinue read­ing →