They are neither short nor grey, as we enthusiasts had presumed, but instead are tall—seven feet tall, and bipedal—with pink fleshy bodies, somewhat translucent, and sheen.
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They are neither short nor grey, as we enthusiasts had presumed, but instead are tall—seven feet tall, and bipedal—with pink fleshy bodies, somewhat translucent, and sheen.
This is the reformatted script of a short film I wrote many years ago.
In 2017, it won a Pennsylvanian script competition.
The festival operators said my short film would be produced with a budget of $15,000 and I’d receive a purse of $500 for the victory. Both remain yet to happen.
His most rational fear is that—despite all he has accomplished—future generations will only know of him as a paragraph in a history book. Perchance he’ll only fetch a mention, or there’s the possibility that they’ll never learn of him at all. There’s always the possibility that he’ll fade into the ether; another name proudly carved into stone, only to be eroded by the sands of time.
Derek nods as if he understands, but he’s quite disoriented. His mind is operating on a hundredth of its processing power, and he’s only now coming to the realization that this is a trial, let alone one in which he is the defendant. He realizes, too, that the prosecutors are rabbits, wearing grey suits and unpacking briefcases. And the bailiff is a dark brown rabbit in a sheriff’s uniform. And the stenographer is a rabbit with cat-eye glasses and curly red hair, and she waits to type something out, and she looks at him, and he briefly thinks he’d like to smell her hair.
He believed this was what he wanted: to drown himself in distraction. But as it is realized, it becomes too much to handle. It is like a storm being siphoned into a bottle.
He turns the volume back to low and he welcomes the silence as relief. In his mind, he replays the words she used against him.
Hamlin steps in front of the witness stand. “Mr. Squarepants, do you own spacefaring technology?”
“No, sir.”
“Any kind of interplanetary vessel?”
“No, I do not, sir.”
“Then, Mr. Squarepants, how did you intend on getting to the moon that day, on September fourth of nineteen-ninety-nine?”