Take a break from the hectic news of Hollywood with our weekly look into the world of "what if". Fresh fan fiction happens weekly here at Cinema Blend on Short Story Saturday. This is our latest short story entry... "Late Fee".
While some are leaving cookies and milk out for Santa Claus to imbibe come Christmas morning, the rest of us are leaving DVDs out for Santa to catch up on, since he must be pretty busy up at the North Pole, where Internet signals make streaming a hassle.
“Okay, Robert,” Peter Jackson said. He leaned back in his director’s chair and talked with his hands. “Throw the ball as hard as you can, and make sure you say the line with passion this time. Go all out.”
Marshall Walker was a man of few words. For the purposes of his job, he was a man of eighty-three words, always spoken calmly and fatherly from just below the same resolute eyes.
Fresh fan fiction happens weekly here at Cinema Blend on Short Story Saturday. Here is put forth the last will and testament of Peter Shawn Ross, one time chief film critic of Horse & Hound Magazine. Born June 22, 1973; deceased July 4, 2043.
Did he, or did he not shoot Mergungus the bounty hunter first? That was the question on everybody’s lips and the reason that Harold Winzer sat in a courtroom today. Harold sat next to his lawyer, Jango McClean, and turned to look around at the crowded courtroom. He mostly saw aliens.
Eight men and two women surrounded each other in a circle, sitting atop tiny chairs made for Mrs. Armstrong’s class of third graders. Nine of these individuals knew each other, and they were all staring at the stranger. He was fidgety and clearly uncomfortable, about five feet, eight inches tall and on the chubbier side. He wore black pants and a t-shirt that read “I Don’t Roll On Shabbas.”
Used to spending his days wearings shorts and a tank top, the big German was struggling to adjust to life buried beneath a big pile of fur. They promised they'd let him take the head off between takes and JJ had hired an army of fan-wielding assistants to stand around him on breaks, but even for an athlete in peak condition this experience was a struggle.
What you’re about to read is a confession. I’m telling you for three reasons. First, I know you represent some other clients with mob ties. I’m sure you’ve heard some sick shit from them that has prepared you for the sick shit you’re about to read here in this letter. Second, as my lawyer, I know you’re forbidden from repeating my horror story, and third and most importantly, you’re my friend and I’ve kept this inside for way too long.
This fedora makes me look like a circus hipster. Or it would, if not for the little white index card I wrote “press” on before I stuck it in the brim. Thanks to that I look like one of the kids from Newsies grew up, forgot to shave for a year, and then became a circus hipster. It’s a small difference, but an important one.
Mick knew the horrors that awaited him on that ride, but it was Saturday afternoon. He was sick of waiting, sick of looking over his shoulder every time he stepped on any mode of transportation. Besides, there weren’t any kids on this boat. On a weekend at Disneyland, that was practically unheard of. He needed to get it over with now.
The last rays of evening sun were beginning to stream through his bathroom window as Dan braced his arms against the sink to keep from falling over. He used to tell himself his legs were unsteady because he was tired, he used to try and convince himself that he just needed to exercise more, but that had been before the walker. Now he knew a wheelchair wasn’t far off...
He would play to sold out, highly appreciative crowds every single night, and every single concertgoer would leave the venue with an inflated, almost God-like perception of his talent. You know how pretty girls sometimes like hitting up the town with ugly friends so they look like models in contrast?
He turned his back on the wind as it tousled his hair, picked up his phone and dialed a number he’d almost forgotten. It was a number he thought he’d never dial again but, just now, it was the phone number of the only person in the world who could possibly understand.It rang only once before he heard a raspy, smoker’s cough and then, “hello?” "Hi Kevin, it's Ben,” he said.