THE MAGIN

Here is a story that I wrote in 1995. copyright T.J.Hurford. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

THE MAGIN

by

T.J.Hurford

There were seven of them originally. Why seven?. No particular reason. At least, that's what people thought. Seven mystical shadowy men, who, it was said, held the Heavens on their shoulders. Seven men who caused the rains to fall and the winds to blow. Brought forth the Moon and stars at night and the life-giving sunlight that caused the plants to grow and made children strong and healthy; who held the mighty oceans in their beds and the planets in their orbits. Seven mythical Gods in whose name people cursed and prayed, loved and scolded; whose names cowed even the most recalcitrant of children at bedtime. Men who 'obviously' never really existed. A fairy story from long ago. The stuff of myth and legend. No-one needed that kind of childish prattling anymore. People controlled their own lives and destinies. No such thing as Seven Wise Men, was there?. Of course not.

Down in the great chambers below the earth where rays of sunlight never penetrate, where cold and damp are all-pervading, where nature has created a timeless realm, lies a void where seconds, hours, days, and even centuries mean nothing. Nothing. Where any creatures that really do exist live out their brief allotted span in pale and sightless gropings like spectral whispers. Shadows of their surface cousins. Down in nocturnal halls and passageways, cracks and chasms, deep in Gothic splendour with only the drip, drip, drip of ever- present water to pierce the oppressive silence; water creating majestic pillars of crystal if one had eyes but to see them. Down, down in the sepulchral Kingdom alone, one stands waiting. One above all others both in form and spirit. Pale of face and blind in eye. Silent. Staring. Dreaming. Waiting...waiting....waiting. Magus. Sorcerer. Magician. Call him what you will. One of The Seven. THE SEVEN. Alone, the Magus. Together, THE MAGIN.

This being, more presence than actuality. The First among Equals bound by patterns of force too vague and ethereal for any but themselves to note. A foundation. A living pillar, imprisoned by need and choice, forever to 'walk' the lonely paths of thought in pursuit of dangers as yet unknown. Searching for the one peril that must surely one day come and threaten all that they have striven down the long and painful years to defend...life, itself upon this planet's surface; its creatures, atmosphere, plants and very orbit around the star that had given them birth and breath.

Entombed in fields of energy that they themselves had created. Linked together by mind alone. Sentinels from a time long ago. A time in which all had walked the surface as Kings. Gods. A time when all had recognised the Magin for what they truly were...The Creators and Guardians of life and nature. Time, itself. The very planet and the Star about which it circled. Seven men who had realised that their time was passing. That soon the awe and understanding in which they had been held would be gone forever. Forever?. Perhaps not. Perhaps their time would come again.

Yet in acceptance or banishment, their role would still be necessary. Without them nothing would exist. Ages might pass and memory of them dwindle until little remained  but childrens' stories and fairy tales, yet still, they must keep the faith. Seven beings. One for Air; One for light; One for Spirit and One for Night. One for Life and One for Earth.....And One for....DEATH.

One for Death.

One amongst them who had nursed his doubts about the wisdom of quitting the world where once they had lived in splendour, free to walk the forest tracks in sunlight and air, adored and worshipped by all who met them, recognising their supremacy over all.

The Magus of Death. His grief had turned to anger. Anger to hate, and hate to madness. An all-consuming, passionate, tyrannical insanity, festering and pulsating, expanding with a rapidity and force that would break the bonds that they had all, so many aeons before created to imprison their omniscient power and restrain their existence along the paths of DUTY. Duty to every man and woman, plant, animal and rock upon and beneath the surface of the planet.

Five had learnt humility and peace. One had embraced wickedness and lunacy. The Seventh?. The seventh had gone from strength to strength. Testing his powers. Expanding the boundaries of sorcery. Sponging up the possibilities that millennia of thought and introspection had offered. One for Life. One for Death, and Five for...what?. For whom?. Who would they support when the time came and evil; total, raw and unadulterated EVIL walked abroad upon the face of the Earth?. The time for Life had not yet come but the time for Death was very, very near. A few heartbeats more and He would be free. Free. FREE!. His heart soared within his pale, emaciated body and with these thoughts his power increased yet more and with it, the time of his freedom came one step closer. Mental bonds loosening as evil energies strove to break their loathsome grip.

Down in the cavern where THE ONE stood waiting, shockwaves of thought radiated in tangible coruscating patterns of light and sound, shattering the massive stalagtites like glass. Pulses and waves of energy formed from desperation as, frantically, the Magus of Life sought to catch up. Running back along the endless corridors through the library of their collective mind, desperate to prevent the escape of the Devil that his cousin had become. Aware, so frighteningly aware of the possibilities. Calling to The Five for help to stop the library doors from being bolted with spells from without...Aware that entrapment of The Six would turn horrid, frightening possibilities into unimaginably awful probabilities. Running. Running...RUNNING. The doors in sight. The way out. The light. He would make it. The Five were there also, joining in the mad dash down the long corridor of thought toward freedom. Images and impressions scattering in streams of multi-coloured light from their robes as they ran, the remnants of whatever mental tome they had been absorbing when the call for help had reached them.

Nearer, nearer. The sunlight beckoned. They might make it. They would. They MUST. The fate of all rested with them. If Death alone escaped......the thought came and went in an instant leaving The Six pale and chilled. The doors were moving, shutting. Their bonds tightening, restricting. They must escape. THEY MUST. Around the edge of reason's portal, a face appeared, wan to the point of horror. A drowned, bloated face, gashed with a thick and rubbery mouth and sightless eyes. A mouth from which mucous spittle ran in leering, toothless, unstoppable torrents. A horrible empty, moaning sound emanated from the blubbery head. A single flabby hand appeared and waved once goodbye. The doors began to close. Chains of thought tightened around The Six. One last hope. Just one. A frail and slender hope. The Six joined together as One. A message sent upon its way above the head of Death. A plea for aid to anyone who could help. A call to arms. One message, one slender final cry for help.

Come...Come....COME. We DO exist. We do. Release us and we will help in the trials that are about to engulf you all. COME...COme...come.... come. The doors closed. The light was gone. The self-inflicted bonds of ages past once more held firm. No possible escape from within, yet from without?. In six cathedral-like caverns, in six different places below the surface of the planet, six beings stood waiting. Pale of face and blind, blind in eye. Silent, staring, dreaming, waiting....waiting....waiting....waiting.

..............................................................................

Tom Wheelwright awoke with a start. Cold, clammy sweat soaked his nightshirt. Wild staring eyes pierced the gloom; not knowing; not seeing; not caring. Empty. The sunlight streamed in through the window of his peaceful cabin and slowly at first, then with increasing, uncontrollable, hysterical force, he began to weep.

The Magin. Seven wise and beneficent men who controlled all aspects of day to day life on the planet from the seasons of the year to the price of eggs in the market. Magicians who controlled the very thoughts of billions of scurrying ant-like humans who thought themselves so clever. So far above superstition that the existence of Gods was a childish fetish to be laughed at with derision.

Seven men. Below Heaven but above temptation.

Seven Men. THE Seven.

THE MAGIN...

And then,

One of them put himself above Heaven and below temptation.....

'G' IS FOR GUN

This is a short story idea that might make a movie or T.V. plot idea. Whilst it is set in England, this could be anywhere. I wrote it in 1995. copyright: Timothy James Hurford. 1995. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. It is called...

'G' IS FOR GUN

by

T.J.Hurford

'A' is for Arab

'T' is for Thrill

'B' is for Bullet

'K' is for Kill

Childhood is a time of great change. It is potentially a time of trauma for young minds and, in the hands of the wrong person, those minds can be distorted, turned away from what is 'right' and 'decent' and 'proper' toward that other thing - that thing with many names but all of them EVIL.

The small town of Warburton is a place like many others. It has a twice weekly market in the central square, a small police station and a cattle market. There is a long High Street where the local farmers come to do their business and rather more pubs' than at first glance might seem necessary for a community of only five thousand souls.

There is a railway station and an abattoir and an old council housing estate on the outskirts.

There is also a school.

Warburton IS different, though. Warburton is the home of a serial killer.

Some schools get lucky with their teaching staff and turn out well-rounded, informed and presentable young people whose future seems assured. Others, like Warburton Secondary Modern seem to attract the outcasts of the teaching fraternity. Men and women who seem to have become vocationally misplaced.

It has been a trying day for Brahim Ladwa. His girlfriend has just left him. He has been turned down for a loan to buy a car, and he has a hangover. If only he had never strayed from the paths of enlightenment. To cap it all, that horrible boy, Jack Winslow, who is always disrupting the class has been nattering away all afternoon. Brahim blows up. He hates teaching and takes it out regularly on the 'kids' in the class. He hates them and they hate him.

"You're all a bunch of ingrates". He shouts. "You're the thickest group of no-hopers I've ever come across". He storms out. At the back of the classroom, Jack Winslow gives his retreating figure an obscene gesture.

Out in the hills on the outskirts of town there is an army rifle range. It hasn't been used for some time, and although there is a regular patrol by a soldier who comes round to check the padlocks on the gates and 'Nissan' huts, these visits are predictable enough for the children to slip in and out unseen. For much of the time, nobody comes near the place, which, for obvious reasons is secluded and well-hidden in a fold of the hills.

Jack is a sullen boy. Growing up in the boring atmosphere of a small town with no entertainment, except for television, which only increases his frustration by showing him things he can never have, he is always getting into trouble. At fifteen, he rules the class both physically and emotionally. What Jack says, 'goes'.

Jack HAS found something to relieve the monotony though. His gang is into black magic. Not spells and all that, although they DO mix things together over a fire in the abandoned hut down by the railway line and regularly offer the resultant substances to wild animals in the vicinity with satisfying, though horrid, results. The kind of magic that Jack's gang is into involves sacrifice.

It started out with pets and quickly moved on to farm animals. Now it has taken the next logical step. Jack has killed a human being. The hut that after months of patient whittling away at, he has finally managed to break into out on the range contained little of interest except for one wonderful find.

A gun. A genuine army service pistol complete with a large supply of ammunition. The accident had happened  whilst Jack was sitting staring in admiration at this weapon A soldier had entered the hut. It was the same soldier who had visited the school to give a careers lecture. He had told them stories about the war. The children had listened with interest. So, the REAL heroes had been those who had killed the most enemies?.

He had been early on his rounds, wanting to get back to barracks for a trip into town with the 'lads'. With a shout, the man had tried to take the gun away from Jack and it had gone off. The soldier died instantly. Jack was too innued to violence from watching the television to be worried by the sight, or, indeed, the act, of what he had done, but he did know that all trace of the deed must be hidden.

The gang had come to his rescue. A burial deep in the woods later that evening. There had been a full moon. Jack performed a kind of Satanic ritual by candlelight. In his mind the act of murder had already become deliberate and was believed by his 'tribe'. Everyone was there. Tom and Zack, Mo and 'Chunky', Billy and 'The Snot'. Even Rachael, 'Pens' and Sal. The girls looked in awe at Jack as he stood over the grave and fired a single shot from the gun into the unmoving corpse. There had been a lot of blood and as they filed past the open hole, each had spat upon the soldier's body and their leader had smeared blood from a jar onto their foreheads.

The death did not go unnoticed, but, try as they might, the police and army could find neither clue nor the body. The fact that there had been a gun in the hut had long since been forgotten, so eventually the general opinion became that a tramp had done the deed and hidden the remains. The search was continuing when another murder took place.

Sergeant Thorpe. Town 'Bobby' made a mistake. He was an old fashioned kind of 'copper'. If a child did wrong, he didn't report it. Not for a first, nor even, a second, offence. He merely gave the boy, (and it almost invariably WAS a boy) a clip round the ear. That Tuesday, Chunky Stevens wanted the day off from school to go to the cattle market, so he took the day off. The policeman saw him and took his normal action. That evening as he pushed his bicycle home across the churchyard, Sergeant Thorpe paid the price for his error.

Brahim Ladwa is the next. A man with a short fuse, he pays the price too. His mistake?. Shouting once too often at Jack. He is shot dead next day on his way to school.

A Soldier.

A Policeman.

And a Teacher.

The town is panic stricken. Three ordinary citizens. No apparent motive.

Nobody suspects the children but after every killing, the gang goes into the woods and performs a ritual. The words come naturally. The 'Brotherhood' have found a voice. No-one will ever push any of them around again. They have THE GUN.

They chant.........

'The Squaddie 'ated all us kids.

They 'Bogey clipped me 'ead.

The Teacher said that we was fick.

But they're the ones what's dead'.

As each killing occurs the chant gets longer:

And longer:

'We likes killin'

'F' is for fun.

'B' is for bullet.

'G' is for gun'.

end

ROMERO AND JULIAN

Here is an idea for a movie that I created back in 1996. It is called...

ROMERO AND JULIAN

by

T.J.Hurford

copyright 1996.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Romero and Julian are two star-crossed gay lovers.

Romero works for his parents in a small, smart suburb of New York. The family business is hair dressing and they are rightly proud of their reputation.

Unfortunately, all is not as rosy as it might at first appear. Romero and his parents are losing some of their oldest and wealthiest clients to a new salon that has just opened nearby for business. Romero is sent to investigate and, disguised as a wealthy customer, he keeps an appointment.

Julian is the son of the couple who own the new salon. He is highly talented and not a little flamboyant. It is his flair and imagination that is taking away the custom. Romero is smitten and introduces himself. The couple get on like a house on fire until Romero is introduced to Julians' parents. Unfortunately, whereas both young men are obviously gay, neither set of parents has recognised the fact and each believes the other son is corrupting their boy. Julian and Romero have to meet secretly whilst their respective sets of parents become increasingly agitated, becoming more and more aware of their son's sexuality and blaming what they see as a change upon the influence of the other young man.

Romero and Julian are distraught when the worst happens. Romero is to be sent away by his doting parents who believe that a long trip back to Mother Italy will calm things down. Romero will stay with Great Uncle Luigi, a Mafia boss known for his lack of humour and very short temper. In short, he is an absolute BEAST.

Romero leaves his tearful friend at the airport but Julian is not taking the situation lying down. Disguised as an air stewardess for Air Italia, he gets aboard the plane and causes mayhem amongst both the crew members and the minders sent by Uncle Luigi to collect Romero. These men are hot-blooded Italian gangsters who think that Julian is one of the most attractive 'women' they have ever seen.

Romero is incensed at the bottom-pinching, leering attention being paid to his boyfriend by all the men on the aircraft and Julian ends up scaring several of them witless when their 'friendliness' goes too far and they learn the. to them, horrible, truth.

Uncle Luigi is NOT amused!. The two New Yorkers are given lessons in manliness, beastliness and nastiness. He turns them into two, manly, beastly, nasty gay hair stylists with ATTITUDE.

Romero and Julian return to New York. They dress in the uniform of the Mafiosi: Italian suits , patent leather shoes, reflective, silvered, 'shades' and trilby hats. All in very butch black. The parents don't know what has hit them. Romero and Julian are no longer timid, cringing, effeminate stylists. They are now 'in yer face', aggressive, cutting-edge style creators. They leave the parental' nests' and set up in business for themselves; an act that finally brings the parents together out of mutual need to fight the 'threat' to their established businesses from their talented sons.

Romero and Julian are aggressive no-nonsense, hi-tech designers who tell their customers what they are going to do. They DO NOT ask for permission. They are tanned, muscular, sharp New York Italian guys. They are a SENSATION.

(Maybe they go on and take over their parents businesses, establishing a chain?). (Perhaps the parents take lessons from their sons?)..

CLONE TRANSPORTER

Here is an idea for a sci-fi movie that I originated back in 1996.It is called...

CLONE TRANSPORTER

by

T.J.Hurford

copyright: Timothy James Hurford 1996

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Quote: 'According to the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle, it is impossible to determine the location and energy of every atom in a human being'. Endquote.

Mavis McGrath shook her head wearily, crumpled up the scrap of paper with this singularly un-enlightening piece of information on it and made an unsuccessful attempt at hitting her editor on the head. Instead, the ball landed square in her own plastic cup of coffee. "BLAST!". She crossed the office and tipped the sodden mass into the waste paper basket.

Bob Tasker swivelled round in his chair and stared thoughtfully at his Chief - and only - Science Correspondent. Not for the first time he wondered how even science with all its wonders and marvels could possibly have come up with such a stupendously attractive young woman. As she came closer he toyed with the idea of wrestling her onto the nearest available desk, ripping her underclothes from off her struggling, firm young body, and......

Mavis eyed her editor apprehensively. Was it her imagination, or had the plate of sandwiches on his lap  just fallen to the ground of its own accord?. She detoured and placed her desk between the two of them. The man sighed. The pain of their last encounter still made him shudder inwardly and even now, some two months later, brought the odd tear to his eye.

Mavis pulled up a chair and sat down, grimly aware that her micro mini-skirt was still visible to the man opposite. 'Why is it?' she mused inwardly 'That men always seem to think if a woman is wearing something even halfway revealing, it's for their benefit?'.

Then, honestly. 'In my case, it is true, of course, although not for him. The right man had not, as yet, turned up in her life, but that didn't stop Mavis hoping.

She looked at her 'Chief'. 'This Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle, Bob. It rather makes the 'Star Trek' Matter Transporter look a bit foolish,doesn't it?. I mean to say, you can't go beaming people about through space if bits of them don't turn up where you want them to, can you?'. Bob Tasker, Editor in Chief of Rutherford Science Monthly nodded. 'Mmmm!. That's why I want you to go and interview this Collins chap down in Cornwall. Seems to think that he's come up with a way round it. Must be pretty certain. He's already come up with a name for the process. The Lazarus Effect. Not too many boffins willing to stick their neck out that far nowadays. Not unless they're damned sure of their results, that is'.

The train journey down from London was, Mavis thought, almost entirely boring. She had been re-routed part of the way through Basingstoke and Salisbury on the Bristol line, and, with the exception of a slight disagreement with some 'squaddies' on their way back to base at Warminster, the 'run' had well nigh sent her to sleep. It had been this that had nearly been her undoing. Hushed whispers close at hand had alerted her to possible problems. She had been startled to find five or six leering soldiers, their beery breath enveloping her, ready to pounce in pursuit of what they obviously felt was 'fair game'.

Black Belts in four martial arts, however, had quickly put paid to the young mens' ambitions, not to mention their amorous intentions for some little time to come and they were deposited none too gently on the platform at their destination, rolling and moaning in anguished torment.

'Really!.MEN!.Just because I'm wearing a short skirt'. Mavis jerked the carriage window up and her mini skirt down, the former with total success and the latter, it must be said, with very little.

William Andrew Collins stared at the figure advancing down the platform towards him. From the top of her scarlet, dreadlocked head to the soles of her platform trainers, she was, from what he could remember, every inch a woman.

At thirty-one years of age, Collins was not exactly a wallflower, his friends having all married years before, but he wasn't exactly a lothario either. For some reason the right girl had never come along. Maybe it was the obsessive pursuit of his own Holy Grail or perhaps it was the ever-present pipe with its attendant cloud of tobacco smoke that put women off, but, whatever the reason, he was still a bachelor, and, he glumly admitted, likely to remain one.

Mavis McGrath stopped short someway down the platform. Her glasses, that some unkindly souls had hinted she wore merely for effect, but which she actually DID need had become suddenly clouded. There could be NO mistake. No-one else was waiting . The description she had been given, tall, tweed jacket, pipe, dog, had given her the impression of some latterday Professor Brainstorm, but here, waiting silently in the heavy drizzle of a late Spring afternoon, stood the Man of her Dreams.

At a guess, she thought, 6ft 2"?, and ever so slightly older than herself, built like a rugby player on steroids. Not obviously handsome, but extremely attractive nonetheless. She came closer. Sadness in the eyes?. Brown. Brown hair too. Slightly unshaven. Sensitive hands and long, potentially probing fingers. She shuddered inwardly at this thought. Threadbare tweed jacket it was true but black drainpipe jeans. Matching polo shirt and very ornate 'cowboy' boots completed his obviously 'normal' outfit. Good teeth. He was smiling at her and stepping forward, hand outstretched.

For the first time in her life, Mavis McGrath stepped outside of her normally reserved and somewhat shy self. Brushing aside his welcoming handshake, she flung her arms about the young man's neck and, with as much passion as if it had been her wedding night, kissed Professor Bill Collins full on the mouth.

...........

The laboratory, housed inside a collection of large farm buildings, was about as well-equipped as it was possible to be. Everywhere, state of the art electronic machinery -some of it as yet unwrapped- stood in buzzing splendour. At the centre of the main room, a rather incongruous red London telephone box stood in silent scarlet arrogance, as if to say: 'I'm every bit as important as you lot with your microchips and fancy diodes'. Even more strange in this laboratory, dedicated, or so it was rumoured locally, to 'THE TRANSPORTATION OF HUMAN BEINGS THROUGH THIN AIR!!!', a small but fully functional recording studio stood in one corner.

Mavis' resignation had been delivered by First Class mail, Monday morning to her office in London, breaking the heart of her editor and indeed, many others, both male and female in the surrounding work places. Their only memento, a life-sized cardboard photograph of the girl in the Martini advert who wiggles on her roller skates in a lift. NOT Mavis McGrath, but as near as dammit.

In Mavis, Bill had found the perfect companion. Scientifically educated to a very high standard, yat able, and willing, to more than live up to his fantasies elsewhere.

..............................

"SO!.Ladies and Gentlemen, esteemed colleagues. To put it succinctly, my process will allow not only the transportation of human and, indeed, plant, life, but also its storage for an indefinite periods.
For the benefit of the press who are here present, I will just re-iterate the salient features which my wife and I have developed".

"Basically, it is now possible to map the human G-Nome. This has been made possible with the help of a linked 'congress' of my own and the world's 'Kray' super computers. The combined computing power of these marvelous machines has allowed this phenomenally complex procedure to be completed way ahead of schedule. Indeed, I can think of very few other projects more suitable for the celebration of the Millennium. For some time now, it has been 'common knowledge' that, because of the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle, it would never be possible to subject human beings to matter transportation and yet, some years ago now, it came to me that there just might be a way round this problem. I am very pleased to announce that a way has been discovered. I have invented a machine that can almost instantaneously 'read' an entire human being. The information thus collated is then recorded onto a compact disc which can then be sent anywhere . Kiosks such as this crude telephone box behind me could be set up in most locations to perform this important function. With our new Clone Transporter, it is now possible for mankind to reach the stars".

A loud raspberry in the audience showed the level of skepticism present. "How does it work?. Well!. A customer might decide that he or she has had enough of the maunderings of deranged and critical journalists (laughter), and wishes to go to another planet. Stepping into the kiosk, they are 'sampled' and invited to press the 'Eleventh Hour Button' if they have final second thoughts. This would halt the procedure. If they wish to continue, they insert their 'plastic' to pay for their trip, depress the 'proceed' switch and the fully automatic machine takes over. The glass walls polarise. A tranquiliser gas is injected to put the seated passenger to sleep and the machine 'vapourises' them. It has, of course, previously noted the desired destination and automatically places the cd into a mail box compartment to await collection by a postal delivery service. It is then despatched to the destination of choice. I do realise that vapourisation may seem a bit drastic and the ethical considerations problematic but this is an important part of the procedure, which, hopefully, once the possibilities inherent in the scheme have been fully discussed, will seem acceptable".

"Think, also though of the enormous benefits. In a world of increasing population growth, vast numbers of people could choose to be stored in this way and either prolong their lives almost indefinitely, to be re-awakened at some pre-programmed time in the future or sent through the far reaches of space by an automatic probe. its mission, to find inhabitable planets, recreate the necessary lives for colonisation from within its storage facility and deliver them to the planets surface".

Whole armies could be transported in this way. Most functions of today's deep space missions are automatic and autonomous. ally these to large on-board libraries of specialist stored clones and settlers could finally allow humankind to spread out from our own small, fragile and isolated planet to other worlds without having to worry about the time involved in travelling such enormous distances. Imagine how many people could be transported in one shuttle. Instead of the expensive and uneconomic missions that today deliver six or seven astronauts into space, under this system, tens of thousands could be sent. An interplanetary expedition would need only an automated 'juke box' in command waiting to play the 'requests' that sensors showed were needed for that particular destination. If warlike 'peoples' were encountered, an army could be restored from the space ship's cd collection to protect the mission. If scientists were needed, then they would be the first to be 'uploaded'. The opportunities are endless. The boundaries are limitless. Only the will is needed".

............................

A well intentioned scientist sees only the advantages and not the potential pitfalls of his ideas. (Assassination by erasing; kidnappings; slavery by theft of cds; private collectors; ethnic cleansing, etc., etc,.euthanasia, clone discs used as 'frisbees' or hung on wires in fields to scare birds away from crops, cloned people being used as avatars for on-line gamers who don't realise that the images on screen are actually real, if cloned, people, eugenics through the mixing together of different clones by some future deranged studio recording engineer....

DYING IN STRANGE POSITIONS

This treatment is a distinctly 'black' comedy. I wrote it in January, 1997. copyright T.J.Hurford. All Rights Reserved. It is called....

DYING IN STRANGE POSITIONS

by

T.J.Hurford

It is the 'Sixties' and everybody is really 'swinging'. Psychedelia rules and talk centres around the next 'Beatles' album. In the kitchenette of flat number 14b overlooking the King's Road in Chelsea, The 'Fab Four' have been forgotten in the turmoil surrounding the disappearance of Uncle Albert.

It's bad enough him dying three days ago on the eve of his step-son's sixteenth birthday, but to actually go missing too!. The family can't quite come to grips with the situation. The undertaker is frantic. Nothing like this has ever happened before to U. Diggit and Isla Plantem. The whole thing is grave. Very grave indeed.

Light, though IS beginning to dawn. There appears to have been a mix-up. It's all the fault of the 'wacky baccy'. Isla Plantem has just had a very painful discussion with her two young mortuary assistants, Flower and Lettuce. Strange, she muses, how artificial substances can alter the mind. 

Albert Jacobs has been mistakenly transported to Jamaica for cremation and Bernie Marley, London bus driver will always,now, be late. HE is waiting in Uncle Albert's coffin at the Chapel of Rest across the river in Lambeth. His 'laying out' should be very interesting indeed. The Marley family are Rastafarian Jamaicans and the Jacobs are white Jews.

Isla Plantem communicates the problem to her partner, Ulysses Diggit. There's nothing they can do. They don't have another body available although there IS some discussion about Lettuce or Flower 'standing in'. Isla and Ulysses decide to put a brave face on it. The Marleys don't know about the problem and with any luck the telegram that has just been dispatched to Kingston explaining that high-altitude air travel in very cold cargo bays can sometimes have a rather unusual effect on skin colouration will reach the family home before the coffin does. The firm recommends dark tan shoe polish to avoid any distress to the mourners.

Isla, herself, visits the Jacobs family above The Heavenly Three Spice Joyful Hygienic Chinese Takeaway (laundry done) in their King's Road flat where they have lived for the past ten years. There has been an accident, she explains Uncle Albert has been found but the hearse had been in an accident. Four undertakers are in hospital, she lies, being treated for smoke inhalation, (only a slight exaggeration she thinks, Lettuce having just been taken to Chelsea hospital suffering from withdrawal symptoms after his 'stash' has been confiscated as a punishment). There has been a little singeing. The merest hint of smoke damage. It IS possible that Uncle Albert might just look the teeniest bit, well, foreign, shall we say?. No charge will be made for the funeral because of the inconvenience and distress caused.

Mrs. Jacobs is overcome. To lose her husband AND get the funeral done for FREE. She doesn't know whether to wail or cheer. She realises that she is rubbing her hands together gleefully and endeavours to make it look like  this is through distress rather than the profit motive.

Isla makes her way to the door. 'PHEW!' That was a really narrow escape. She decides to try some of that wacky baccy herself when she gets back to the office and to Hell with the consequences. There is just one cloud to blot the horizon. The step-son. What was his name?. Ah yes. George. Whispered some very disparaging remarks as she left the flat. A sullen-faced boy, Isla thought. Would be a handful when he grows up. Didn't believe a word she had told them. Well. Tough!. Isla tries to shrug off her vague feelings of disquiet and drives off to her Sloane Street office. "Get even with YOU". he'd said. "Someday".

The funerals go off without a hitch. Having been apprised of the difficulties, none of the assembled mourners seem in any hurry to view the mortal remains of their respective Dearly departed.

In the back of the hall at Uncle Albert's funeral, George sits sullenly brooding. His Mother comes over to comfort him with a sardine sandwich. "Albert was like a Step-Father to me Mum". "He WAS your Step Father, George". "Well. There you are then!". He shrugs off her hand and leaves the wake to walk home in the rain. The sound of 'Eleanor Rigby' drifts across his consciousness. He walks into the cafe and sits on a bench by the window stirring a glass of cola with a straw. "One day I'm going to get my own back on them undertakers." He thinks. "On ALL bloody undertakers".

It is eight years later.

The world seems a different place. Duller somehow. The Beatles have split up and 'flower power' and psychedelia have given way to 'glam' rock and Gary Glitter. Things will never be the same again.

At Portsmouth Royal Naval Dockyard, George Abraham Jacobs is descending the gangplank from his ship for the last time. From the deck his erstwhile crew mates (including the Captain and Officers) give him the traditional send-off of streamers of Izal toilet paper. He is bombarded with rotten fruit and boiled eggs until he rounds the corner of the nearest building and disappears from sight. It has NOT been a happy eight years.

In the flat above the takeaway, George stares down into a plate of half-eaten cold baked beans. Several cigarettes have been stubbed out into the congealed mess. On the floor in the corner a screwed up charred piece of paper is the only evidence that his Mother was ever there. "Dear Son". The note had read. "I have re-married. A charming man named Winston. I met him a week after Uncle Albert's funeral at the undertakers office. It seems that WE buried Winston's brother and they cremated your Step Father. Makes you laugh doesn't it?" George did not laugh.

In the corner of the room an old record player stands dusty and unused. George opens the lid, switches it on and plays the record on the turntable. It is Eleanor Rigby by the Beatles.

At his desk in New Scotland Yard, Chief Superintendent Jack Tugwell is looking distinctly worried. FIVE murders on his 'patch' in the last three weeks. Not so unusual, perhaps given the number of tourists in London at this time of year and the ethnic diversity of the local populace but there is something very, very odd about these particular killings. The connection between them would not even go unnoticed be the rawest recruit. The pattern has nothing to do with the manner in which these five people died. One stabbing, one shooting, two strangulations and one 'tap' on the head to date. No!. the peculiar similarities between the murders is quite straightforward, although in Jack Tugwell's experience, entirely unique. ALL of the victims were undertakers and all of them, without exception had left a note in their own hand-writing stipulating that they should be 'catered for' by the Chelsea firm of U.Diggit and Isla Plantem.

Chief Superintendent Tugwell sighs. Across the office one of his subordinates looks up. "Tricky case, Sir?". "Not just tricky, Bob. Bloody peculiar, more like. FIVE undertakers. All unrelated in any way as far as we can make out. All leaving instructions to be buried by the same firm who are not, repeat NOT suspected of drumming up more than their fair share  of trade by doing a spot of creative nobbling of the opposition". The other man shakes his head. "I'm afraid I don't quite get it?. Strange, yes, but why peculiar?. His superior stands up. "Fancy a trip to the mortuary, Bob?. I'll show you why this case is peculiar".

Down in the bowels of Saint Thomas's Hospital beside the Thames, there is a problem. Two problems, to be exact, and there are going to be a few more before the week is out. The normal mortuary refrigerator stands in all its gleaming shiny magnificence along one wall, an array of massive steal filing cabinets. In the middle of the room four large domestic chest freezers, hastily installed are getting in the way. Two stand empty and open. Another two have occupants.

The two policemen stand at the door awaiting permission from the staff to enter the crowded room.The mortician calls them over and lifts  three lids. Inside the murder victims lie awaiting release to the undertaker. One of the bodies is bent double as though touching his toes. Only a rather large and pimply bottom is visible. Another is doing the 'splits' a look of profound shock on his aged face. The third is in a rather graceful balletic pose, one hand frozen into a very obscene gesture. The attendant sighs shrugging his shoulders in disgust. "A sense of humour, this one, Jack. Should see the other two. They're upstairs in the kitchen cold store. The restaurant staff aren't happy". "One has his leg round his neck like some Indian yogi. The other is standing on one leg with the other held up  to the back of his head like an acrobat. Well. you get the picture. Tied in position they were. It was done after they died except for the 'splits bloke' over there". He nodded towards a chest freezer by the door where one of his assistants was looking rather guilty having just stuffed his shopping down the side of one of the corpses. "Not very tactful, John". "Sorry boss. I'd normally put my shopping in the cafe cold room but for some reason the manager told me to sod off, today. Actually, 'sod' was not the word he used".

The Chief Mortician sighed again. "Bloody Hell. It's always Mondays, isn't it?" "Tied up like human bonzai trees they were, before Rigor set in. For some reason the boys thought it would be amusing to bring them to us before the effect had worn off. There WILL be words, but I suppose it is important for your lot to see what you're up against?".. "By the way, It WAS five. It's now six. Another one came in half an hour ago".

"It's THEM I feel sorry for". He nodded towards a double set of swing doors from behind which for some minutes past loud grunts and cursing have been apparent. The three men walk over and quietly open one of the doors.

In this adjoining room, Isla Plantem, Ulysses Diggit and their two assistants Lettuce and Flower are struggling to straighten out a grotesquely 'moulded' naked corpse, standing with one leg in the air, a tiny bow and arrow in his stiffened hands. The clouds that fill this room are not only attributable to the frosty air. All four people have very large 'cigarettes' in their hands. There is a strong and pungent smell of Marijuana. The policemen tactfully withdraw but not before they see the corpse topple over and pierce an anonymous rump with its obviously sharp arrow, with very loud results.

George Jacobs is finally getting his revenge. On the floor of the sitting room a large library  book with the word 'RODIN' lies alongside an open telephone book. Beneath the title, 'Undertakers' several names have been crossed out. Dozens more are ringed in red ink.

The firm of U.Diggit and Isla Plantem has never been so busy. It is just a question of whether the public will learn to accept the rather unusually-shaped coffins which at this very minute are at the design stage and awaiting approval by the staff. Whether Isla, Ulysses, Lettuce and Flower will suffer collective nervous breakdowns first, hernias and slipped discs notwithstanding before they get used is debatable.

end

GRAMPIE

This is a story plot that I created in 1996. It is aimed at teenagers as a slightly humorous morality tale. It could be a weekly animation series a la 'Simpsons' with a different message each week. Many in this age group seem nowadays to be incapable of distinguishing between right and wrong and the fault, of course, lies with parents, teachers and those responsible for distorting the truth through various forms of media. Violence, for example is now portrayed routinely as having comic possibilities and overtones. this treatment is called...

GRAMPIE

by

T.J.Hurford

copyright: T.J.Hurford. 1996

All Rights Reserved

Grampie is an 'in your face' seventy five? year old man. He is caring, honest and hard-working. His early years are somewhat shrouded in the fog of time as he rarely talks about them.

Grampie has been 'called in by his worried Grandchildren, themselves now adults, to try and 'win back' their own wayward teenage children who have embraced the 'yob and yoof' culture.

These children are persuaded to come to the old man's birthday celebrations but only because, privately, they hope to 'nick' a few bits of 'gear'. Grampie meets them and is a revelation. Looking like a cross between Mick Jagger, Keith Richards and Eric Clapton with Italian suits, cowboy boots and long hair. He is haggard and looks 'lived in'. He tells them what he did when he was a young man, a long time before they were born. His stories are not sermons and he is helped by being able to communicate through the language of music. He is well up on their bands and having been in one himself, the songs from which they still listen to, he can tell speak in their 'language' telling them where he went wrong and advising them not to make the same mistakes which have given him poor health and disgusting symptoms. He tells them in gross detail, showing disturbing photographs. (see George Clooney in 'Intolerable Cruelty' when he has to speak to the head of the law firm where he works, VERY funny. 'Living Without Intestines Magazine').

His influence and the reforming of his ultra famous rock band which gives them 'bragging rights' with their friends at school, puts the teenagers back on the straight and narrow. They tell him their problems and he always seems to have a solution based upon his own experiences.

The young people visit him each week without needing to be forced by their parents. Grampie has not only been there first, he has seen it AND done it. He has learnt through bitter experience. Grampie has witnessed extremes of violence, greed and debauchery.

Grampie knows all about drugs. An ex-morphine addict to suppress the pain from numerous motorcycle accidents and gang fights, he only weened himself off this addiction by becoming an alcoholic. He managed eventually after years of misery to clean himself up by being told of the illnesses that he has afflicted on his body, the death of his long-suffering wife and the revelation of seeing an interview with himself on television which he has kept to remind himself what a prat he used to be. He shows them and weeps with the memory. They are so moved that they swear to themselves they will never make the same mistakes although they do revere some aspects of his lifestyle.

The series would be a no holds barred morality tale with drugs, alcohol, swearing and death all covered with a veneer of black humour and great rock music. The 'lessons' are made through 'consequence'-style images based on the experiences of an old man: "You kick a cat in the street and the cat runs out into the road, causing a car to swerve to avoid it, and the car smashes into a bus queue of school children killing a load of your mates and your girlfriend whose older brothers come round and fire-bomb your house. Your Mother dies in the blaze and you take to drink and kill someone in a fight and you go to prison for life where you are gang raped by the other 'lifers' and you hang yourself from shame and you know what?. Nobody gives a shit. All because you didn't have the patience and downright compassion to make friends with that cat instead of mistreating it. What if it had turned out belong to that really great looking girl down the road. It has hurt its paw and you take it home. The owner is really REALLY grateful. You move in with her and she's into health and fitness so you give up drink and drugs because the alternative is losing her and you get a good job because the dole money you have saved by not doing 'stuff' has allowed you to smarten up your image. You and your girlfriend buy a great set of 'wheels and you move out of the old town and into a flat in the city and life is just GREAT.

In other words, the Gaia effect as applied to consequences. A butterfly flaps its wings and on the other side of the planet a wave tosses a swimmer onto the beach just as a 'Great White' is about to nibble her little toties.

Grampie shows through a colourful animation?, that self help and understanding can conquer most things if you only learn to recognise which direction to take at the fork in the road.

end

copyright: T.J.Hurford, 1996

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

THE GUN

This story idea on my new blog, mymovietreatments.blogspot.co.nz is one that I wrote in 1996. All Rights Reserved. copyright T.J.Hurford 1996. This sci-fi story is one that I see as being made into a movie aimed at children. It is called...

THE GUN

by

T.J.Hurford

A toy shop...

SALE NOW ON!

COMMANDER 'THARG' RAYGUNS

NOW HALF PRICE

(GET ONE BEFORE IT GETS YOU!)

Teenager, Bill Wilkinson isn't the kind of boy to want toy guns normally but a 'Commander Tharg' Raygun is something extra special. Nobody, and I DO mean NOBODY on the block or at school has one, and BOY!,it sure would wipe the smile off Jack Mason's face if Bill managed to get hold of one.

Bill is staying with his Grandparents in another town for a few days and with a little wheedle here and a slightly larger hint there, he soon has the toy in his possession.

Bill saves up the pleasure of unwrapping his new gadget 'til later that night when he has gone up to bed. First the shop bag comes off, then the tape holding down the lid is cut and finally the moulded polystyrene casing is eased up.

The boy stares down at his 'gun' in dismay. 'What a rip-off'. He's been given a used one. He looks at the 'raygun' in bitter disappointment. The muzzle, a curious transparent spiral affair is dirty and the hand-grip looks as though it has melted into an unholdable blob. Even the lights have been left on and are growing very dim. The batteries must be almost dead he thinks.

Bill gets off the bed and starts to open his door. Perhaps his Grandfather will take it back in the morning and get a replacement.

The teenager stares back at the gun, a puzzled frown wrinkling his forehead. Returning to the toy he looks at it more closely. THAT'S STRANGE!. The handgrip is covered in a thin leather. Not plastic!. LEATHER. What's real leather doing on a cheap toy raygun?. He looks more closely. The dirt on the muzzle isn't dirt at all. He wipes a finger along the tubing. Unnoticed on the underside of the toy, the battery lights brighten and then subdue. Bill lifts up his hand and carefully sniffs his finger. It smells of bonfire smoke!.

Reaching out, Bill lifts the 'weapon' from its packaging. Simultaneously, three things happen. With a curious tickling sensation the grip writhes within his palm and instantly remoulds itself to the shape of his hand. Lights, previously hidden by grime, come alive, corruscating in rainbow colours along both sides of the 'barrel' and, slowly at first but with increasing speed, elements of lightweight body armour snap upwards from the gun covering first his hand, then his arm and finally moving across his whole body with a series of soft clicking sounds.

Bill is too shocked for a moment to do more than stare at his reflection in the bedroom mirror. Instead of a tousle-headed, fourteen year old school boy, there stands an alien warrior complete with weapon, space helmet and body armour.

Blue lightning flashes and crackles about the edge of his body and illuminates his room like a human Van der Graf generator. With a frightened jerk, Bill throws the 'toy' onto the floor. At once, he is plain old Bill Wilkinson again.

No armour, No helmet and no weaponry.

Bill sinks to the floor and leans against the bed in amazed silence. A few inches away the gun continues to glow, its power apparently restored, lights flashing. He holds up his right hand and stares at it before subjecting it to rapid scratching. Pins and Needles.

Gently Bill reaches out an index finger and very lightly, with the extreme tip, touches the grip. Instantly, black shell-like sections click up his finger and across his hand, advancing and retreating as his finger touches and then gently moves away again. He smiles. The sensation is quite pleasant. He takes his hand away and crosses the room to an armchair. Picking up the box to see if he can find any clues he curls up, feet beneath him.


Far, far away on the other side of Mars, hidden from the prying eyes of Earth, a warning signal 'shouts' for attention. In the Captain's office of the Interstellar Study Ship, I.S.S Commander Tharg, Osro Phil'k is standing in subdued silence getting the dressing down he knows he deserves. To 'borrow' a Class Two CT Raygun is one thing, and to take it down to an inhabited planet to show off to your classmates during a geology lesson, another, but to actually LOSE IT!. The Captain is NOT amused. He is even less happy when it emerges that this all happened two whole CRUDPOX AGO!.
Actually, two crudpox, fourteen snots and three greebles, to be precise. He is apoplectic that the case has only just been reported and it is only because Osro's Uncle is Commander of the Fleet back home that this lad is not now pushing up the Wibblies on the face of Mars. "BREAD AND WATER FOR TWO CRUDPOX!!!. AND NO SNIVELLING HOME ON THE INTERSTELLAR BARGLESNOOT TO UNCLE PHILK!. Osro scuttles from the office with his tail between his legs. Phew!. He considers himself to be very, VERY lucky indeed to still be breathing.

Still shuddering, the young student heads back to his dormitory, rapidly regaining his aplomb as stories of his bravery 'under fire' begin to recommend themselves to his imagination for recounting to his admiring peers.

Privately, Osro thanks his lucky stars that he had the good sense to instigate Duplication Procedures as soon as he discovered the loss. If it hadn't been for THAT saving grace, nothing would have saved him from being 'spaced' by the Captain, Uncle or no Uncle.

Duplication Procedures, or 'DeePees' as the students were privately wont to call them, stated that 'All pieces of equipment likely to be used on an alien planet must, by law of the homeworld be capable of self-replication in the event of loss'. (DP503/762.axplonk). In this particular instance, that meant, the raygun, property of the ISS Commander Tharg would, after a certain period of time away from its sanctioned user, begin to copy itself. Every little detail of the original with the exception of its more obvious alien properties would be duplicated or cloned on several thousand facsimiles. The rationale and prime purpose of such a capability was obvious to all but a Marvellian Slimesprooker, to hide the real equipment until a rescue mission could recover it.

' There's no danger that the Prime Weapon can actually harm anyone '. This thought was the only solace for Osro. After all, the raygun was tuned to his own life force when it was mis-placed. so no other being of his race could possibly set its lethal functions into action. Osro is a hero to his classmates. Nothing but bread and water for TWO WHOLE CRUDPOX!!.

It's said that everybody has a twin somewhere - a doppelganger. Bill Wilkinson has one alright. It's just that his is Osro Phil'k, an alien from Alpha Centauri!!.

The recovery mission goes off without a hitch. Guided by the in-built homing beacon when its loss was first reported, the Class Two Commander Tharg Raygun is retrieved, apparently without a problem. Osro Phil'k allowed by the Captain to join the 'down team' in an attempt to redeem himself actually retrieves the weapon himself and brings it back aboard in person, his body armour glowing blue light and the gun in his hand. He is met by the Captain who is pleased to accept it from the young student.

The armour disappears back into the gun as it passes from hand to hand, but there is something wrong!.

With a strangled cry, Osro takes one look at the Captain and faints dead away. Everyone is puzzled. True, the Captain, being a Zannussi'an is not everyone's cup of farp, what with those slimy gill flaps and all, but Osro has been in the man's company now for thirty-eight whole crudpox so there's really no excuse. Perhaps the poor boy has fainted from lack of real food. Bread and water for two crudpox would be enough to make anyone faint. They pick the limp body up wondering where he got such repulsive pyjamas from. They're covered in pink alien farm animals!. He is carried to a private room and left in the tender care of Nurse Phwoorre, a binary-headed Scrate from Phwipple.

Bill Wilkinson is having a nightmare. Perhaps it's the raygun instigating hallucinations?. One moment he is strutting round the bedroom admiring himself in a mirror, the next, he's on a spaceship surrounded by boys who look not unlike himself who are obviously under the control of a large alien so weird that not even the art in his space comics could have done better. The big one dripping green phlegm from what looks like gill slits is GROTESQUE!. It wouldn't be so bad, but there's a little warty thing following behind with a mop and bucket to clean up the goo. Now, there's THIS one with TWO HEADS!!. Enough is enough. Bill faints back again into unconsciousness.

If Bill Wilkinson thinks HIS nightmare is bad, he should be in Osro Phil'k's shoes. Chased round an alien garden by a snarling, barking and obviously dangerous creature, he only manages to escape by climbing into the alien's house. He tumbles headlong in through one window just as Bill is leaving through another, borne aloft in the arms of his excited friends.

Osro stares out at the night sky. The 'downship' has lifted without him and his communication device is somewhere below hidden in the foliage and guarded by the beast.

Bill is about to go on a foreign exchange visit his teachers have never dreamed about. Osro, at least has a few advantages. He has been studying Earth for several crudpox and speaks the language, albeit with what will become a slightly embarrassing lisp. Osro also has some, by Earth's standards, some amazing abilities. He comes from a much stronger gravity and feels as if he could run faster, leap higher and swim deeper than ever before. He is also considerably brainier and stronger than the average American student of his age and can speak multiple languages fluently. This should make him popular. It doesn't. Except, of course, with girls. Osro LOVES girls.

Bill Wilkinson is going on a trip of a lifetime. Once the mistake has been discovered, it will be too late for the aliens to cover up their mistake. Bill will be leaving school earlier than he thinks. He will become Earth's Extra Terrestrial Adviser and Ambassador before his sixteenth birthday and President of the World on his twentieth, but that is still in the future. First, he has to find the strength to get off the bed!.

end

copyright T.J.Hurford 1996. All Rights Reserved

BOOFULS PUPKIN

Here is a treatment for a children's story (animation?) that I wrote in 1994. All Rights Reserved and copyright: Timothy James Hurford 1994. It is called...

BOOFULS PUPKIN

by

T.J.Hurford

Boofuls Pupkin is a dog. A wild-eyed and very scruffy English dog. A mongrel. He has a coat of long, thick, golden blonde hair that he flaunts and which everyone admires. It will prove to be both his undoing, AND his salvation.

Boofuls Pupkin lives in a house in London. He is the family pet of Samuel and Margaret Trollope and their teenage son, Sidney. Margaret is a paid harlot by trade and Samuel is in the army of the King.

When Margaret dies suddenly, Sidney is told by his Father that he will have to join the army too which will help with the household budget.

Sidney is very upset. A 'Mother's boy', he dreams of becoming a world-famous hairdresser. He runs away with Boofuls and together they travel to France.

Sidney works well and hard as a travelling dentist and barber. Toward the end of their first year abroad, he has saved enough for them to buy a small house with its own shop on the outskirts of Paris and here he continues his business. Gradually though hairdressing takes over from dentistry and unnable to afford models, Sidney experiments on Boofuls before making his creations more permanent as wigs.

Boofuls is mortified, with no command of the language and his hair constantly changing both style and colour, he is a laughing stock of the village canines. They make his life a complete misery with their constant bullying and taunts but there IS a light on the horizon although neither he nor Sidney yet know it.

The Emperor Louis Quatorze, ( The Sun King ), is a thoroughly spoilt young man. At only fourteen years old, he is probably the most important ruler in the world. Louis, however, is BORED. His Advisers and Courtiers; ministers and Civil Servants actually run things for him with word from him here and there. Louis is looking for something that will make his reign special and allow him to outshine his Father from whom he has recently inherited the crown.

Louis has ordered a great palace to be built at a village called Versailles on the outskirts of the capital. It is quite close to where Sidney has his shop and one day, as Boofuls is sitting beneath a Chestnut tree on the outskirts of the village enjoying a brief respite from the near constant bullying, a carriage thunders by. There is a brief image of a young boy staring out at him, a startled look on his face and then the gilded coach and its team of horses are gone. Boofuls starts to wipe the dust off his paws and then, in shocked recognition, realises that today's 'look', which he had not noticed before, is yellow and black stripes!. He looks like a gigantic Bumble Bee. He gallops home.

Louis has it!. Or al least, part of it. He has been inspired by the marvellous dog that he saw the day before. He will dress his Courtiers in wonderful new styles and colours. Without further ado, he goes in search of the dog and its owner.

At the 'salon'  of Sidney Trollope, young Louis finds the other part of what he is looking for. Sidney is, to put it mildly, flamboyantly eccentric. He lisps exaggeratedly, flinging his arms about with wild abandon. His clothes are poor quality but violently coloured. He does not cut hair. He CREATES styles. His wigs are confections of dyes and powders with wonderful fantasies nestling in them. Louis is immediately taken with a blue wig sporting a wonderful miniature galleon. He takes both Sidney and Boofuls to the new palace at Versailles and installs them in a large suite of rooms. Sidney is commanded to train the Courtiers to walk like he does with an exaggerated swagger, to design clothes made from primary-coloured silks,satins and bows and to give lisping lessons in beginners, intermediate and advanced classes. The King will, of course, receive private lessons.

Without Sidney Trollope and his wonderful dog, Boofuls Pupkin, the reign of the Sun King would most probably have sunk without trace into the obscurity of history. As it is, Louis is remembered as one of the most spectacular of all Monarchs, but he could definitely not have achieved so much without the help of this interesting young English hair dresser.

Sidney establishes himself with salons in both Paris and London. He is a friend of Kings.

Boofuls Pupkin is the most important dog in France. What he says, goes. The dogs in the village who used to bully him are now in employment. Boofuls holds no grudges!. They are working as models at Sidney's Parisian salon. The chairs in which they sit face huge windows and they have a wonderful view of the city AND the canine population of Paris who come daily to scoff and make faces at them all day and every day.

end

copyright. T.J.Hurford 1994.

A more complete version of this will soon be available on my short story blog, oswald's lamppost

MAGPIE, CROW and GREBE

Here is a story treatment for my new blog, mymovietreatments.blogspot.co.nz
All Rights Are Reserved. copyright T.J.Hurford 1995. This one is called...

MAGPIE, CROW and GREBE

by

T.J.Hurford

'Magpie' Williams is a 'tealeaf'. Somehow he just can't help collecting 'bits and bobs'.. There is just one problem. Magpie is a tramp. He lives out of carrier bags and his collection of appropriated treasures has grown so big he needs two shopping trolleys to move from one place to another.

'Crow' Carruthers is a scavenger. Ever since he returned from the war, just another 'flyboy' down on his luck, Crow has lived outside of society. 'They' didn't want HIM, so he decided that he bloody well didn't want THEM. Crow has the gift of the gab. He could talk the pants off of a Nun if it hadn't been for his scruples. Crow is a Gentleman. At least, that's how he sees himself. It's true he does have beautiful manners and has had a private school education that has left an indelible mark on his diction, but, at bottom, Crow is a con-man.

Grebe is a gentle man. As far as the authorities know, he has no other name. An orphan on uncertain but presumably middle, age, he lives on a piece of land beside a river on the outskirts of town. The land is his, left to him years ago by some grateful citizen for whom he rendered a long-forgotten kindly act and ever since he has lived in lonely isolation, occasionally taunted by the more ill-educated of the juvenile local citizenry, his only companion, and old dog called Billy. Grebe has talent though. He makes beautiful dolls houses out of odd scraps of wood fished out of skips. He lives in a small shed surrounded by the tools required to make his delightful creations. He sells them to a local toy-shop. He survives.

The main shopping centre in the town of Downchester is like any other in England. Built apparently with athletic morons in mind. It is faceless, large, and totally devoid of architectural merit. It is a bleak place in Winter and an oven in the Summer and is visited regularly by the local skateboarding and roller-blading fraternity. To all others, it is a necessary evil, a place that has destroyed trade in the surrounding shopping streets and brought despair and misery to the independent traders and weariness to the elderly, put upon and hampered at every turn by facelessly arrogant young shop 'assistants'. It has also brought glee to the spotty-faced young tyrants with flashy and no doubt stolen mountain bikes who have apparently never seen a mountain and so believe that the horizontal surfaces of the 'mall' resemble one.

It has lined the pockets of Councillor Gerald Atkins, Chief Local Planning Officer and acceptor of bribes.

Grebe is a harmless fellow beloved by most who know him. He has a lot of friends and yet he yearns for companionship. His only real friend, he believes, is Billy and he devotes considerable affection to his pet. Grebe occupies a choice piece of land and unfortunately it has come to the attention of the Chief Planning Officer who, quite inexplicably, has come into a large sum of money, strangely enough, about the same time as Megablok plc were having so much trouble gaining planning permission for their new shopping precinct in Downchester. As is such a small town needed two such facilities.

Councillor Atkins has a lovely young bride, who, at twenty years old, is barely a third of his age . This,too, is inexplicable to the local populace for Councillor Atkins is not one could kindly call blessed in the looks department. Indeed, some uncharitable souls privately believed that if Lulu, the elephant at the nearby wildlife park ever needed a rhinoplasty, the owners of the park wouldn't have too far to look for a suitable donor.

Councillor Atkins is fired with amorous intent. He is so grateful for the attentions of his young bride, albethey no doubt financially motivated, that he wishes to build a love-nest on the outskirts of town. Somewhere secluded where his whoops of pleasure will go unnoticed. Somewhere, perhaps with a stretch of river?.

A compulsory purchase order is served on Grebe. He is distraught. Publicly, the land, it is said will be the site of a new 'park and ride' facility. Grebe has nowhere else to go and has lived here almost all his life. Fortunately for him, Grebe has far more friends than he knows and a petition is organised against the scheme. The citizens of Downchester do NOT want  'park and ride', thank you very much. They want a reduction in their rates, not some white elephant that will empty the council coffers and cause their local taxes to rise even further to refill them again. The town rises up, led with increasing outspokenness by Michael Flannagan, alcoholic editor in chief of the Downchester Gazette, and main protagonist in the battle to expose corruption in local government. He and Councillor Atkins ARE on speaking terms, but the words that they employ when they meet would make elderly ladies faint at fifty paces.

The battle is joined and Grebe wins. He holds a Sunday fete in his field to thank all those who have helped him. There are two tramps sitting in the beer tent, so thoughtfully provided by the Vicar, Gnasher McClintock, former 'prop' for Huntshire Rugby Club. Grebe introduces himself to the pair and soon, Magpie, Crow and Grebe are firm friends. They have many things in common; age, temperament, outlook and most especially, the need for companionship.

As the last visitor is about to leave, Grebe has an unexpected encounter. Councillor Atkins, unused to being thwarted, his face flushed with anger, warns Grebe to 'watch his back' and not to even think about placing a planning application through the council.

This tirade is witnessed by four men. Magpie and Crow, as tramps, are overlooked. Inside the shed nearby but within earshot are the Vicar and Michael Flannagan sampling Grebe's excellent homemade nettle wine.

From then on it is open war. Everything that Councillor Atkins can think of to make life a misery for Grebe, he does. Notice is served on him to 'cease and desist' in placing his rubbish out for collection. Since Grebe is obviously running a commercial operation from his shed through his doll's house building, he will have to pay to have his waste collected, and who gave him permission to run a business anyway?. Gerald Atkins is having a wonderful time. He gets local buses rerouted past Grebe's front gate. This backfires since it allows many of the elderly people who know Grebe to visit him more often and the high, thick hedges that surround his property cut out the traffic noise completely.

Permission is granted for a skateboard park to be built opposite, but since the shopping centre in town is more convenient for the pimply, baggy-short wearing young 'oiks' who, anyway, wouldn't be able to terrorise and intimidate the shoppers on the outskirts of town, this, too backfires. Nothing deterred, the counselor continues his war of attrition.

The traffic is not all one-way however. Grebe has found the companionship that for so long he has needed. Magpie and Crow have settled in with him. Long years of sleeping 'rough' have given both men rather unusual habits. Magpie is perfectly at home under the glass in the cold frames at the back of the shed. Crow has built himself a nest. Literally. High in the solid branches of an ancient Oak tree he has constructed a twiggy frame for his bed. Sheltered from above by foliage in Summer and a large umbrella, purloined for him by Magpie from a local shop, he is perfectly at home. His position has the added advantage of offering a perfect view over the hedge along the road in both directions, and an ingenious arrangement of old baked bean cans and string brings the three friends the luxury of personal telephones.

Time passes slowly. The angst of their enemy in the council does not abate and it is with a troubled heart that Grebe and his friends survey the perfidy of Gerald Atkin's work. Hedged in by the threat of sprawling housing estates given quick planning permission by the Council, the little area of peace and tranquility looks set to become an oasis of green in a concrete desert.

Magpie and Crow, however have other thoughts. Between the two of them, and privately backed-up by the newspaperman and the Vicar, a plan is hatched to reveal the crooked nature of their powerful adversary. Magpie and Crow will enter the offices of the Planning Department in disguise when Councillor Atkins is out. Whilst Crow is causing a diversion, Magpie will open the private safe that they all suspect to be hidden therein, and 'borrow' its contents.

This plan has a few wrinkles that need ironing out though. Magpie and Crow are absolute wrecks. They haven't worn suits in years and looks hysterically funny in the Vicar's best clothes.

Magpie may be an expert thief, but he has NEVER 'cracked' a safe before. He privately decides to take a little insurance with him in the form of some gelignite 'released' from the local quarry office.

All goes well though, at least until the safe has to be opened. Crow has drawn off the outer office staff with a spurious enquiry about the possibility of opening an American-style nude girlie bar and snake-wrestling pit and is willingly showing them centrefold photographs from well-known 'top-shelf' magazines, borrowed from the Vicar as samples of what they could expect.

Magpie is having difficulties. The safe has a combination lock and he just cannot open it. To add to his troubles, he has misplaced the 'geli'. The safe is not very large. why not drop it out of the window?. It will be missed of course but by the time that the police find it, the truth will be out he reasons.

With ever-increasing noise he manages to move the safe and lift it up onto the window sill. In the outer office, Crow is nearly having a fit. The noises from the inner room need masking and he is performing the kind of song and dance routine that the junior planning officers will be able to witness when they visit his bogus bar. He is already down to the Vicar's old rugby 'box' and has collected a gratifyingly large number of banknotes in its elastic waistband. Outside there is a tremendous explosion. Crow is blown off the table upon which he has been gyrating and thrusting and is last seen crawling rapidly on all fours across the floor and out through the doorway.

Magpie has remembered where he left the gelignite; on the roof of a car parked beneath the office window. He had placed it there half an hour earlier whilst pausing to adjust his tie.

It is not Councillor Atkins day. First a safe falls onto the roof of his car and then the vehicle actually blows up in front of his startled gaze as he returns from an extended lunch at the pub over the road. To cap it all, the contents of the safe; HIS safe; are distributed all across the town.

The police are highly interested in the documents and photographs brought in by disgusted locals. Could that possibly be Councillor Atkins sunning himself on the deck of mega yacht in Monte Carlo marina?.

Is it really possible that Lulu at the wildlife park consented to such a personal act?.

Surely Councillor Atkins wife is older than this birth certificate seems to suggest?

Just who IS that oiled semi naked middle aged man tied and gagged on that hotel bed?. It isn't, IS IT!?. It couldn't be?. Eyes stray across the office to the Chief Constable hiding Ostrich-like behind his desk. They look back at the photograph. A certain well-known Council official is standing 'proudly' over the man on the bed, dressed in black leather poser pouch, G string lace panties masking ineffectually his sun-tanned face. A rubber chicken dangles flaccidly from one hand; an egg whisk in the other.

Magpie, Crow and Grebe (and Billy) are sunning themselves in deck chairs beside the river. Time passes slowly now that Councillor Atkins has been exposed for what 'he' really is and sent to HOLLOWAY women's prison!. Billy watches the Vicar who in frighteningly small swimming briefs and a rather grubby 'dog collar' is swimming up and down the river singing distinctly rude rugby songs, and Michael Flannagan, Editor in Chief of Downchester Gazette is caressing lovingly his Outstanding Journalist of the Year award. At his feet there is a copy of his world-famous newspaper, the banner headline screaming the words:

 ' FEMALE TRANSVESTITE BLACKMAILING PLANNER

IN PERVERTED SEX, DRUGS, GAMBLING AND

HOMO EROTIC POLYGAMOUS BESTIALITY

SCANDAL

LOCKED UP FOREVER '.

(See inside our exclusive full colour centrefold photographs of Lulu the Elephant)

WARNING: EXPLICIT

and below that: 

Inexplicable sudden resignation of local Chief Constable.

VAMPYRE

Here is a story treatment that I wrote back in 1994. All Rights Are Reserved. It is called...

VAMPYRE

by

T.J.Hurford

copyright. T.J.Hurford. 1994

This is an environmental story with a difference. It concerns on Count Winterhof. The Count is a distant relation of an infamous central European family.

Count Winterhof is a cruel blood-sucking icicle of a man. A Vampyre. Whereas his cousins all 'live' in Transylvania or deep in the heart of the Amazonian rainforests, Winterhof and his family stay far, far to the North in a frigid tomb of a fortress on an island surrounded almost permanently by Arctic pack-ice on the Northern coast of Russia.

You might think that the Count has little upon which to feed but you would be wrong. There are tiny hamlets even in this Godforsaken land and the Count and his relations 'farm' them with great care, just as shepherds tend their flocks. The level of misery amongst the local people borders on madness. They cannot escape. Poverty and the great tundra to the South dictate that none may leave this dreadful place. Those that have tried have incurred the displeasure of the Count, though none have returned to tell exactly how that displeasure is shown.

The Count's family are not particularly fussy though they are partial to the occasional virgin. A virgin is a virgin whether they be human, animal or bird and the forests and coasts of their realm are deathly quiet. Only those that can swim beneath the icy water's surface are safe from the hideous puncturing of the Vampyre's needle-like fangs and the loathsome lappings of their tongues when on their nightly rounds they 'milk' the unwary.

The skepticism that has greeted age old tales of Nosferatu far to the South in Eastern Europe has not reached the home of Count Winterhof. There are no tourists here to laugh at the fears of the peasantry. Perhaps the occasional scientist studying the Polar Bear population, but that is all. They are very careful with what few visitors do arrive. These people are, in the main, left completely alone and return to the comfort of their centrally heated apartments in Moskva or Sverdlovsk none the wiser as to the hideous secret that seems to make the people of the Northern coast so reticent and apparently fearful even of their own shadows.

The Winter of 1248 had been a bad one in Transylvania. Not only had there been more snow than anyone could remember with even the rivers freezing solid but there had been an uprising against the ancient family Dracula. Driven from their castle by a mob of garlic-wearing, stick-wielding men, women and even children, few had escaped from the family crypt beneath the ages old hilltop fortress. Few, yes...but some.

For many, many years the heirs to the great Dynasty of the Undead, (the Nosferatu) had roamed the World in search of another home, and, indeed, some had found refuge of a sort in far-flung places. Others, though had never forgotten the ancestral castle deep in the Carpathians and as soon as possible, they had returned. The retribution on local citizens had been swift, brutal and completely merciless. They had once been all but Kings and Queens of Transylvania. Now, time had passed and they were, to all intents and purposes, Gods and they took their tribute with grim and silent pleasure. Ten fold suffering was meted out upon the petrified and cowering descendants of those who had formerly had the temerity to rise against Count Dracula and his family.

It is said that Vampyres must sleep each night upon the soil of their beloved homeland and that, in order to travel, they must needs take some of this poisoned earth with them to line the coffins which they take to use as their day time places of refuge. Minions of the Dark Lord perform this service; zombies subsumed to 'The Will', their blood tainted by the Count's own. Enough to make them controllable. Enough for them never again to be flattered with the words 'human' and 'alive', but never enough for them to be truly Vampyres themselves. To be a member of the Dynasty you must either be born to it or very occasionally, wedded to the throne.

Most returned to Transylvania yet some did not. One branch of the Family stayed in South America. Another hung on for a while in and around Salem in the United States, and one group had decided to stay in the far North of Russia, above the vast forests near the wintry coast. For these Vampyres, the undead relations of Count Winterhof, the notion that one day they might return to Transylvania was deeply unattractive. Not for them the need to fill a coffin with Carpathian earth. They had long since, through necessity, found an even better substitute; one that kept them deliciously cold during the short sunlight hours and never disappeared whatever the time of day. For ten months of the year it lay in vast unassailable solemnity about their granite fortress....ICE.

The year is 1998. For centuries the Count and his family have existed above the far Northern tundra; exalting in the interminable nights that last for months and which give them time to 'fatten up' for the few short weeks when sunlight rules the wastes and sleep recharges their spirits. Soon it will be Winter again. Their slowly awakening bodies will be able to glut on the human 'sheep' of their domain. Soon....

The Awakening of the Undead this year has come belatedly. The snow and ice are more conspicuous by their absence than presence. The climate is distinctly WARM. True, it remains dark, but the ice is MELTING. Count Winterhof breaks his centuries old habit, and abducts a scientist currently visiting the nearby Arctic Meteorological Research Station. He soon discovers that the ozone layer is thinning above his home. It is a catastrophe. Nobody knows what will happen but change appears already to be irreversible. The Count leaves his victim, a beautiful young American student to rest. He will question her further soon. It is not his wish to suck her dry and so he has only partaken of a brief drink. She is tainted, but alive. Unfortunately for the Count, the nights are not yet endless and he must repair to his icy black marble coffin for a rest. The girl awakes and, in a daze manages to find her way back to the base. It is her last day and reassuring her Russian colleagues that she is alright even though she cannot remember anything of her disappearance, she leaves by helicopter.

There is a meeting in the Great Hall of the Undead. The Count has decide to go in search of a new home for his family. The girl, too, must be found. There is always the chance she will remember what has happened to her and that would also be calamitous. He needs more information and she will provide it. He prepares to leave. There will be no problem in finding the girl. Once tainted by the lips of the Vampyre, none may remain hidden long from his questing gaze.

The long, low shape of a Russian destroyer, the Admiral Yevtushenko, on a friendly visit from Murmansk to New York slowly entered the harbour. Instead of the cheering crowds who had earlier come to witness this exhilarating example of glasnost, the docks stand empty.

The news reported by the harbour pilot that this is a ghost ship populated only by rats and one lone Russian sailor lashed stone dead to the ship's wheel has cleared the reception area extremely rapidly. There are no explanations though many want some, and quickly.

That night an eerie shape like a gigantic bat is seen briefly, flying above the masts of the quarantined vessel. The only sign in the morning that something might be amiss is an open door to one of the storage lockers. Ice, already melting, is streaming out into the corridors and galleys of the mighty ship.

It has been an uncomfortable day for Count Winterhof. The dockside cold stores of a Jewish sheep importer were adequate but he has spent the daylight hours in the company of thousands of dead animals and this is not what a senior member of one of the oldest aristocratic families on the planet should have to expect. Night would change all that though.

Bernie Sorowitz stared gloomily at the serried ranks of meat carcasses. His Uncle Heimi had sent him down to fetch a dozen for the butcher's shop in the Bronx. "Get them himself, why didn't he?...OY!". He slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand and heaved a carcass off its hook. Outside on the dock the Sun was already setting. Behind him in the gloom a long, black-clad arm, its sinuous be-taloned fingers writhing independently like some obscenely animated bunch of asparagus reached towards one shoulder.

Bernie Sorowitz, former refrigeration engineer and now acolyte of Count Winterhof the Vampyre, staggered beneath the weight of a large piece of white equipment. It had been a very long day but for some reason he did not feel tired. Thirty he had delivered, and all of them to upper storey apartments. The work had been unceasing except for that moment when a man whom he only vaguely recognised had come up to him to speak and then turned hesitantly away as if unsure whether he was who they thought or not. He had shrugged his shoulders, dribbled revoltingly in an uncontrolled way and got on with his job unaware that behind him his Uncle Heimi was staring after him with a puzzled look on his face.

For some reason the Count had been unsuccessful in his search. Marilyn Conrad would not be as easy to find as he had anticipated. New York was a big place. A VERY big place indeed. The Count had never in all his six hundred undead years seen anything like it. He positively dribbled at the thought of all those necks. It would soon be daylight though and with unerring precision, even in an unfamiliar city, he homed in on one of the apartments that his minion, Bernie had spent the daylight hours purchasing and preparing for him.

Count Winterhof was tired. The combined effect of pollution and noise had completely disorientated him. He had partaken of a light snack in the shape of a vegetarian roller-blader in Central Park and was now ready for sleep. He flew in through the open window and searched the gloom for the chest freezer which he had instructed Bernie to place ready for him. Stupid!. Stupid!!. STUPID!!.

It isn't easy to sleep in a refrigerator.

The Count is ANGRY. Bernie pays for his mistake. He is getting weaker and weaker and paler and paler. How was HE to know?.The Count had asked for cold appliances. How was he to know that meant freezers?.. My life.

Marilyn isn't even in New York. She is away visiting her parents in New England.

Count Winterhof is having a very trying time. Instead of spending every night searching for the scientist and trying to find out when and if the Arctic is going to melt, he seems to be spending more and more time instructing Bernie in the proper way to perform his extremely important duties. Last night they had even gone together to an all-night freezer centre and the Count had needed to show Bernie  exactly which units to purchase by actually lying in them much to the amusement of the salesman whose laughter had rapidly died away, and I DO mean died.

Now Bernie was too tired to deliver them all in one night and the Count spent the day wrapped in an old raincoat, its myriad pockets stuffed with refreezable plastic blocks from cool boxes, his head neck and face covered by scarves and a large Mexican sombrero. There would be a reckoning that night for the laughter that his appearance had caused on the streets of New York.

Bernie is sent out on his own to track down Marilyn whom he eventually finds and promptly, much to her distress, fall in love with. Marilyn screams every time she sees him loping around bent almost double, his slavering gums dribbling green spittle.

The Count has discovered that in order to get anything done in America you have to be on television. He has, with his peculiar hypnotic powers secured his own all-night show and things are looking up. His family have joined him. He has a huge new house fully equipped with cold storage rooms for their coffins and he has bought out the refrigeration company owned by Heimi Horowitz. Bernie is his new partner and has been turned into a full Vampyre.

Marilyn has changed her mind about Bernie. Suddenly he has turned into a Devilishly handsome, suave, sophisticated young playboy. As sharp as they come and devoted to her. He looks like an Italian gangster, and the way he nibbles her neck is to die for!.

The Winterhofs have a new home, a prime time show dedicated to environmental issues, the saving of the Arctic and the planet's ozone layer. They have a growing 'family' who have yet to realise that immortality can be a right pain in the neck (if it goes on too long), and a huge 'larder' in the shape of New York's unsuspecting population to satisfy their every craving.

Heimi Horowitz has lost a cringing nephew and gained a street-wise punk and the people of the far North of Russia are getting to sleep nights!...

end