A silly dream sequence.

Characters:
Detective Giddens - A thirty something detective wearing a 30s PI coat and trilby.
Pauly Shore- A washed up 'comedy actor' Wearing a long black jacket
Matt - a twenty something male, clothes unknown.

Act-1: Int. Unknown office. Matt's Viewpoint.

It is dark, except for a small red dot from the front of a cigarette, a silhouette can be seen attached to said cigarette. He is behind a desk. The desk is covered in old books, a magnum and a small rectangular sign with the words "Detective Giddens" written in italics. Matt walks forward.

Detective Giddens: [Leaning forward on his chair, angrily] HALT! What the fuck do you think this is, a doss house? Go home Junkie.
Matt: Woah there stranger. [Enter Pauly Shore from behind, walks past Matt, approaches detective.]
Giddens: [Still leaning forward, hands on desk, cigarette dying.] What's going on here, are the brothels closed?
Pauly Shore: [Hand moves into his jacket, what he removes is unseen] You told me Andy Dick was not getting work.

There is a confrontation between Giddens and Shore, Giddens is on the floor.Matt  walks forward, shore moves quickly past, sound of door shutting behind Matt. He examines the other side of the table, a dead Giddens and a kipper fish covered in blood.

The sound of ringing.
[Wake]

I have thoughts of suicide when I wash the dishes.

It started when Emily left the house. It was early, 3 maybe 4 in the morning, no one knows really. Not even Matt, who was in her bed. She got up, he awoke asked where she was going. “Just downstairs.” He fell back asleep. She left out the front door and got into her car. She drove to the town of Leven and she jumped into the Firth of Forth. Or, that is what is believed to be the case by Fife constabulary. Her car was found parked, still on. There was no note, but the headlights shinning on the Forth.
  The second to take their life was Matt. Who after a night of drinking at Emily's procession, believed it was his fault Emily left the house, early in the morning, between 3 and 4. He left the procession and walked through the dark streets of Methil looking for anyone willing to cause him bodily harm, failing to find anyone Matt walked to the docks. He looked over the edge into the murky water, took a deep breath, said fuck it and stepped off.

  The third, Frank, was out of boredom. He kicked a can down the street and reached an old antique store. He saw a old shotgun in the window for sale. He had an inner shrug and entered the store. He was found in the park across from the store, his skull missing half it's flesh and bone.

  Jordan read in the paper that suicide rates had fallen that year. He didn't like this figure as it meant his friends who killed themselves, were negative statistics. He did not like this thought. He hanged himself from the ceiling fan. His housemate found him a day later. Sara, she took her life using pills and alcohol the day after the medics removed the body.

  Ben couldn't get a hold of his friends via text, facebook or other forms of messaging. He eventually called Matt's parents. They told him that while he was in San Francisco Emily, Matt, Frank, Jordan and even Sara killed themselves. All within the 2 week period. Ben did not kill himself, Ben flew back to Scotland.

[Guest Post] 3 pieces by Frank Black

Frank Black is a person. He writes good and does other stuff good too.
He can be found at The Steak Manual


Play

A living room in a dark flat, sparsely furnished.
Frank sits in an armchair. Claire, Frank's acquaintance sits on the IKEA sofa. A small television flickers in the corner of the room. They are watching a VHS of Watership Down.

FRANK: I want to go to a fucking beach and skim stones.
[Pause]
Escape everything.
[Pause]
I feel like I'm fucking trapped inside a Francis Bacon triptych.

CLAIRE: I feel empty.

FRANK: I want be feral.

CLAIRE: Je suis Frank; I'm a fucking wolf-child.

FRANK: Fuck you, Claire.

CLAIRE: You're a waste of valuable resources, Frank.

FRANK: I know.

Poem

Delicate amber;
Liquid ambrosia.

Quench the unending,
relentless,
insatiable,
thirst.

I lack the restraint,
and the willpower,
to believe in moderation.

Prose

Frank hauled his bedraggled body from his futon, shambling through his ramshackle of a flat, meandering towards the kitchen. Frank grabbed a clean looking mug and turned on the tap. It slowly and loudly sputtered to life, gushing at an unnecessary pace. Returning to the room; he carelessly dropped onto the mattress, splashing and sloshing water around the room. Opening a drawer of the bedside cabinet, he removed a small box. Frank took a co-codamol and ibuprofen with the water. Frank listens to Jarvis Cocker's Sunday Service. Frank thinks of Harold Shipman. Frank is soothed to sleep.

I get paid by the vowels (but not Y). I made 180 pence (£1.80)

In my last poem There are 38 a's. There are 5 b's. There are 16 c's. There are 10 d's. There are 53 e's. There are 9 f's. There are 29 h's. There are 20 i's. There are 5 k's. There are 27 l's. There are 14 m's. There are 25 n's. There are 40 o's. There are 8 p's. There are 28 r's. There are 24 s's. There are 42 t's. There are 19 u's. There are 3 v's. There are 16 w's. There is 1 x. There are 20 y's.

We Can Play Doctors Like We Once Did.

stab my face with love you sexy
beast or I will cut you
we can play doctors and nurses
you can stitch me up good


we can skip school and play dead at
your house, in your kitchen
wait for your mum to come home from
her work and find us there


let her tell me I am an arse
let her throw me out the
house and call my parents to say
how I can not see you


we will meet in the blackness of
the old football pitch that
the homeless use to piss at night
when they think they are alone


then we will both runaway very far,
esoterically
very far until we grow apart from each
other naturally

I wanted to write a play for Ellen Page and Joseph Gordon Levitt to act in.

Inside Handlebar, Wicker Park, Chicago. A couple sit at a table facing each other. The male has a tuna steak sandwich and a pint of beer. The female has only a glass of wine.

Female: Alternative lit is dying. Noah Cicero released The Human War almost 10 years ago. Tao Lin came to prominence almost 5 years ago. It will be dead within the year and you have written nothing but a mediocre short play and a chapbook of poetry. You will not be remembered.

Male: [looks down at the sandwich, voice chocked up]It will come back again Amy and you know it.

Amy: In ten years maybe. You'll be 35 Scott, 35. Are you planning to still be here, drinking yourself dead at a shithole bar? Are you?

Scott: [Swallows a gulp of beer] I don't know what you want me to say.

Amy: You said it Scott, you just said it. [She finishes her wine and gets up]

Scott: [getting up after her] Where are you going?

Amy: Away Scott, away. [Exits the bar]

Scott:[sitting back down, looks at sandwich]Fuck you tuna.

A statement:

I feel like no one is blogging anymore. Like, not even just blogging about stuff they like.
Are blogs even relevant anymore? Is alt-lit even relevant?
I want to do cocaine, but would rather get drunk.
I don't want to do anything anymore.

I'm not dead.

I'm just in a coma.