INT. PRODUCTION ROOM – MORNING
Close-up side shot of a woman’s face, focusing on cheeks and lips. A cigarette rests in her mouth. She inhales. Ashes wither away the white stem as the orange tip burns.
A slow pan-out reveals the woman outfitted in business attire. Clipped to her jacket’s lapel is a photo ID badge. The name reads: BETTINA. She pulls the cigarette from her mouth, releasing a puff of smoke. The hand holding the cigarette gestures through the smoky air.
Bettina’s voice is hoarse, resembling that of Estelle Leonard, as impersonated by Phoebe Buffay (FRIENDS).
It’s been months. What have we got here?
A bunch of nonsense from the mouth of a
Psh! Where’s the creativity? The originality?
The excitement? The juicy fuel powering the
Bettina paces the room, circling a large conference table. Several characters listen from their chairs. A few look human, but most exhibit extraterrestrial features, if corporeal at all.
It doesn’t exist!
One thing, and only one thing will
remedy our future. Does anyone know
what that remedy is?
A scrawny young man raises a shaky hand, but Bettina ignores it. She takes another whiff of the cigarette.
Mind-invasion! We’re taking over.
Eyes dart around the room, terrified. They know where Bettina’s thought trail ends, but they’re hesitant to agree.
I’ve let this dren continue long enough,
but now it’s time to take control. Spice this
place up with what it needs. What it craves.
What it deserves!
Creative writers have an obligation to exercise
their creativity. Doing so requires the production
of creative writing.
I have three dozen shelves in this
mind waiting to be dusted off. No more!
Our decree until we all die— which, heed,
will happen by unnatural causes —is to toss
these ideas into the blood stream.
Bettina plops into the high-backed leather chair at the head of the table. She crushes her cigarette in the small tray and leans back with a sigh. She grabs the pack on the table, pulls out another cigarette, and lights it.
What are you all waiting for?
The group scrambles from the table. Each races down the hall, gathering supplies of the wall’s shelves. They toss files through a filter. No one stops to watch as each file seeps through the skin.