Saturday Sample: The Script Challenge, craft beer

 

INTRODUCTION The challenge was to the authors we have already published to turn one of their short stories into a ten minute script. And here they all are. We looked for: 

•  Effective adaptation of the origin text 
•  Ease of production 
• Something that could be Covid safe

 Here’s what we said about them: 

The overall winner 

This has to be Tony Domaille, Star Gazing. Tony’s script has the best balance of everything: 

Superb adaptation of short story script 

Covid-safe 

Ease of production 

Clear presentation 

Highly commended 

Margaret Bulleyment: Green Grass of Home 

An effective adaptation of an already effective story. This would also be easy to stage. 

Linda Flynn: Unseen Eyes I

Immersive Theatre An innovative piece and an innovative presentation in dramatic form. Covid-safe certainly.

Janet Howson: Cinderella’s 

Ex-drama teacher Janet has a good eye for the dramatic and much of this was already there in the original story. This is a skilful adaptation. 

Dawn Knox: The Stag Do

This is a competent adaptation of an already quirky and much-loved story. 

Neta Shlain: Total Loss 

A very detailed and innovative adaptation of a short story that has already gained a lot of attention. 

Dianne Stadhams: Sheep be Damned 

An effective dramatic monologue (mainly) and with ease of production, possibly as a film or a “stage” production. 

Read more and find your copy  here 

Crime Fascination

by Neta Shlain

still water 

So many things went wrong that year for Frida: boyfriend breakup, patient death, adultery, abortion. Her hospital shifts commenced at dusk and ended at dawn only to be repeated a few hours later. This carousel ride was reaching its end.

     Day in day out Frida felt it rising in her stomach as if she were a volcano getting ready to give in to the hot pressure of melting rock.

     It is said that magma takes a minimum of seven hundred degrees Celsius to become what it is.

     It took Frida six months to be ready for her silent eruption. Every event during that time contributed a pulsation, a thump that burrowed deeper, crystallising an idea into a fascinating plan.

     Fascination isn’t easy to overcome or satisfy. It is something unreasonable that grows on you. Frida’s fascination resembled a chronic illness that has taken over, repeatedly presenting itself until she was wrapped in it like a fly in a spider-web. It had become shockingly comforting to resort to it during the day every time something went wrong.

     On the night of her crime, Frida took a halt to ponder over the fact that as an army nurse her life didn’t belong to her, in the case of survival she’d be punished. To make sure the plan worked she added twenty more Temazepams to the pile of fifty in her stomach.

Ben-Gurion On The Hill

by Neta Shlain

water

David looked up at the grey sandy hill with its poorly scattered vegetation, saltbushes mostly, and wiped his bald head. What was left of his once marvellous mane now tickled the inside of his ears with wetness. Sun was getting high; he placed the cap back on and began ascending followed closely by ministers of defence and agriculture.

     David might’ve not been a man of grand height yet his physical abilities could be compared to the more agile and much younger members of the Knesset, not that there were many of them. Quickly moving his short legs, he felt a sense of freedom rising in his chest, that same freedom that most of his dear ones left in Poland were denied. Tears welled up, he inhaled deeper and fastened his step still followed closely by the overly tired ministers.

     Finally, they reached the top. ‘Here it is!’ David extended his hand exposing an armpit soaked with sweat. ‘Here it is,’ minister of defence collapsed on the dusty ground, ripping a bunch of leaves from the saltbush and placing them in his mouth to create saliva, another hand grabbing the chest. ‘What is this?’ Red like a crab, minister of agriculture pulled down his hat to hide his eyes from the sun.

     ‘Ha Negev, my friends. Nothing defines a human more than the ability to make wilderness arable.’

God

 Neta Shlein

raspberry squash

The everlasting debate of whether God exists was resolved yesterday in the comfort of our playroom.

My son sat frowning amongst mountains of bags and toys, presents for his seventh birthday. ‘I can't find this lego piece,' he muttered on the verge of tears. I squinted my eyes, ‘which piece is that?' Marek poked his little finger into the booklet, at a drawing of what looked like a bone. Mummy should never fail to come to the rescue in cases like this, ‘I'll help you, don't worry, we'll find it.'

Stage A began with scouring the room for free-floating lego pieces, which I certainly remembered to have cleared earlier. I felt guilty without charge knowing that I have seen this bone-shaped lego piece this morning hoping against hope that I didn't throw it out.

Stage B was getting into the black bin outside and pulling out two top bin bags, the ones I had put there this morning. Everything was wet with rain but mummy - the knight in shining armour, or more rightly, a tired maid in a throw-away robe - couldn't care less. Everything and anything for her little boy to whom she had given birth only yesterday seven years ago. Bin bags were opened in the corridor, releasing stench of half-eaten pizzas, ice-cream wrappers and, yes, guilty as charged, hopefully, he didn't notice, cigarettes smell. Nope, the bone wasn't there. Bags closed, back to the room.

In Stage C, a sudden, vivid memory crossed my exhausted brain. There was a small round box involved. A whole chain of thought and decision making unravelled lighting up the inside of my skull as clearly as the 60-watt daylight energy-saving bulb lit up the playroom. I did think about slinging it out, but it looked too much like something although not particularly a lego piece, too big for that. I sat here and found that thing there; so then, I must've put it…

Triumphantly, in the simplest of movements, I reached and pulled it out of the small round box standing on the floor right beside us. ‘Here you go, sweetie, your lego piece.'  

He looked at me with no less than eternal admiration and said, ‘Mummy, you're God. And that means that God is real because here you are.'   

I went out the room, and he kept chanting, ‘You are God, you are God.'

Neta Shlein

www.blueefratcrafts.wix.com/natasha

Accident

Neta Shlain

Drambuie  

Mira gently shut the door behind Andre.

     

Daylight was beginning to poke its nose from under the winter blanket. Covered by the veil of dawn, Andre crossed the orange trees grove and flew through the thorny wet grass. He was determined to catch the six o clock bus for work so that he can have a longer lunch. Mira said they could meet.   

     

He emerged at the low fence of the foggy motorway.

     

The reflection of the night’s warmth had suddenly washed all over him. It’s been a year and a half now since the big day, and all throughout the pregnancy, his life was so idyllic that he could hardly believe it was happening to him. How did he, the orphan, the nomad, the miserable lover, the sheep herder become so happy…?

     

A blink of the bus in the distance brought him back to reality. He had to climb the fence and cross the road and be fast about it.  A brief glance over the shoulder and he sprinted.

     

Two hours later, as soon as she left home, Mira was stuck in the traffic. The road was closed due to a major accident. A car’s windshield was shattered, and a massive dent deformed its bonnet; from one glance she could tell it was a total loss.

     

When she reached her office, police officers were already waiting for her. She knew right away.   

About the author 

Neta is a 38 year-old  mother of two. She is Ukraine-born, Israel-raised, UK-based. She writes poetry, non-fiction, short stories, and for children.