His story was scripted. She could tell. He looked her in the eyes almost daring her to call him a liar, a fabricator. She smiled and outwardly accepted the story. Inside her mind was whirring. “Okay,” she said to him and smiled. He smiled, but it was not a smile of relief. It was a smile of victory.
None of it was real. It was all a lie. Scripted. I could not believe they had lied to us like this. It made my blood boil. That they lied about all of this whole situation. How dare they?
Pre-written and controlling, almost as if someone is capping your ability to speak your mind. However there is also a point of having a plan to follow or path to lead you in the right direction.
My heart was racing as she said them to me. My palms were sweaty along with my forehead, my bangs luckily covering that as I wiped my hands on my jeans. Of course… I had to act that way.
The crowd of hundreds, maybe even a thousand watched her say them to me. But along with the many people there, she and I both knew the words were fake.
I stepped closer and told her hand, intertwining her fingers with mine. Her hands were sweaty too, but that was because of the hot stage lights beaming from above.
“I love you too.” was what I said back. Of course, the crowd assumed I was just acting. So did she.
I suppose my first disappointment was finding out that all the skits at the local comedy club were scripted. I’d always assumed that the performers were exercising their improvisational skills.
Her voice sounded scripted as she tried to explain what she was about to do. It cracked in all the right places, softened at her command, and felt like the world under me was shattering like in the movies.
He didn’t mean it. He never did. It was all just a show, never meant to be real. But she wished that it was. She wished that he actually loved her. She wished that he actually meant the dialogues that rolled so easily off his tongue. She meant every word that she said. But he meant none.
“Quiet on the set!” Francis called out. “Aaaand…action!”
Jake trudged onto the cratered wasteland of the moon landing site wearing the giant banana suit, muttering “I am a serious actor. I have done Shakespeare in the West End. I had a successful Broadway career.” “Listen,” said Francis, “Since Godfather Part III, I can’t afford to be proud either. Just read the lines like they’re scripted. This toothpaste won’t sell itself.”
I looked down at the script in my hands. I threw it to the side.
“Hey everyone. I came here prepared with a speech, but, it’s just not the same. It’s not what I imagined myself coming up here to do. It seems much too scripted. Today, I am going to speak to you from my heart.”
Our life is not scripted in any way shape or form but you make it up as you go along so keep your head up, be accepting and loving and grateful and your life will be heaven…
Is it true that everyday has already been scripted? That whatever happens, happens for a reason unknown?
More importantly, does it do good to dwell on such ideas and forget living?
No, right?
So why is everyone so stuck up in their pasts?
the whole episode was like something that Harold imagined had happened to somebody else. He knew that it was him acting, but he had no sense of actually feeling the experience, and he could look at himself without attachment.
The actor stared blankly at the word jumble in front of himself. He squinted
“What is this crap”
“spanish”
“Who do you think you are talking to?!!?”
“This is LA, you know?”
It was scripted. His whole life. How could that be? What bargain had his mother made with the Voodo Priestesses that had gotten him into this situation. Walter jumped in his car and started driving east.
A small clatter escapes the space between old, wooden desk and cheap, plastic pen. Frustratedly, his restless fingers brush through his curly hair. After, perhaps, a few too many motionless seconds he tears up the pages in front of him. Nothing proceeds as though it was scripted.
It was supposed to play out like she imagined it.
What was supposed to happen was a shy, but welcoming smile, a coy invitation to something more, something greater. But her expectations failed her.
“I’m sorry. I don’t feel the same.”
Her heart shattered on the spot. Why couldn’t he follow the script?
The power to change what would happen lie before her, in the palm of her hand, in the firmness of her stance. This moment was not scripted. She would not be their puppet nor their victim.
No more.
Entirely enormous implications but that won’t stop me from getting it all the way to the fuckiong moon you bastards! Enjoy the tea you enigmatic icecapaders. I don’t think a movie script is necessarily a thing that can’t be bought but you know sometimes the way shit flows is upcreek and you won’t even see it coming all slow up hill both ways. Don’t even bargain for a lot of jelly babies and tylenol. Just down that gin and throw the tonic out cuz baby we gotta make it work and you better bring the bass drums. Don’t forget the writers block. Use bricks and hammers and crash that shit until it fucking gives way. Sploosh goes the dam breaking waterfall of knowledge and power. In your face. Wait up, don’t stop the fever. Let it rumble until your eyes can’t even fucking believe the vast majority of embryotic fluid that is crashing through your veins. Like jello. Like popscicles in the rain. Just wonder and goblins and taking it slow and forever. It’ll last like it was last night. Fucking ace balls space goat motor coat frog boat. What? Scripts? Writing the way to navigate a convo like he’s there and she’s what and woah they don’t know how they got here but they know where they’re going. How are they even supposed to give it an ounce of believability when the shindigs a shenanigan? I don’t even know anybmore. I’m gonna smoke that shmot until your stupid ecersize is over. How much more can there be? Not much, I assume. Sixty seconds of mad typing is a long time, it seems. I don’t want a perfect world, just one ehere the beasts are innocent and the weapons don’t do any damage. Just release. Just now. Just before it ends.
Always so known
so predictable
Can’t catch a rhyme
for all the muscle in my mind
taken and replaced
with a desgin beyond
this oaken prose
with dribbles of acid
to seek new lines and scenes
Once in a while we all think that our lives are already scripted away. We are all unique individuals, with our own fonts and our own way of writing. Sometimes I think it’s so hard to be an English teacher because of how biased they can be.
Johnny watched the large grizzly ponder fishing at the edge of the stream. Crossing at this point was now impossible. He was considering moving back into the trees and heading further downstream when the second bear appeared.
The first grizzly gave a warning growl, his teeth shining in the sun with dagger sharpness. The second grizzly was not impressed and lowered his head with his own threatening growl. This was his fishing ground and he would not have another use his spot.
The two enormous creatures approached, hair raised, heads lowered, eyes glued on each other. Johnny took this opportunity to cross. He was just entering the stream shallows when the two animals began to fight for their fishing rights. They danced into the water, attacking each other with a ferociousness that chilled Johnny the length of his spine. He ran. As he stumbled out of the stream on the other side, he turned back to see the two bears still fighting.
His escape across the stream had seemed as scripted as the rest of the day. His problems had just increased two-fold. Johnny gave one last glance in the direction of the grizzlies and ran into the forest. He had a long way to go and only a short time to do it in.
Life hadn’t transpired as I had scripted it. I thought I would go to my grave crying for the cop in Sydney who didn’t love me back. God knows I spent months hugging my pillow in endless heart wrenching spasms bought on by the lack of him. But things have a funny way of turning around, even in the midst of romantic catastrophe. I would never have expected to find my cure so close to home, but there it was, one crisp April morning, trying to break through the fence in my front garden.
The whole damn thing felt scripted. You had to make dialogue like this up. Yet, there it was, in the flesh, raw and improvised and meant to be viewed as completely natural. The boy was angry, shaking his fists and grunting. The girl, as if performing a perfect stage direction, threw her glass of wine in his face. The next act was almost too much, as the boy howled, jumped up, and almost bounced up and down with fury. I half-expected the restaurant patrons to stand up and clap.
A tall, skinny, pointed face women stood at the front door. She wore a black pencil skirt and a sleek grey blazer. Her words were scripted and sharp as she said the names of people i’ve never heard of before off a sheet of paper clamped to a board.
A wise Elder once told me, “You can not pre-write your life.” Are our lives scripted or do we call all the shots? Who knows and does it really make any difference? We only can live each moment as it comes.
Sometimes, I wonder if all of life is planned out. Written down and just waiting to happen. Alterations are just inclusions, everything there from the beginning, unchanging words to shackle us to fate itself.
my words are scripted all the time. well, probably it’s because I’m better that way. However, sometimes I prefer my thoughts not scripted since that’s the way i want it.
Scripted is my first word for One Word and I’m kind of stumped already. My first thought is that wrestling matches are scripted, which then gets me into thinking about my previous training and how some of the people I was in the class with have recently had their first match. I wish I could have been a part of that in some form, but without the school being able to provide the correct training there was no point in carrying on with them, and I will continue to look for a different school.
“And with the force of my…my…Line?”
“It’s two weeks until show you should know all your lines Drew.”
His face flustered and not from the house lights. “Sorry…”
His story was scripted. She could tell. He looked her in the eyes almost daring her to call him a liar, a fabricator. She smiled and outwardly accepted the story. Inside her mind was whirring. “Okay,” she said to him and smiled. He smiled, but it was not a smile of relief. It was a smile of victory.
None of it was real. It was all a lie. Scripted. I could not believe they had lied to us like this. It made my blood boil. That they lied about all of this whole situation. How dare they?
Pre-written and controlling, almost as if someone is capping your ability to speak your mind. However there is also a point of having a plan to follow or path to lead you in the right direction.
“I love you.”
My heart was racing as she said them to me. My palms were sweaty along with my forehead, my bangs luckily covering that as I wiped my hands on my jeans. Of course… I had to act that way.
The crowd of hundreds, maybe even a thousand watched her say them to me. But along with the many people there, she and I both knew the words were fake.
I stepped closer and told her hand, intertwining her fingers with mine. Her hands were sweaty too, but that was because of the hot stage lights beaming from above.
“I love you too.” was what I said back. Of course, the crowd assumed I was just acting. So did she.
If only she knew those words weren’t scripted.
I suppose my first disappointment was finding out that all the skits at the local comedy club were scripted. I’d always assumed that the performers were exercising their improvisational skills.
To no think on your own, to say what people expect or want you to say. Or saying what people want to hear.
Her voice sounded scripted as she tried to explain what she was about to do. It cracked in all the right places, softened at her command, and felt like the world under me was shattering like in the movies.
Forget the script, she said. We’re improvising this. I can’t deal with shit dialogue if I’m supposed to carry this goddam movie.
I may have just stared then, my mouth agape. I felt like I was watching something on television.
This was Hollywood.
He didn’t mean it. He never did. It was all just a show, never meant to be real. But she wished that it was. She wished that he actually loved her. She wished that he actually meant the dialogues that rolled so easily off his tongue. She meant every word that she said. But he meant none.
scripted scene
him and me
we walked past the pastry
unnoticed
he took a bite
or two
from my own plate
“Quiet on the set!” Francis called out. “Aaaand…action!”
Jake trudged onto the cratered wasteland of the moon landing site wearing the giant banana suit, muttering “I am a serious actor. I have done Shakespeare in the West End. I had a successful Broadway career.” “Listen,” said Francis, “Since Godfather Part III, I can’t afford to be proud either. Just read the lines like they’re scripted. This toothpaste won’t sell itself.”
I looked down at the script in my hands. I threw it to the side.
“Hey everyone. I came here prepared with a speech, but, it’s just not the same. It’s not what I imagined myself coming up here to do. It seems much too scripted. Today, I am going to speak to you from my heart.”
So far my whole life had been a movie.
Genre: angst, tragedy, slice of life
I wonder who is the sick bastard who scripted it with no dialogue for me which effectively ends my social life.
At times it feels as if life is scripted. On this stage, everyone’s just trying to figure out their role.
Our life is not scripted in any way shape or form but you make it up as you go along so keep your head up, be accepting and loving and grateful and your life will be heaven…
Her whole life was scripted. What a drama. She couldn’t get out of her cage to eat her bamboo sticks. They were so good and delicious. yummi
ok, whats scripted, can’t be erased. its already been read by the online crowd.
Is it true that everyday has already been scripted? That whatever happens, happens for a reason unknown?
More importantly, does it do good to dwell on such ideas and forget living?
No, right?
So why is everyone so stuck up in their pasts?
the whole episode was like something that Harold imagined had happened to somebody else. He knew that it was him acting, but he had no sense of actually feeling the experience, and he could look at himself without attachment.
The actor stared blankly at the word jumble in front of himself. He squinted
“What is this crap”
“spanish”
“Who do you think you are talking to?!!?”
“This is LA, you know?”
It was scripted. His whole life. How could that be? What bargain had his mother made with the Voodo Priestesses that had gotten him into this situation. Walter jumped in his car and started driving east.
A small clatter escapes the space between old, wooden desk and cheap, plastic pen. Frustratedly, his restless fingers brush through his curly hair. After, perhaps, a few too many motionless seconds he tears up the pages in front of him. Nothing proceeds as though it was scripted.
It was supposed to play out like she imagined it.
What was supposed to happen was a shy, but welcoming smile, a coy invitation to something more, something greater. But her expectations failed her.
“I’m sorry. I don’t feel the same.”
Her heart shattered on the spot. Why couldn’t he follow the script?
Everyday in trying to script a day .i fails evenly everytime .not yet congested with the feeling of being exist wit
The power to change what would happen lie before her, in the palm of her hand, in the firmness of her stance. This moment was not scripted. She would not be their puppet nor their victim.
No more.
Entirely enormous implications but that won’t stop me from getting it all the way to the fuckiong moon you bastards! Enjoy the tea you enigmatic icecapaders. I don’t think a movie script is necessarily a thing that can’t be bought but you know sometimes the way shit flows is upcreek and you won’t even see it coming all slow up hill both ways. Don’t even bargain for a lot of jelly babies and tylenol. Just down that gin and throw the tonic out cuz baby we gotta make it work and you better bring the bass drums. Don’t forget the writers block. Use bricks and hammers and crash that shit until it fucking gives way. Sploosh goes the dam breaking waterfall of knowledge and power. In your face. Wait up, don’t stop the fever. Let it rumble until your eyes can’t even fucking believe the vast majority of embryotic fluid that is crashing through your veins. Like jello. Like popscicles in the rain. Just wonder and goblins and taking it slow and forever. It’ll last like it was last night. Fucking ace balls space goat motor coat frog boat. What? Scripts? Writing the way to navigate a convo like he’s there and she’s what and woah they don’t know how they got here but they know where they’re going. How are they even supposed to give it an ounce of believability when the shindigs a shenanigan? I don’t even know anybmore. I’m gonna smoke that shmot until your stupid ecersize is over. How much more can there be? Not much, I assume. Sixty seconds of mad typing is a long time, it seems. I don’t want a perfect world, just one ehere the beasts are innocent and the weapons don’t do any damage. Just release. Just now. Just before it ends.
Always so known
so predictable
Can’t catch a rhyme
for all the muscle in my mind
taken and replaced
with a desgin beyond
this oaken prose
with dribbles of acid
to seek new lines and scenes
Once in a while we all think that our lives are already scripted away. We are all unique individuals, with our own fonts and our own way of writing. Sometimes I think it’s so hard to be an English teacher because of how biased they can be.
Johnny watched the large grizzly ponder fishing at the edge of the stream. Crossing at this point was now impossible. He was considering moving back into the trees and heading further downstream when the second bear appeared.
The first grizzly gave a warning growl, his teeth shining in the sun with dagger sharpness. The second grizzly was not impressed and lowered his head with his own threatening growl. This was his fishing ground and he would not have another use his spot.
The two enormous creatures approached, hair raised, heads lowered, eyes glued on each other. Johnny took this opportunity to cross. He was just entering the stream shallows when the two animals began to fight for their fishing rights. They danced into the water, attacking each other with a ferociousness that chilled Johnny the length of his spine. He ran. As he stumbled out of the stream on the other side, he turned back to see the two bears still fighting.
His escape across the stream had seemed as scripted as the rest of the day. His problems had just increased two-fold. Johnny gave one last glance in the direction of the grizzlies and ran into the forest. He had a long way to go and only a short time to do it in.
Life hadn’t transpired as I had scripted it. I thought I would go to my grave crying for the cop in Sydney who didn’t love me back. God knows I spent months hugging my pillow in endless heart wrenching spasms bought on by the lack of him. But things have a funny way of turning around, even in the midst of romantic catastrophe. I would never have expected to find my cure so close to home, but there it was, one crisp April morning, trying to break through the fence in my front garden.
The whole damn thing felt scripted. You had to make dialogue like this up. Yet, there it was, in the flesh, raw and improvised and meant to be viewed as completely natural. The boy was angry, shaking his fists and grunting. The girl, as if performing a perfect stage direction, threw her glass of wine in his face. The next act was almost too much, as the boy howled, jumped up, and almost bounced up and down with fury. I half-expected the restaurant patrons to stand up and clap.
A tall, skinny, pointed face women stood at the front door. She wore a black pencil skirt and a sleek grey blazer. Her words were scripted and sharp as she said the names of people i’ve never heard of before off a sheet of paper clamped to a board.
Rehearsed, practiced, insincere, lacks depth, what everyone else says
A wise Elder once told me, “You can not pre-write your life.” Are our lives scripted or do we call all the shots? Who knows and does it really make any difference? We only can live each moment as it comes.
Sometimes, I wonder if all of life is planned out. Written down and just waiting to happen. Alterations are just inclusions, everything there from the beginning, unchanging words to shackle us to fate itself.
my words are scripted all the time. well, probably it’s because I’m better that way. However, sometimes I prefer my thoughts not scripted since that’s the way i want it.
Scripted is my first word for One Word and I’m kind of stumped already. My first thought is that wrestling matches are scripted, which then gets me into thinking about my previous training and how some of the people I was in the class with have recently had their first match. I wish I could have been a part of that in some form, but without the school being able to provide the correct training there was no point in carrying on with them, and I will continue to look for a different school.
Life is not this. It writes itself, word for word. And then, the words run ou
“And with the force of my…my…Line?”
“It’s two weeks until show you should know all your lines Drew.”
His face flustered and not from the house lights. “Sorry…”
Someone who met in the a usual place, get to know each other because of their friend.