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The Script

You can’t make this shit up. The Script is where New Yorkers write down the crazy stuff they see and hear everyday. Share the gems you witness on the streets and they could live on as creative productions like music, writing, art and more.

You can write a Quote, Scene or Character description.

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  • Scene Title: RATS

           The grounds of the beautiful Unitarian Church are infested with rats. The superintendent was dragging to the curb, containers filled with black plastic garbage bags. As he lifted one of them a huge footlong rat jumped out and ran by my feet accompanied by my glass-shattering screams. The Super laughed and quips, ” Watch, there will be another one.” Damn, if he wasn’t right!  I’ve seen an eclectic collection of caged rats in zoos; but I have Never seen such well fed athletic plump rats as those scampering about. 

  • Scene Title: oooooooo OOOOOOOOOO

          Snow was forecast at high noon when the light and airy snowflakes began. Scarcely ten minutes later the flakes were a fat mouthful,
    Nectar of the Gods

  • …in February??

    Deep in the heart of the Polar Vortex 2.0, a middle aged woman is clearly upset with how people roll in the midwest. Her friend, wearing some sort of Alaskan Anorak type hood, nods in violent approval. I mean it is a fair question, who would do that, and why?

  • Scene Title: CHRISTMAS BLESSINGS

     Since November I have been giving out X’mas gifts. I thought I would like a X’mas gift. Today, as I was walking to the bank, around the corner tumbling in the wind were two twenty dollar bills. I threw my swim-bag on one and smashed the other to the ground with my foot. Retracing my steps, I scanned the people on Montague Street, just in case there was an unhappy person looking for the money. No! Business as usual on the street. So I pocketed my gift from God. Yea! I also looked for some more money, blowing in the wind, but that was it. 
       

  • Scene Title: Kneecaps

    Everyone’s got an “I’m walkin’ here” story because everyone says it. However, my first night in NYC I walked out of the place where I was staying. An Old-Brooklyn Italian was walking across the street toward Luigi’s.

    Yellow cab’s minding it’s 40-mile-an-hour business.

    The old, fat guy walks across despite nagging warnings from the blinking orange hand.

    The cab hits him, knocks his kneecaps hard enough that they buckle, and he flies up and onto the hood. The squeal of brakes.

    The cinematic roll of Old Brooklyn weight onto pavement. He gets up. “I’m walking here!” Walks off fine.



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