From Page to Stage

Script and Treatments...

The Man with No Thumb Outline.docx The Man with No Thumb Outline.docx
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Short Film Idea Sandalwood Girl.docx Short Film Idea Sandalwood Girl.docx
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Charitable Commercial Idea Beat Bullying.docx Charitable Commercial Idea Beat Bullying.docx
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Mizu Outline.docx Mizu Outline.docx
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Let's Get Ready to Rumble Shooting Script.docx Let's Get Ready to Rumble Shooting Script.docx
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Isobel Falls.docx Isobel Falls.docx
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Destined to Survive.docx Destined to Survive.docx
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Glimpsing For Light 


Darkness envelops the room

A blurry relief surrenders the doom

Not existing in black like was worried

The past left behind and buried

Laughing and squinting at the sparkling sunshine

Calling and waving them in the distance

Smiles perfectly painted, each detail in line

A freckle of dust floating in the air so clearly

Cheating fate, missing what must be, so nearly


Debating and waiting, denial is sweet

Ignorance, stupidity a tall rocky feat

Patience and care from all those around

Falling in half


Not two making one, but one making half

Fear and resent as half slips away

No reading, no writing, no music to play


A wish, a prayer, throbbing aches, some love

A gift, to see the glow above

Fading darkness and sorely missed sights

The light not stinging, but now sitting right


Darkness envelops the room

A blurry relief surrenders the doom

Not existing in black like was worried

The past gone, dead and buried



Lessons in Life: Learning the Art of Swimming

My father: A lighthouse, a beacon guiding the way. He liked to dive. My siblings and I watch in horror as dad takes a flying lunge from the end that usually read No Diving. He glides smoothly like a hot knife through butter, gracefully slicing beneath the surface. As we can hold our breath no more, he reappears bobbing duckishly in the artificial turquoise water.

At a tender young age my dad took me to our local swimming baths. Walking through a shallow pool of cloudy warm water to rinse any trace of impurity are the first steps to a very long journey that lies ahead.

Getting to know the water is tough; learning to trust it, embrace it and indulge in it is a challenge. The taste of chlorine burning my throat as a wave splashes up my nostrils.  The stinging of spray in my eyes, my florescent orange armbands pinching my matchstick arms, all added qualities to my first lesson. 

Dad persists in his quest to make me the next Olympic fish.  Along the way though, he attempts other later failed athletic triumphs on my part. We try learning how to ride a bike, a skill that I have still not achieved, and the best endeavor of all, tennis pro? My dad and big brother, both competitive and highly motivated, make it their mission to include me in their Sunday activity of 5 hour marathon tennis sessions. I, like many other little girls, prefer to spend my spare time brushing My Little Pony’s pink tail. However, they have other plans, ball girl, turned tennis player plans. As these yellow balls speedily beam through the air like spheres of fire, I duck and scream and wail in horror. “Cam, get the ball”, they shout, “Practice before your turn”. Quivering with fear and worry of disappointment, I sit Princess Pony down so she can view my attempts. I drag my feet toward my little racket and start to clumsily bat the ball against the grey concrete wall.  Despite my lengthy Sunday antics with Dad and big brother, it is always a pleasure to sit in the sunshine and watch them as they laugh and groan until the sun goes down. I always earn a refreshing strawberry split for the way home too.

The new swimming baths are modern and exciting, no more pre-swim foot wash here. However, there are a few let downs now. 1. Being the youngest of five, I am too molly coddled, ‘Poor Cam’ they say, ‘She’ll get there in the end, she’s only a baby’: An easy ride for a while, but later detrimental to the development of my swimming the English Channel aspirations. 2. My brothers and sisters have become interested in other things; it’s just me and Dad now. I therefore have to accompany Dad and get dressed in the men’s changing rooms; Smelly, damp and lots of loud bolshie, semi-nude men.  3. Dad untangles my twisted long hair, pulling and wrenching and finally attempting to style it in a reasonable manner so mum doesn’t tell him off.

Running is another occasional activity that I accompany my father on. As dusk draws in, I trail behind a scantily clad Dad in his short shorts briskly sauntering ahead. We stop at a rather busy spot on the cycle path; Dad lunges, touches his toes, then swiftly follows the stretches by star jumps, squats, and finally creaks down to a few press ups. Passersby step over him.

On this occasion my friend is here at the pool. Rather patronizingly she is effortlessly floating ahead bobbing up and down meters in front flaying her arms like ribbons in the distance. Dad’s holding me. I’m holding Dad. I’m kicking, splashing with feet, spreading arms and he lets go. I can do it. I’m excited; I am losing balance and swallowing a gallon of burning water. Next time will be better.

Dad doesn’t swim so much anymore. We remember with pride how he swam the length of the pool underwater only taking one breath at the start. We laugh and applaud about the times he threw himself (contrary to the rules) head first down the fast slide at Sedgemoor Splash, shooting out the end like a bullet as onlookers tut and gasp. My stomach is in affectionate knots as I think of jogging and tennis; all fond recollections of days gone by.

The garden is dad’s new true love; the vegetable plot, his favourite place in the world. A smile from ear to ear appears as he pulls a new leafy lettuce fresh from the ground, lightly dusting away any gritty debris that may taint its beauty. As he potters around, hose in one hand, shovel in the other, he uses water again, but now as a way of life to spread the growth of greenery. I beam with the knowledge that I have memorized every piece of our swimming days and know that he once joined me on these watery recollections.   

Diving however, oh yes diving is still a venture dad likes to occasionally risk. Not a risk, but a lease of life, a slice of bliss that age cannot confine.

Swimming to me, or learning the art of swimming is my slice of bliss; because despite the pruny skin, the fear, the blinding sting of chemical water infested with all sorts of bodily fluids and the hair on my head in all the wrong places, swimming was irreplaceable time spent with my hero. 



Adaptation Isobel Falls

Lady Mila lived on the Spanish island of Ibiza. When not clubbing on San Antonio’s famous strip, she spent most of her days relaxing and tanning in the sun. Lady Mila had a handy helper: Deirdre.

Deirdre was a lovely lady who spent her time pampering Lady Mila and her own young niece Isobel. Isobel was a very demanding character too, who never did as she was told and spent most days eating sweeties and leaving wrappers for her aunty to pick up behind her. A simple “Thank you” would be nice to hear one day from these two young ladies.

In addition to cooking and cleaning, Deirdre was also an expert at embroidery. She knitted Lady Mila the most beautiful jumpers that only she could make; they were unique and looked very special.

Deirdre had knitted umpteen jumpers and sewn on many buttons by now and was fed up with demanding duties where she was unappreciated.

“Deeee Deeeee” Lady Mila screeched one day. Deirdre hated this pet name. “Where are my diamante flip flops? Fetch ‘em would ya.”She demanded.

“My Lady,” Deirdre mustered through laboured breath as she struggled towards Mila’s sun-lounger, just able to see above the pile of washing in her arms. Isobel trailed behind pulling wings off some sort of bug, “I would like to hand in my notice”.

Looking up from her sparkling pink nail polish, Lady Mila batted her false eye lashes aggressively, and wide mouthed replied “You wha’?”

Before Deirdre and Isobel knew it, they were being marched to their condo quarters on the beach and ordered not to move. The Lady was not letting them go that easily.

“This is the last straw”. Deirdre muttered to Isobel.

“Ice cream Aunty, Ice cream now!” Isobel replied, her voice whining.

“This is not time for a tantrum Isobel. Please just do as your Aunty asks and sit quietly while I think up a plan”.

“ICE CREAM NOWWWW!” Isobel erupted, bubbling and sobbing with face red as lava.

In the midst of the commotion, Deirdre frantically rummaged under the bed as though digging for hidden treasure. Out she pulled a key.

Deirdre, closely followed by the screaming child walked outside to a hidden cupboard under the condo. Deirdre used the key to unlock the door and then slowly reached inside.

Out came a basket big enough for two. Falling on its side a knitted sack unraveled. The sack unfolded and unfolded. A huge patchwork quilt lay in front of them and with one whoosh, it filled with air and floated high like a kite.

“W..w..what’s that aunty?” Isobel managed to say through snot and tears.

“I knitted it, every last stitch, and now we can leave this island”. Deirdre replied.

What blew up before them was a patchwork balloon, with basket attached. The ladies jumped in and off they flew to a booming J-Lo dance tune echoing below.

Amongst screaming and tears from Isobel, due to lack of ice cream, Deirdre warned her not to jump up and down as it made the basket wobble. If it wobbled it may lose control and float so high the sun would burn the fragile threads and destroy the sack. Or if it flew too low, it may sink as far as hitting a house or a dog.

They were soon swooping in and out of fluffy clouds and rays of sunshine warmed their backs. Freedom was in the palm of their hands.

As the flight continued however, so did Isobel’s bad mood and ‘need’ for ice-cream. With one kick to her auntie’s shin and an outburst of stamping, there was a creak and a moan and that was it. All that resembled Isobel was a small Isobel shaped whole in the basket’s base.

What became of Isobel and where she landed was never known, but here’s a piece of advice – remember to respect your elders!




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