Archive for February, 2018

Even T. S. Eliot couldn’t get a deal

when he pitched The Wasteland limited series,

so that crazy premise based on your lame

lemonade stand verses won’t get off the ground.

You don’t even have fateful fortune tellers or

impatient barmen and your childhood characters

are trite and unreflective of grander social mores.

You should return to your drafts, have the

stand burn down, get sunk in a deep morass of

moss-draped swamp water, dissolve like a

shipwreck from the Near East and entrap

beneath its counter tokens of ill-starred scamps.

Depict distressed clients, kicking thin cups on the

sidewalk and bedraggled housemaids clinging to

some forlorn hunk of pulp, hoping for a fresh

squirt to transform their existence.

Then maybe you’ll get a second look.


“We should have a flashback,” said Jeff spreading

his hands, “of the time he stowed away, scared,

riding in a test capsule with no one,

trapped in  a long orbit he never made.”

At which Leslie puffed on her cigarette.

“Don’t make me laugh, you hack. That’s the oldest

cliché in the book. The dark childhood mess

come back to enmesh him in its tight grasp.”

Her straight brunette bangs jittered. “Rollo stares

space in the face, unafraid. A mighty

white-suited orbit warrior, darting

into the far reaches of the unknown.”

Milton rubbed at the ache in his forehead.

“We know Rollo’s tough, but we gotta glimpse

his tender side. Maybe a space babe, a

statuesque princess from Mars with some spunk.”

“You have to be kidding,” sneered dry Leslie.

“The last thing we need is a Mars vixen,

a small-brained twit to simper at space hunks.”

“Let’s just do a jelly monster,” urged Jeff,

“like the one in ‘Moon of the Unhallowed’.

we can all get behind slimy feelers.”

There were reluctant nods. The meeting stopped

at four with notes on grappling tentacles.