Competition rules–48 hours to write a 5 page script with the following parameters:<\/p>\n
Genre: Romance \/ Location: Wax Museum \/ Object: Bag of Potato Chips<\/span><\/p>\n I dedicate my story to my father.<\/p>\n (non-screenwriter’s key: INT = Interior, EXT = Exterior, VO = Voice Over, OS = Off Side)<\/p>\n <\/p>\n INT. WAX MUSEUM – NIGHT<\/p>\n Ghostly shadows in pockets of dark and light. James Bond. A young, scrawny GUARD hurries down the hall, bobbing Alvin runs past the Greatest Presidents exhibit, rounding the Alvin stares in shock at John’s waxy face and lifeless eyes. John Wayne–frightened and confused, a lost wax golem.<\/p>\n EXT. TRAILER HOME – NIGHT<\/p>\n A WOMAN, barefoot and in a nightgown, long curly hair wild, An 8 YEAR-OLD ALVIN gently leads her back inside. She cranes ALVIN (V.O.) BACK TO SCENE<\/p>\n Alvin has John gently by the elbow and is leading him back to Alvin walking through the Prehistoric Man exhibit.<\/p>\n Alvin breaks into a run.<\/p>\n Alvin leads John down a dark hall, passing the Exhibit of the ALVIN ALVIN (V.O.) INT. BREAKROOM\/MUSEUM – NIGHT<\/p>\n Alvin is starting his shift, putting his car keys and a CARL ALVIN <\/p>\n ALVIN Carl examines him with the weary eyes of a new father. He INT. CHAMBER OF HORRORS – NIGHT<\/p>\n Alvin stares at an evil SPANISH INQUISITOR standing over a Alvin is having a staring contest with evil Hitler when…<\/p>\n He nearly jumps out of his skin.<\/p>\n ALVIN sits on the floor, flashlight beamed at John Wayne’s INT. CHILD’S BEDROOM – NIGHT<\/p>\n A middle-aged Alvin holding his INFANT DAUGHTER, her tiny INT. WAX MUSEUM – DAY<\/p>\n Alvin, dressed clean, nervous, hair carefully slicked, and a They enter the Room of Entertainers. Claire walks slowly, ALVIN Claire looks at him.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n INT. LIVING ROOM – NIGHT<\/p>\n The sounds of gunfighting as Alvin and Claire sit on the INT. CHILD’S BEDROOM – NIGHT<\/p>\n Alvin tenderly smooths his daughter’s wisps of hair, looks Alvin reminisces. Through the open window, crickets chirp. The baby in his arms closes her eyes with a faint smile, Competition rules–48 hours to write a 5 page script with the following parameters: Genre: Romance \/ Location: Wax Museum \/ Object: Bag of Potato Chips I dedicate my story to my father. (non-screenwriter’s key: INT = Interior, EXT = Exterior, VO = Voice Over, OS = Off Side) Sleepwalkerby (thanks, Mercury) BC Chillum INT. WAX […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_exactmetrics_skip_tracking":false,"_exactmetrics_sitenote_active":false,"_exactmetrics_sitenote_note":"","_exactmetrics_sitenote_category":0,"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":false,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[],"tags":[10],"class_list":["post-2336","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","tag-fiction"],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/sbl5mn-2336","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/juliashih.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2336","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/juliashih.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/juliashih.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/juliashih.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/juliashih.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=2336"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/juliashih.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2336\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/juliashih.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=2336"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/juliashih.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=2336"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/juliashih.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=2336"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
by (thanks, Mercury) BC Chillum<\/span><\/div>\n
In 1979, while in college, I worked
as a night guard at a wax museum.<\/div>\n
Genghis Khan. Cleopatra. Elvis. Frozen wax statues. The
silence is so alive it breathes. A wall clock strikes 3am.
And then suddenly, echoing between the walls…<\/p>\n
Hullo?<\/div>\n
flashlight in one hand, open bag of potato chips clutched in
the other. His name tag reads: Alvin.<\/p>\n
Is anyone here?<\/div>\n
corner and shining his light on…JOHN WAYNE. The great cowboy. John is standing in front of an eerie tableaux of the Last Supper. He uses a stiff hand to shield his eyes from the light.<\/p>\n
Are you God?<\/div>\n
The bag of chips falls to the ground. John examines his own
waxy hands, palms up, palms down, flexes his fingers.<\/p>\n
Am I dead?<\/div>\n
My mother was a sleepwalker. There
were nights when I was a little boy
and I would wake up to the front door opening.<\/div>\n
hurries out the door into the night, stars shining. Eyes open
but blank. She lifts her head up towards the moon as though
taking communion.<\/p>\n
I would run after her and lead her
back to bed.<\/div>\n
her body back towards the treeline and moon, as if
magnetized.<\/p>\n
C’mon, mom. You’re sleepwalking.<\/p>\n
It wasn’t so different.<\/div>\n
his spot between a wax ALFRED HITCHCOCK and a wax JIMMY
STEWART. John steps up behind the display reading, JOHN
WAYNE, his hands drop into his familiar pose and he freezes.<\/p>\n
Over the next few weeks, it
happened two more times.<\/div>\n
Hullo? Is anyone there?<\/div>\n
Pope.<\/p>\n
Is this heaven?<\/p>\n
Shhh…you’re just sleepwalking.<\/p>\n
I never told anyone. No way people
would ever believe me.<\/div>\n
bagged lunch into his locker. Another guard, CARL, a paunchy
man with a red beard, washes out his thermos at the sink.<\/p>\n
How long have you been working here?<\/p>\n
Me? About…3 years.<\/p>\n
Ever work the graveyard shift?<\/div>\n
On and off, but not since my wife had the twins. Why?<\/p>\n
It’s just…strange things at night.<\/div>\n
shakes water from his thermos and throws it into a backpack.<\/p>\n
It’s just nerves, kid. Bring a
radio or something. Nothing good
ever happens when you let your
imagination run wild. They’re just
statues.<\/div>\n
man being pulled apart on a rack. He pokes the statue in the
eye. The thing is creepy.<\/p>\n
I hoped Carl was right. There were
some evil characters in that
museum. John Wayne was harmless if
not a bit quirky. But some of these
other guys…<\/div>\n
Hullo?<\/div>\n
Then one morning, I read in the
paper that John Wayne died.
Stomach cancer. That night, I spent
most of my shift looking at his
statue.<\/div>\n
face, staring with vigilant hope in his eyes. Checks his
watch. 3:06am. Silence.<\/p>\n
He never woke up again.<\/div>\n
hand around his pinkie. She stares into his face like he’s
her entire universe. You couldn’t imagine a greater love.<\/p>\n
I met your mother a few years
later. I took her to the museum on
our first date.<\/div>\n
slim young woman with bright eyes. His future wife, CLAIRE.<\/p>\n
examining the figures — Marilyn Monroe, Elvis, Alfred, Jimmy
— then stops in front of John Wayne.<\/p>\n
My dad loved John Wayne.<\/p>\n
He’s actually my favorite.<\/div>\n
He, uh…he means a lot to me.<\/div>\n
One day, I got reall
\ny sick with the
flu, and she came over, surprising
me with soup and a stack of John
Wayne movies. She stayed and
watched all of them with me even
though I knew she didn’t care for
westerns. Truthfully, I don’t
really like them either.<\/div>\n
couch, wrapped together in a blanket, Alvin looking slightly
under the weather. He looks at Claire, their faces dancing by
the glow of the TV, but it can not hide the love in his eyes
for this woman.<\/p>\n
That was the night I knew without a
doubt who she was to me…<\/div>\n
into those big bright eyes, her mother’s eyes.<\/p>\n
But I never told her this story. I
always wondered if, those nights I
would hear that voice call out and
find John’s statue wandering the
museum, if somewhere, the real John
Wayne was dreaming of waking up in
a wax museum. I thought about
writing him a letter…but it
seemed crazy, and then he died.<\/div>\n
Behind him, the hands of the clock shift. It’s 3am.<\/p>\n
And now, sweet girl, you’re the
only one who knows daddy’s secret.
These eyes…just waiting for the
world to show itself to you. This
world has so much mystery and
magic. Things you can barely
believe, even as you look right at
them. Like you being here, in my
arms. Maybe someday, when you
figure out the secrets of this
life, you’ll explain it to your old
man so he can rest in peace. And if
you ever meet a ghost wandering in
the middle of the night, don’t be
afraid. Maybe he just needs a
little help finding his way home.<\/div>\n
sighing a wisdom beyond human years.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"