m.e.s

One of my best friends produced ‘Your Future…’ (I believe Mark’s growled “A new way of working, a chain around our necks” is in reference to him). Apparently, our man likes to sit in the pub, dabbing speed and necking Tramadol all day. His song-writing technique is to let the band jam on something, record everything, and make notes as to when (‘10 minutes 45 seconds, 14 minutes 20 seconds’ etc) he likes something enough to expand on it.
Just thought you’d like to know.

We'll go together

Author Ladyoftheteaandblood

“Can you help me please I’m so lost?” the child looked up at him and Pine could see the boy had been crying for a long time. He could also see the bruises and tell-tale marks of abuse, on the child’s arms and neck.

“It’s ok, what’s your name?” Pine understood he must seem awfully tall and scary to a kid, so he knelt down to be a little more on short stuffs level.

In tatty jeans, a t-shirt long past its user date and trainers fit only for the bin the small boy, who Pine thought must be about eight tops, looked at him.

“My name is……” he had to really think. God thought Pine, he must have been badly treated.

“My name is Danny” the name seemed strangely​ familiar but Pine no matter how hard he tried couldn’t place it.

“Well Danny I'm…..” bloody hell I’m doing it now, still it’s not like he hadn’t had to change his name four or five times in the last six months, it was hard to keep up.

“Pine, and we will see together if we can find someone for you” 

Where was he? Looking about he realised he recognized nothing. Standing up and taking the boy’s hand he took stock of his surroundings, which turned out to be no more than a corridor with stone cold, bare walls and  no doors, except for one at the very end.

“Well Danny it looks like there is only one way to go, ready? It’s fine I won’t leave you and somebody must be missing you” he only hoped that the somebody was a different one to the person who had made the marks on the boy.

“I’m scared” came the small voice “I don’t remember how I got here”

Pine didn’t either but dithering would not help to find the answers he needed.

“Come on, forward Ho! And we will travel onward to find the end to this adventure” trying with all his might to sound positive Pine picked up the lightweight kid, set him on his shoulders and started moving off.


“Why have you got blood on you? It’s everywhere!” Danny asked in a panicked voice

For the first time Pine checked  himself out and staring down at his clothes, saw he was indeed covered in sticky drying blood. Couldn’t be his, so who had he hurt and why could he not remember.

“Killed a monster before I got here, I tell you all about it, when we are out of here. Hey fancy ice cream, what’s your favourite?”

“Pistachio or mint chocolate”

The conversation rang a bell in Pines head but still no answers came to him.

Pine started singing with the little chap on his shoulders, jogging a bit and making the child giggle and laugh. Now that was a wonderful sound! 

The door grew nearer.

“I’m really, really scared, let’s not go through the door.” Pine put Danny down and sat on the floor. The boy crawled into his lap and hung on.

“Look you, this corridor is just a way to the outside and once there we will know what’s going on. I find that with most things in life it’s the not knowing that’s scary so..” and he lifted Danny up off his lap, stood himself and place the boy on his shoulder once more.

“We’ll go together right, you and me against the dragons, yes?”


“Yes, Mr Pine” 

Pine started singing “Men of Harlech” loudly which made Danny laugh again and through the door they went into the light and somewhere an ice cream.

The corridor of the mortuary was empty even the sound of a man sing and a boy laughing went silent with the closing of an ethereal door. On the slabs in the cold M.E.s room, there lay two corpses that had come in together. A man, and the boy, he’d try to protect from too many guns. 

Pictures not mine I just played (and I know they are not in a corridor)

@abfoster1s @angryschnauzer @archy3001 @antyc67 @aliceada @anovinebo @angryschnauzer @aggro-femme @damageditem @booksandcatslover @bluegrasscontessa @dorito82 @echantedbytwh @eve1978 @feelmyvibesss @frenchblondgirl @heathermc13 @izhunny @ladywyldfire @larouau12 @lolawashere @lostinspace33 @maevecurrywrites @markruffalo @mrshiddelston @oneschrutebuck @oneschrutebuck @ourladybinxthings @peskipixi @prplprincez @quoting-shakespeare-to-ducks @servent-alearika @sf0206 @simonscat @the-haven-of-fiction @tomhiddleston-kikibfairy @tomkurbikston @tinaferraldo @tomforachange @neither-blue-nor-green @nuggsmum @lordjohnandtom 

When the universe began,
everything spun from out from some holy center.
To this day I swear I see
that God Particle buried in your left pupil.
When the universe began,
there were stars, and the stars became us,
and we went into orbit.

I remember spinning.

We are all made of stars,
and some of us are made of the same ones
and no matter how many orbits we spin out of
we will always come home to the same galaxy.

Nothing that begins in motion
can ever keep still, and although
it may not be possible to satisfy this last criterion,
I believe we can make the earth revolve around the sun
for the first time since Copernicus.

I believe in spinning.
I believe in the twist of your tongue
and in cyclical things like me,
spinning,
and your good hand holding my good hand
three blocks from where we met.

Everything comes back to the center.
The earth is spinning around the sun again
and the tilt of your neck as you lean in to kiss me
is exactly 23.5º and we
are the creators of the universe.

I love you like nebulas colliding, like galaxies
spinning in and out of existence.
You blinked and started the universe turning,
but there were moments before this,
where I was with you.

I remember spinning.

—  “Concerning the Creation of the Universe” by M.E.S.
I’ve spent the last three nights scribbling poetry in black eyeliner
yet I still haven’t found anything worth saying. It’s funny
how lately the definition of art has become so expansive that even
the poets are confused. Then again, haven’t the poets always been confused?
I traced the brick and mortar with my thumb in some ceremonial,
some Ash Wednesday sort of ritual to scrape out the old residents’
skin cells. I lit illegal candles to perform sacrifices to this dried-up DNA
but I set off the smoke alarm. Mine is the kind of room
presidents avoided. The ghosts that live here are those of angry
feminist bloggers and people who weren’t worth the time I took
to dump all my shit on the carpeted floor and set it all up
like I belong here. I’ve been staring up at the cracked-and-yellowed
edges of the ceiling for quite some time, but I still haven’t found
inspiration. I do not think this is a place intended for art. Yet here I am.
An artist to the end. With shaking hands and bloody ankles and
an empty bottle of vodka on the coffee table. Too much shit on my desk
and none of it matters. I’m halfway there
is what I keep telling myself to make it seem like
things like this end at some point. And I still believe it. It’s funny
how this cinder-block, body-in-a-box, soft-knock, dirty-socked
freak show of a person (myself, really, though I don’t intend
to tell anyone what’s going on inside my head.
But my therapist keeps asking and I keep telling her
to go read a fucking book or at least get me a soda while I decide
what I’m not going to say this session) isn’t really doing all that badly. Though
I’m still hanging picture frames that don’t stick right above my bed
because I have trust issues. I have issues that make me trust too much
and I make jokes but it’s really not all that funny because
I’ve been trying for years to break a pile of bricks with my hand but
I’m breaking my hand instead. My bones aren’t all there anymore,
but more so than my brain which is getting numb off honey-flavored
chloraseptic which tastes like lemons. But these walls are white.
They haven’t had time to yellow with age or with nicotine finger breath
and they’re cold as hell. I spend so much time lately
imagining striking matches against them and lighting
this whole place on fire that my eyes are starting to turn bright red and
I don’t really sleep here any more. Just write manifestos about
how my manifest destiny is perpetually eastward and
they were wrong about the world being round.
I’ve spent the last three nights drawing a new map on the walls
and I think all this is starting to make sense.
—  “Ekphrasis for the Cinder Block Walls of my Dorm Room” by M.E.S.
My mother says yellow doesn’t look good on me.
She points to the sun, to tulips, her favorite flower,
all yellow, her favorite color. She tells me they
are beautiful, tells me they are glowing, tells me
I was born snow white with hair the color hers used to be.
She drinks her iced tea with extra lemon wedges
balanced on the glass like yellow umbrellas.
She looks green at her snowy daughter
with eyes just like hers, only lacking yellow.

My mother says short skirts don’t look good on me.
She says my thighs have gotten bigger recently,
that I’m beginning to look more like her than my father,
that the careful balance of hem on the edge of curve
is not classy, that good girls know thick thighs
are a secret, meant to burn out
after never glowing yellow in the morning heat,
that I am a statue not meant for the street
but for the museum archives, not important enough
to go on display but not worth throwing away
even though my stone doesn’t look so good next to marble.

My mother tells me tight dresses don’t look good on me,
tells me body contour doesn’t look good on me.
My shadows don’t look good on me nor my highlights.
In black and white photography I’m best seen in all grey
Don’t over don’t underexpose.
“But you’re a photographer,” she tells me. “You know that.”
She tells me there are secrets kept in the attic
and I often think she wishes I were one of them,
that she sees me as the skeleton in her closet and that I
am helpless to escape but to wait for decomposition.

My mother thinks most things that make me feel
like I’m shaking off the dead skin I’ve been carrying around
for nineteen years don’t look good on me.
My mother thinks my body doesn’t look good on me,
that I live inside the stretch-mark jail bar
cage of her curves and she thinks that trying to break me out
is a good thing. My mother doesn’t know

that not loving every inch of her daughter doesn’t look good on her,
that I hate the color yellow and I look damn good in tight dresses.
That I am an hourglass filled with hot sunlight
nearly bursting at the seams
and crazy enough not to want to escape this body
but to try to raise it from the ashes of the Snow White fire
my birth lit on the dead grass.

I am phoenix. I am blood and feathers. I am hollow bones
and thick thighs and legs on concrete. I
am burning yellow tulips crushed by heavy footfalls,
sour lemon balanced on the edge of the sidewalk.
I am glowing white hot filled with thick and my own love.
I have been a better mother to my skin than my own ever was.
—  “Yellow” by M.E.S.
CLONE SCRIPTS: THE M.E.S.

There is a whole family of spec scripts that is identified by these elements in the first ten pages.

  • A male lead 20-29.
  • Who is white.
  • Who pines for a better class of girlfriend than his own materialistic and demanding one.
  • Whose job is unrewarding.
  • Who is put upon by people who have expectations of him.
  • Whose inciting incident is an opportunity to rise in status.

The second act is characterized by:

  • An oversexed female character who pursues him, to his dismay.
  • A more powerful male character who blocks the attempt to rise in status out of spite or sadism.
  • A girl-next-door who captures his heart but seems unattainable.
  • Some situations of social awkwardness.
  • A goofball friend.
  • Waffling on the part of the protagonist as he reacts to obstacles placed in his path.
  • Safety nets that prevent his flaws from causing painful consequences.
  • The risk of the girl-next-door falling to the more powerful male antagonist.

The third act is characterized by:

  • A showdown in which the more powerful male character is exposed as a shallow and selfish manipulator.
  • The rejection of the antagonist by his superiors and the girl-next-door.
  • The awarding of the girl-next-door to the protagonist.

M.E.Sses are low-stakes stories with protagonists whose challenge is to tweak their personalities enough to take the antagonist’s place in the hierarchy.

To turn your M.E.S. into something different, focus on the elements that make it low-stakes and swap out trope characters. Deconstruct it. Update it. Acknowledge that this story drips with archaic privilege. Use that to your advantage to make it fresh and unexpected.

And hurt the guy. Real change is a painful process that inspires admiration and sympathy. That’s what you want in your protag.

Forget what they taught you in school.
You are a time traveler,
not the admission of guilt you were raised as.
You are no accident, not the crown of thorns
they twisted you into.
Your mother said it hurt like hell when you were born,
said you burned her on the way out.
You wonder now why everything you touch turns to flame.
It isn’t about your fingers, the world is just too cold.
You have lived a thousand years and more
and I know it sounds crazy,
but sometimes you need to believe people when they make promises
and I’m making this promise—
that you are growing angels in your chest cavity.
You breathe out feathers, and this is why
they don’t know what to do with you.
They’ve never met anyone like you.
Forgive them. Forgive them.
—  “About You” by M.E.S.

1. On a special programming day at school, a local self-defense teacher came to teach a session, one for the boys, one for the girls. Over half the girls in my grade paid hundreds of dollars to take her weeklong class that summer. There was no class for boys.

2. The first time a boy liked me and I didn’t like him back, I felt a lot of things. I was confused, flattered, unsure. But what surprised me was the guilt. I felt that since a man was interested in me, I was expected to like him back. I tried so hard to convince myself I did. When I failed, I couldn’t look at him. I was too scared to tell him no.

3. In seventh grade, a girl I knew told me that all girls were either prudes or sluts. I only noticed recently how long I’d believed that.

4. After I gave my ex boyfriend a blow job, I asked him if he now planned to live up to his promise of taking care of me as well. He informed me that the thirty seconds of over the pants touching before I got on my knees counted the same as his orgasm.

5. I was dragged by the arm to the head of upper school’s office by a teacher with acid on her tongue when I bent over and didn’t realize that my skirt had ridden up. At my plaid skirt white oxford button down slacks school, I had seen boys show up in sweatpants because they were too lazy to put on their uniform that morning. All they got was a faintly sarcastic reprimand.

6. When I tried to wear a tight skirt to dinner one night my parents were horrified. They said I looked like a slut and by wearing it I would be “giving people the wrong idea about me.”

7. In second grade a boy pulled out the front of my blue flowered shirt, looked down, and said “ew, nipples.” When I ran to the teacher about this, she didn’t seem particularly concerned.

8. I had to write this list.

—  8 Times I Realized that Feminism is Still Important by M.E.S.