Writing in the Dark,, an apt metaphor for anyone who has ever tried to tap out words on a  backlit screen.  This book, a collection of essays gathered by Max van Manen, shows how "different kinds of human experience may be explored, the methods for investigating phenomena contributing to human experience…the process of inquiry, reflection and writing…a valuable and rich resource".   That is to say, writing is an attempt to reflect what goes on inside us.  Inside us is where "story" occurs.Scott Popjes maintains a busy schedule, writing, producing and editing major theatrical trailers, promos and EPK's and developing and producing TV series and films, such as "The Remarkably 20th Century" and "The Long Ride Home".  Born and raised in suburban New Jersey, this everyman director/editor loves making movies.Ernest Hemingway - The man who ran with the bulls.  His literary sparseness and compression, well-worn and well-earned, captured the attention of critics and public in a volatile age.  In 1952, he received the Pulitzer for The Old Man and the Sea.   In 1954, he received the Nobel Prize for his "powerful style-making mastery of the modern art of narration."  He wrote from life.  Until his life subdued and rescued him.Will Shakespeare - Aka "The bard".  Arguably the best English writer to ever glide pen to page, populist hero as well as aristocratic raconteur, though we wish he had used all women instead of all men to populate his plays.  (Not a prejudice, just a fact.)   His sonnets remain divine.  Rare is the writer who can scribble successfully in one genre, let alone two.  Some postulate this poet and playwright was, in fact, more than one man…or woman.  What would he have done with film, we wonder?Though he produced fewer than 40 paintings, Dutch painter Jan Vermeer is one of the most respected artists of the European tradition. He is known for his serene, luminous interiors populated by one or two figures. Vermeer grew up in Delft, Holland, joined the painters' guild in 1653, and worked as an art dealer to support his wife and 11 children.  In 1672, war with France ruined Holland’s economy and Vermeer's business failed.  Soon after, he died of a stroke at age 42, leaving his family bankrupt.  Vermeer's paintings were largely forgotten for nearly 200 years, until 1858 when a French critic began to write admiringly about his work.  Interest in Vermeer surged again recently with his work exhibited at the National Gallery of Art in Washington, D.C., and the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City.  Contemporary writers have also been inspired by him, including Tracy Chevalier whose novel Girl with a Pearl Earring imagines the life of the girl in Vermeer's painting of the same name. L.Ron Hubbard - Whatever you may think of his other worldly beliefs, the full body of L. Ron Hubbard's work includes more than 5,000 writings and 3,000 tape-recorded lectures, spanning five, highly productive decades.  A humanitarian and adventurer, he  believes, "There are only two tests of a life well lived: Did one do as one intended? And were people glad one lived?"  We add, "And can one write about it, anyhow?"Johannes Vermeer's "Lady Writing a Letter with Her Maid" records a prior chivalrous age where class decorum reigned.  (Oh, well, you can't have everything.)   One of the most talented painters in the Dutch Golden Age, that's the 1600's, Vermeer's work was forgotten for centuries.  The most brilliant artists of any century are probably never discovered, their paintings hidden till ruin, their pages dropping to dust in unfound attics.  We find this oddly comforting.  No martyr of time, this particular masterpiece hangs in the National Gallery of Ireland.  Definitely worth a gaze.Jules Verne - Ode to childhood and the player within us.  Verne was born, aptly, in Nates, France in 1828.  He promptly ran off to become cabin boy on a merchant ship but was caught and sent back to his parents.  Thus constrained, his imagination wandered.  He wrote story after story, became very rich, bought a yacht and resumed his initial intent - to sail around the world.  Or Europe anyhow.   Our favorite remains Twenty Thousand Leagues.
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First-Place Winner, May – October 2006 Screenplay Contest – Teleplay/Short Series


Written by Diana Kemp-Jones


A lonely war veteran and a mysterious little boy explore the nature of miracles.


What is the nature of a miracle?

Decorated WWII veteran Harley Bruce exists among the shadows of the past. Ailing and alone, he faces a bleak end to his life. But at Christmas, a mysterious child appears. Billy may live in a derelict car on an abandoned lot, but his presence gives Harley more than just a reason to live--he gives Harley the gift of life itself.




We MOVE through a firelit room cluttered with World War II flyboy photos, medals and assorted memorabilia. On the mantelpiece, a miniature Christmas tree rests beside a lonely pair of greeting cards. In the background, we
HEAR Glenn Miller's American Patrol.

HARLEY BRUCE stands at a bay window and stares out at the wintry street. Stooped, wizened and bald, he is swallowed by a baggy lumberjack shirt and corduroy pants.


We HEAR the PIERCING WHISTLE of a kettle. Harley starts and shuffles stiffly from the window. He pauses by a cluster of framed newspaper articles and stares at a yellowed clipping of himself. 

(shakes his head)
End the war in Vietnam--nobody heard you that day,
you old fool.
And there's damned well no one willing to listen to
an even older fool these days.


Harley removes the SHRIEKING kettle from the grimy stove. He barely sets it on the counter when he doubles over in a violent COUGHING fit. GASPING for breath, he struggles to open the window and gulps in fresh air.

Goddamned winters--

He catches his breath and surveys the derelict remains of what was once a neighborhood garage. Rusted car hulks litter the snow, but the skeleton of a red 1959 Chevy Impala rests apart from the others.

(continuing, squints)
Jesus. Now I'm seeing things.
HARLEY (cont’d)
(retrieves his glasses from his pocket)
Damned if that doesn't look like Old Red.

We SEE a flash of movement behind the relic.

Tramps! How many times do I have to complain to the
city? Neighborhood's gone down the crapper as it


A) Putting on outerwear hanging by kitchen door

B) Slowly moving down side of house

C) Finding collapsed section of chain link fence

(continuing, loudly)
I won't tolerate vandals on my property! Stay away
or I'm calling the police.

We HEAR a thin, REEDY wind. Something metallic BANGS from the abandoned lot.

Who's there?
(moves cautiously into the lot)
I'm warning you for the last time! Stay away from
my property.

His boots CRUNCH through the snow. His gaze fixes on a trail of small footprints crisscrossing the Chevy.

Hello? Is anyone here?

He approaches the derelict car and peers through a clear patch of the passenger window. We SEE an assortment of food wrappers, blankets and clothing strewn inside.

(continuing, struggles to open the door)
What in God's name is this?

He stiffly reaches for a battered, one-eyed teddy bear.

(continuing, wearily)
Dammit to hell, I just don't understand. Is this
what we fought and sacrificed so much for?
(glances around)
There's nothing to be afraid of. I'm not going to
hurt you.

Snow begins to fall. Harley shivers and COUGHS.

Please--you'll freeze out here--

We HEAR the wind MOAN. Harley shakes his head and trudges back to the house. As he retreats, we SEE the car door slowly close and CLICK shut.



Harley sits in an armchair picking through the remnants of his dinner. The living room is lit only by flickering firelight and the glow of the television. We barely HEAR the MUTED voices of a war film he disinterestedly glances at.

Through the partially drawn drapes we SEE Christmas lights feebly glowing from the house across the street. Harley struggles to open a prescription bottle on the dinner tray.

(squints at the cap)
Dammit--where the hell did I leave those glasses?


Harley shuffles into the kitchen and dumps the tray on the counter.

(continuing, reaches for glasses resting
by sink)
There you are, you buggers--

We HEAR distant BANGING outside.

Now what?

He approaches the door and cautiously opens it. A veil of snow blows in.

Is anyone out there?

He ERUPTS in a COUGHING FIT. Stumbling against the door, it SLAMS shut. GASPING, he limps toward a dinette chair.

(continuing, catches his breath)
It's no use, Harley.
(wipes his lips)
This is one mission you're not coming back from.

Yet even as he recovers, he eyes the cupboard behind the dinette. He rises and removes various canned and packaged items.



In the dull glow of an exterior light, we SEE a bulging plastic bag shimmy in the wind.



Harley stands by the fireplace warming his hands. We HEAR Glenn Miller's Serenade in Blue playing from a radio. Harley retrieves a photo of a young brunette from the mantelpiece.

(gazes wistfully at photo)
Who would have guessed, eh, Frances? A Purple Heart
doesn't cure a broken one, that's for sure.
(wipes a tear)
An old fool is just a young fool who never had the
sense to realize he was wrong. If--if you're out
there somewhere, Frances, I wonder if you could
find it in your heart to forgive me—



Sunlight filters through the living room window. Harley awakens and rises stiffly from the armchair.

(kneads his lower back)
You're getting too old to be sleeping in the
trenches, Harley.

We HEAR the distant GROAN of plumbing. Harley reaches for a sweater draped over the armchair.

Sounds as bad as me--


Harley puts the kettle on to boil and opens the kitchen door. Outside, we SEE a trail of small footprints lead to the Chevy nestled in a snowdrift.



Harley trudges around the Chevy. Food wrappers litter the snow.

(touches smooth, rust-free panels)
Now my eyes are playing tricks on me.

He reaches for the door. It CLICKS open easily.

(continuing, stumbles back)
Jesus Christ!

Huddled beneath a blanket on the back seat, a small BOY stares wide-eyed at Harley. No more than seven, he has dark, sweet features and wears a scruffy blue parka and jeans. He clutches a packet of saltines.

(continuing, softly)
Don't be scared, boy. I'm not going to hurt you.
But I think you know that already.

The boy stuffs a few crackers in his mouth. Harley surveys the Chevy's battered interior.

This is no place for a child. What are you doing
out here in the dead of winter? Surely you have
somewhere to go?

The boy merely stares.

(continuing, frustrated)
Did you run away? Was someone hurting you?

The boy CHOMPS a mouthful of crackers.

Do you at least have a name, for God's sake?

Well, Billy, how did you end up here?

Harley turns away as a phlegmy COUGH RUMBLES from his chest. Billy intently watches Harley struggle for breath.

Hey, Mister, you sick?

(grips door to steady himself)
I'm afraid so, Billy.

(pats the blanketed seat)
Do you have a name, Mister?

(smiles weakly and sits)
Yes. That much I do have. My name's Harley--Harley

(offers Harley a cracker)
You hungry?

(shakes his head)
I brought them for you, though God knows if I had
any sense I'd call the police. You certainly can't
stay out here.

Why not? What can they do?

A beat.

(wipes his lips on his coat sleeve)
Guess I wonder myself, sometimes. I spent years
fighting for what I believed in--for what I thought
was right, but when I look around I don't see much
to believe in anymore.

(affectionately pats Harley's hand)
Don't be so sad. I'm not. Being sad all the time is
like having a stomach ache that never goes away.

How can you say that? A child shouldn't be living
alone in some derelict car! You should have a home,
a family that loves you. Most of all you should
have a future.

Billy grins. We SEE the car's interior brighten. Harley blinks and rubs his eyes.

I can be your family, Uncle Harley.

(gazes wistfully at Billy)
It's been a long time since I had a family, Billy--
too long. I'm afraid I can barely look after myself
these days.

It's like riding a bicycle, Uncle Harley. Once you
learn, you never forget.

Now that's something else I haven't done for a
(reaches for the door handle, murmurs)
Damned if this doesn't look like Old Red--

You say something, Uncle Harley?

I--was saying that the kettle just boiled. How
about a nice mug of cocoa?

(nods enthusiastically)
Hey, that would be great!

Harley climbs out of the car, but Billy does not follow.

Okay, then. You wait here and I'll be back in a
little while.

(nods and gobbles the last cracker)
Sounds good, Uncle Harley.



Harley pours the steaming cocoa into a thermos. He stirs it and throws in a few marshmallows.

There we are. Nice and hot—



Harley strides through the snow toward the Chevy carrying the thermos. He PANTS for breath by the time he reaches the car.

(opens passenger door)
Here we go, Billy. Brought you some--
(stares at empty car)



Harley fills another plastic bad with packaged food. We HEAR the wind BELLOW outside. The lights flicker and go out.


We HEAR the CLANG of flatware and utensils as Harley rummages through drawers. A CLICK, and the glow of a flashlight weakly illuminates the kitchen. Harley rests it on the counter and dons his outerwear.



Harley shines the flashlight ahead in the snow. Buffeted by the HOWLING wind, he struggles to keep his footing while clutching the plastic bag. Even in the twilight, the Chevy gleams a candy apple red.

Billy! It's going to storm tonight. Please, come in
with me now.
Dammit, boy, this is no time to play games! You
can't stay out here.

He opens the passenger door and stares at the immaculate upholstery and gleaming dashboard. A pair of fuzzy red and white dice dangle from an intact rearview mirror.

(continuing, sets the bag on the seat)
What the hell is going on here?

A GUST of wind catches him off balance. He erupts in a violent COUGHING FIT and stumbles into the snow. Bloody phlegm sprays from his mouth.

GASPING for breath, Harley crawls toward the car. His hand brushes against shining chrome hubcap. He grips the new tire and attempts to rise, but his legs buckle.

Oh, God, not now--not here--

We SEE a small gloved hand reach out from the back seat.

Come in from the cold, Uncle Harley.

Harley reaches for the boy's hand. Billy effortlessly pulls him into the car and guides him onto the seat. We SEE the door close with a GENTLE CLICK.

Where were you? I was so worried--

(snuggles against Harley's chest)
Feel better now, Uncle Harley?

(nods tiredly)
Let me just close my eyes for a moment--