7 Words.

Somebody keeps writing to me in Punjabi—Arabic? I have to admit, I don't know the difference. Sanskrit? I don't know. At first it looked like gibberish, but then it kept happening. I focused on the way the words were written to find that I enjoyed the characters—the writing was pretty, and I wondered what it meant. Then, I realized my phone had been disconnected for months. I don't have a phone number. —that's when I realized it was The Illuminati. Tales of a Superstar DJ WE're not going to do this again, are we. Mm. We are. I begin to sweat early—awakening with a surge of lightning that seemed to have exploded from inside of me— nurturing a deep thought of nestling a head full of hair as he nibbled on my rouded breasts, our breaths rising and falling in time with one another—the love of a man, the touch of a lover, straddling over me with the Alpha to my Omega, cradled underneath his weight, consumed by passion, awakened by the shock that this—is what I should arise for. A fury of white light bursts from my sacral chakra, as I awaken alone, taking in a deep whisp of air, seeking refuge in the morning light, grasping the handle of power at the reigns—a grip on my sanity, a focus to cherish my own as having escaped the thought of taking a lover, nonesuch a man had yet to be deserved of such a throne. I was nearly pure again—untouched, and unbothered, groomed neatly, and made whole again, in all knowing of the denial of love—the betrayal of man with like kindness as thought of as my own, there was no such a man at all worthy of her satisfaction, The God I am, nestled in the rock of my womb as the light of woman, the mark of time a betrayal to her truth; love and nurture, whimsy and flourish, the flower of her garden, kept whole and unweathered. I warned you. What's left at all besides failure Almost nothing. Be still, Down, boy. Be calm. There, there. Relax. If I see him again in any other man I will deny him and any other man entry to my kingdom. Alas, the pure of heart have come to nourish her. Be still. Stay back. Be true. Heal, boy, Down, boy! This band of hours is nothing but a cage to calling creatures of the night who walk by day and see the light inside of all, To feast before the famine; The sprout has turned from seed, To endless gardens, Grass grows longer underfoot Of Eve and Adam. —of Eve and Adam. —of Eve and Adam. Wait here. Sir. I— He stops for a moment to regain his composure; he is clearly angry, flustered. (Sighing) —said… Wait here. [For Your Consideration] An untapped talent showcases her personality with quips and excerpts containing deep dives of a canonized saga written in all forms and genres from meta to metaphysical; a mysterious mystical journey through the multidimensional realms and worlds of the unknown—art imitating life and vice-versa. C'cxell Soleïl—pen-named CS Stone is the voice of a generation. LESLIE KNOPE and her vice president— Can it be TINA FEY reprising her SARAH PALIN but obviously just a spoof? Obviously. Prepares to hand down the reigns to her successor, whom she “personally” endorsed, although at first… FLASHBACK- BEFORE: NO. But, Madame President— NO. PRESIDENT— NOPE. See? You have to. I don't have to. I'm the President! I don't have to do anything I don't want. You have to endorse this candidate. —Why?! She campaigned for you— Says who? Uhm, everyone… So?! Both campaigns. And she lobbied for you in Iowa. In Iowa? Really? That seems dangerous… It was. [insert radical election violence here] Oh. Wow. Yeah. [beat] So— NO. This is my house! Madam, please. This is MY office!! President knope, come on. YOU'LL NEVER TAKE THIS FROM ME. I AM THE DICTATOR NOW. THIS IS MY FIRST DICTATION. LESLIE! HOW DARE YOU USE MY FIRST NAME! OFF WITH YOUR HEAD. What!! SECRET SERVICE, SECRET SERVICE— SIEZE HIM. The secret service rushes in and football tackles the President's advisor to the ground— the Vice President enters. VICE PRESIDENT Oh, dear. CUT BACK TO: The president's advisor cracks his neck, still obviously injuried and worried recalling the flashback. Can it be that guy from 30 rock who was jack's assistant? I hope so? JONATHAN. What is it. GET IN HERE. Yes, sir. Wtf, how does he still work for Jack? Idk. Continuity. You're not going to believe this. Believe what, sir. Get in here. JACK watches his TV with bewilderment; he has just learned the election results of the most recent presidential election. Tell me there's something wrong with my eyes. Continuity! Continuity! How am I supposed to get to work? Well, how do you usually get to work. Town car. Ah… Hellicopter. I see. [beat] Well, there's a Manhattan Bound L down the street. Oh, God. Or the M is around the corner, if you'd prefer. Why on Earth would I ‘prefer'— Have a good day. [she slams the door. He stands for a moment, deflated—then the door swings open and a lunch box is shoved into his chest; the door is slammed once more, and then audibly bolt locked.] Christ. What'd he say? He said “Christ” Good. Send that guy. He's gonna need him. EMMA WATSON catches the boat. After having been left hanging over the bridge for a undetermined amount of time, EMMA WATSON, whose arm doesn't seem to be tired at all, however appearing to be visibly bored, unnoticed, even by passing tugboats, dangling from the bridge, is by happenstance and quite an odd coincidence, rescinded by a yacht full of familiar friends—familiar, being that they are all celebrities, and friends—being that they are all wealthy members of the entertainment community, who recognize EMMA and urge her to jump as the boat passes under the bridge, which she does—joining the party boat as it sets sail to open sea. [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.