A man takes a room above a pub to write his novel in. A last ditch attempt to 'make it' before his wife gives birth to their first child and he has to buckle down to a REAL job, like he promised to.
It's a bare room. And damp. The paper is peeling and there are stains on the walls.
One stain in particular looks almost foetus like.
The man leaves the room untouched. Settles down to work. after a slow start, he finds he can't type fast enough. The novel starts to flow. He starts ignoring home. The book is taking off in new directions. Sometimes he forgets to eat, he's pouring all his energy into the story...
And as he does so, the stain starts getting bigger. Seems to grow. Become more formed. More defined. More human.
Until, one night, it reaches out to him. Crawls, mewling, out of the wall. A blind wet thing with skin the colour of mould, skin that is soft, and moist, almost fluid, like wallpaper paste, or the underbelly of a slug. And it needs feeding. It needs care. It needs our man.
It needs his story...
A short script. 30-45 mins. Work in progress.
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