Screenplays/Teleplays/Stories/Poetry
Ricky Hawthorne
Screenplays
POTTERSVILLE
It's Xmas Eve and Ricky, redundant, separated and drunk, crashes his car and ends up in Pottersville, the nightmare town from his favorite film; worse still he's wrecked Clarence the Angel's plan to restore George Bailey to Bedford Falls. Can Ricky make amends and if so will he go back with George?
A family disturb an ancient evil in The Badlands and have to call on an ancient good for survival; but which is which?
A doomed menage a trois straddles the carnage of WWI France
WOULD LOVE TO MEET
Monica loves to read the anonymous admirers section in her paper on the train every morning until she becomes the apparent object of a stalker's desire and has to use her wits to stay alive.
INTERSTATE 40
Eris takes a lucrative contract to truck a mysterious load from Memphis to LA, but finds the price of doing so more valuable than money
Teleplays
A Turn of the Wheel
Jim's gambling days are over until he finds a cell phone that predicts horse-race winners but its forecasts prove to be fatal as well as fortuitous
Charlie's a success and knows just where he's going until his Satnav contradicts itself and he runs over a fleeing witness to a bank robbery and spends the next 24 hours being interrogated by two imbecilic detectives, falling in love with the witness and being threatened by a cross-dressing contract killer.
Is This Yours?
Bio
Graduate Warwick University 2002-2006
Triple Honours: Literature, Theatre and Film
Short listed for Bridport Prize in Poetry 2015
Bridport Prize 2015
Short Listed
Foreign Correspondent
“Look –see, here!” he cried
Beckoning me over like a geography teacher
And gestured with his trigger finger at the side of the mountain
“This” he grinned, “This is the life giver”
I peered down quizzically at the damp ground
Pulling sharply at a tuft of grass to see further
But it was tough and resilient, so much so
That I had to tear at it, ripping a fingernail in the process
“You see now” my guide spoke with derisory patience
“Yes, yes I do” yet it was only a trickle
Less than a pin prick scar in the sleeping hillside
But it remained unchecked as I forced a thumb over it
My guide smiled patronisingly and turned to
Point his silver arm at the valley below
Where the blue snake slithered toward open sea
Then murmured something, unheard, toward the horizon
Meandering away, unhurried,
Down the darkening hill