THE END IS NEAR
The first segment in IMPRESSIONS, entitled "Alone", is actually taken from the opening of a pilot script for a television series Book of Matches is developing called THE ENDS OF THE EARTH.
When faced with an apocalypse brought on by an unholy alliance between rogue supernatural entities, recently widowered Jack Gamble and a group of survivors—joined together by their knowledge of the prophetic book Jack himself penned—must band together to unravel the conspiracy at hand and reverse the hell unleashed upon their world.
THIS PILOT, incidentally, also reached the second round in the 2016 Austin Film Festival screenwriting competition, where readers remarked: "The pilot is a fresh take on the familiar post apocalyptic zombie genre. It has some unique qualities that help to separate it from other programs. Specifically, the duo of strong and crafty protagonists in Hope and Abby as well as the unorthodox structure of the pilot." and "The writer is a clearly talented storyteller who presents a strong narrative."
With THE ENDS OF THE EARTH, the melancholic lyricism of True Detective meets the adventure and mythos-heavy style of genre shows like Supernatural to bring audiences a truly cinematic and sprawling serialized experience, one that goes beyond the small screen.
The Ends of the Earth, in fact, was born from two separate novel ideas, that will eventually, if all goes as planned, serve as prequels (or lead-ups, depending on their release) to the serialized series. THE SISTERS OF SIXFEET is a ghost story wrapped in a family drama, and tells how the walls between the worlds of heaven, hell, and purgatory were broke open in the first place; THE CABOT CHRONICLES, a violent and twisted angels-vs-demons epic, details how the demons first come to earth, as our reluctant hero, Nic Cabot, gets wrapped up in a war between two worlds.
I will never forget the first time I saw her, stashed there in my closet, swaddled in a white cloth and laid in a wicker basket. She looked every bit the cherubic child her portentous appearance would suggest. I had been in the grip of a dead sleep, dreaming the unremembered adventures of middle childhood, where the subconscious knows little more than the extremes of ecstatic fantasy and nightmarish wonderment. Her newborn cry had stirred me from these sprawling visions, and having always been an imaginative child, I was giddy with anticipation as I approached the door from behind which I heard her calling out. Despite the butterflies in my belly—that mingled sense of trepidation and exhilaration—I remember not once wondering why a baby might be hidden in my bedroom. I simply remember knowing that it must be the result of something out of this world, and therefor I had to know more.
When my young eyes fell upon her, her whispy golden-brown hair catching a faint beam of moonlight that shown through the window, I was halted by her fragility. Two things happened in that moment. The first was that I knew from that day forth I would live to protect her like a sister, protect her as my mother and father protected me. The second was that I felt, for the first time but certainly not the last, a frigid, hollow feeling one feels when in the presence of a ghost.
Ever since that fateful night—long after my parents had answered my bewildered calls and came in to scoop up the strange baby I had found; long after they had named her Joyce and taken her in as one of their own; long after my birth family was murdered in cold blood by the next thing to appear from that closet—I have felt that dreadful chill in my bones. I have lived a life of constant anxiety, forever stalked by unseen forces. And I have never forgot the darkness of my closet, how at night it seemed endless, its walls vanishing into a cavernous well where the hypothetical water at the bottom could never be seen. I know now what that closet is, and I realize beyond a shadow of a doubt that on the night I discovered Joyce, I also discovered Sixfeet.
"Subdivisions," Pylot growled. "Whose damn idea was it to make a neighborhood a bloody maze?"
He spit ash from his mouth before continuing to gnaw at the inside of his cheek. It was a nervous habit he had picked up in life, and one that seemed to have only grown worse since he woke up in the Pit.
Quaint suburban streets stretched out around him, each interchangble home stacked equal distance apart from the next; each silver minivan tucked neatly into its three-stall garage for a good night's rest. To Pylot, the town was like a fun house full of mirrors. It seemed so long since he'd been to a proper town. Each new block looked identical to the one he had just left behind.
He was lost. He had been lost since the day he arrived in Manning Heights. Four days on the surface and not one step closer to completing his mission. The voice of his late sister called out in his head, as it did on so many nights.
Colder... colder... colder, it taunted with girlish glee. Oh! - coldest. You couldn't be further off, Pylot! Man, you suck at this game.
He shook his head and spit again. Pylot had thought for sure that killing her would shut her mouth. Apparently he had been wrong, for now she never slept.
"Lorrianne," he spoke to the wind and to the echo in his ear, "If you don't mind, I'm kind of on a job here. I'd appreciate it if you'd shut your trap!"
Nearby, a dog barked, its solitary yelp hollow in the night air.
Lorrianne giggled. You'd better keep your voice down, Py-face.
Spit. Pylot muttered under his breath.
"Goddammit, I really need to kill something."