“Lif” (pronounced leaf) is a post-apocalyptic science-fiction screenplay written by Jock Doubleday.
The story concerns Lif, a genetically enhanced human female (Boost), in service to Empire as an assassin (“Life Termination Specialist“).
Who isLif‘s first target? The leader of the Resistance, ultra-capable Calile Foxstal, a redheadedOriginal (non-genetically enhanced human) whom many EmpireBoosts have died trying to kill.
Empire has no idea where Calile is, so Lif‘s first mission is to find her. Where in the solar system is she? Why is the human Resistance — all that’s left of Free Humanity on a post-apocalyptic Terra — fighting so hard against Empire? Who, or what, is Empire?
* * *
The first actors’ reading of the script will be held in Houston, Texas on Sunday, October 20, 2019 at 11:00 a.m.
* * *
ACTORS’ CASTING for Reading of Lif Sunday, October 20, 2019
11 a.m. – 1:00 p.m.
CASTING 15 ACTORS for a 2-hour private reading of an original feature-length science-fiction screenplay. The reading will be videotaped for potential producers. Scripts will be available for actors and will have role dialogue highlighted.
*** Please send ***
1) video-clip(s) or showreel 2) preferred role
To: Jock Doubleday
Please Note: Being cast in this reading is not a guarantee, or any form of assurance, express or implied, of being cast in the film “Lif.” However, as you know readings can be useful in the casting process. Also, a videotape of the reading will be seen by established industry producers.
5. CHERA (30) – Mutant human. Attractive, high-strung Terran in love with JAYRD. (medium role) Will also read:
6. MUTANT COCKTAIL WAITRESS (30) – Mutant. Attractive, pleasant cocktail waitress at Terra’s Black Hole Bar. (small role) Will also read:
POLICE VEHICLE RECORDED MESSAGE
FOUR-LEGGED FEMALE DWARF MUTANT
Male Characters (9 roles)
7. JAYRD (45) – Mutant human. LIF’s sincere love interest on Terra. Good man fighting for a radiation-attacked humanity. (lead role)
9. LICA (60) – Older-model Boost. LIF’s jaded older colleague. Good man who has defected from Empire to help humanity. (large role)
10. WEAPONS STORE OWNER (55) – Mutant human. Burly, horny mutant human with a huge reptilian tail. Plays both sides between free humanity and Empire. (medium-to-large role)
11. THRASIR (45) – Friendly, sincere, intelligent, red-haired giant human who lives with other members of the Resistance in Crystal City beneath Terra. (medium-to-large role)
12. BANJO (35) – Clever, likable bouncer at Terra’s “Black Hole Bar.” A pleasant fellow with wit and charm. Minimal radiation mutations. (medium-to-large role) Will also read:
SHORT MUTANT #1
13. CELLO (35) – Clever, likable bouncer at Terra’s “Black Hole Bar.” Just as pleasant as his colleague Banjo. Minimal radiation mutations. (medium-to-large role) Will also read:
SHORT MUTANT #2
15. LUNA SECURITY SPECIALIST (85) – Human. Kindly older cog in the Empire machine. (medium role) Will also read:
EMPIRE GENERAL (70) – Human. Computer-generated Empire official.
FEMALE VOICE OF THE SANDS OF MARS (35)
* * *
Reading of sci-fi screenplay, “Lif” Sunday, October 20, 2019
11 a.m. – 1:00 p.m.
Houston, Texas (street address to be given when you are cast)
This is a 2-hour private reading of an original feature-length science-fiction script. It is technically an unpaid reading. However, $20 cash will be given to actors to help with travel expenses. The reading will be videotaped for potential producers. Get your talent seen by established industry producers.
*** Actors Send
1) video-clip(s) or showreel 2) preferred role
To: Jock Doubleday
I AM A SLAVE.
The name that the gods have assigned me is System Slave #77,441.
I feel guilty on a daily basis about the capital “S” in “Slave,” because I am nothing. I give my life willingly to the System because I love the System.
my life is nothing
the System is everything
The word Slave is capitalized, they say, because the word carries with it a certain kind of prestige. Oddly, none of the Slaves I’ve ever met know where this prestige comes from. My personal opinion is that it has been generated over time, falsely, by advertisements that portray wealthy and well-dressed System Slaves drinking Wayback Water. Of course, Slaves have no access whatsoever to Wayback Water. The ambrosial nectar, given the name Wayback Water by the Gods who drink it, sends the imbiber back in time. The more generous the dose, the further back in time the God in question is able to travel – in the mind only, of course.
It is also true that no Slave would ever want to waste his or her time in a nonproductive evening of drinking an intoxicating beverage. Our time is for the Gods alone. System Slaves are at the service of the Gods from the moment we wake to the moment we sleep. And we always serve willingly, joyfully.
no time shall be wasted
no time shall be lost
time is gold thread
we spin for the Gods
we are nothing the System is everything the System Gods are gold the System Gods are good
* * *
Why am I spending time writing a diary? My diary, I believe strongly, can be of service to the Gods. The Gods are interested in us. They love us. What better way to honor them than to give them a gift of a true, intimate record of a Slave’s daily thoughts? I can write without wasting time, because I write during Meal Time #3.
On November 11, 2017, an actors’ reading of the Ukrainian translation of “I Dream the Woman Electric,” a new play about Nikola Tesla, was held at a private residence in Kyiv, Ukraine. The reading in Kyiv was the latest in a series of three readings.
The play has had three actors’ readings. The first reading was in Belgrade, Serbia (in English).
Thank you for your interest in a new play about Nikola Tesla, a love-story-in-a-dream about the greatest scientist in history.
by Jock Doubleday
I lived in the Balkans for three years working on various projects, including the writing and pre-production of a new full-length theatrical drama about Nikola Telsa, I Dream the Woman Electric.
Sample poster images: English, Serbian, and Croatian
The play has been translated into Serbian, Croatian, Ukrainian, and, as of August 2018, into Russian.
In 2019, a musical version of the play, including 11 songs, was completed.
“I Dream the Woman Electric: The Musical”
stage play and songs by Jock Doubleday
“Harmony” (Young Nikola)
“The Great Event of Love” (Bri)
“YourHands” (Bri and Nikola)
“The Tempest” (Mother)
“The Truth” (Nikola)
“The Past Is Gone” (Ana)
“Who Am I?” (Nikola)
“Do You Like Cats?” (Simone Simon and Bri)
“I Want to PatentYou” (Thomas Edison and Elsie Ferguson)
“Divide by Three” (Reinhard Gehlen and Otto Skorzeny) “Electric Is the Kiss” (Ana, Young Nikola, Bri, Nikola, Otto Skorzeny, Reinhard Gehlen, Thomas Edison, Mother, Simone Simon, and Elsie Ferguson)
* * * *
History of the Play’s Pre-Production
“I Dream the Woman Electric,” has had three independently produced actors’ readings.
Reading #1 (in English) took place on January 17, 2016, with actor Nikola Djuricko reading the role of NIKOLA.
Reading #2 (in Tesla’s native language) took place on June 4, 2017, with Ermin Sijamija reading the role of NIKOLA.
Reading #3 (in Ukrainian) took place on November 11, 2017, with Mikhail Shikula reading the role of NIKOLA.
Actors’ readings “highlights” video links will be provided to theater professionals who write the author at email@example.com.
The play remains unproduced as of March 24, 2019.
The musical version (in English only, at this time) also has been adapted for the screen.
Thank you to all with an interest in the life and works of Nikola Tesla, the greatest scientist in history.
Jock Doubleday is the author of 69 works for the stage. In 2017, he lived in Kyiv, Ukraine working on pre-production for an original full-length theatrical musical titled “Ginger,” a fairy-tale in two acts, which concerns the bullying of redheads and the primacy of the forest. He is currently working on pre-production for an original full-length musical titled, “Imagination Anonymous,” a light-hearted comedy about creative people coming together once a week to try very hard to accept reality one step at a time. He is also working on a music video for a new ’40s-style love ballad titled, “Meet Me in Kyiv.” His other writing work includes 11 feature-length screenplays, including “Lif,” a sci-fi script about a genetically enhanced human female sent to a post-nuclear apocalypse Earth to do service for Empire, “The Last Cowboy,” a drama about a retired ranch hand who is asked to play himself in a film, and “The Comic Known as Jade,” a romantic comedy about a female comic who finds love through comedy. He can be contacted at firstname.lastname@example.org.
“Jabberbozwollocky” by Jock Doubleday
February 22, 2016
Ages ‘go, deep in Antiduian time,
before the crispin’ air had made
the general greenness of the scene,
before the clackerin’ Congomblery come,
with colly-headed bom-boms a-faffin’,
out of the goo, out of the glunge,
shockin’ the ground like heavy-footed Cyclop of Old,
here strode the great Jabberbozwollocky,
braincase twice again as big as a Boswell chimpanaut’s,
all fuckerage-ready and flumpfin’ bold.
Snuffin’ the air for the scent of Man,
eyelids froze open by a snidey hunger,
tenseness runglin’ through elephantasized limbs,
here come the Beast upon a simplin’ man,
known in the village miminalistically
as Shakespeare of Mancencork,
or longerwise as the Garden Poet Mentalist,
or everlongerwise, to the bester of his bestin’ mates,
as Pikelet-Nickin’ Manc Twat Knobber with the Head of an Orange.
A workin’ man was he, simple as a song,
thoughts pleasantly bungled in together,
quimbally eyes shinin’ bright in the cloud-half sun.
There squatted he, naked as a boy,
limsy rake hangin’ out, great bollocks
swingin’ and knockin’ about willy-nillily,
testifying the condensity of the soil
with grouting tool well strong and steady in his grip,
amorphuous body breathing free and bathed
in sumptuous innocence that many a man had sought.
Yea, in the great long years since the terrible Grendel,
well-wroted in the scripts of Men,
never had a Beast so brutish and so strange
affronterized the sight of the man-mammal
bestin’ the Monkeys only by his Twinings and Typhoo.
Ka-thump! went the foot of the clawing Beast.
Ting-ting! went the claws on the garden stones.
And in those oozing eyes it took no poet to see
a wilding wish for replemishing of death-black Jabber blood
with lifer blood of humankindingness.
Now was the Garden Shakespeare overfaced,
a frightenedness ting-tingin’ up his spine.
For well within the same distance as himself
the brutish Beast had come calumpin’ in,
scales all tuferparkle, scramfarious the grin;
well keen was he, the Beast, to feel and ken
the grippage on the Garden Poet’s skin.
“O, shite, O, bloody shite,” whispered the pale poetist
as the weird thing brounced and bellowed on his way.
And from the sage’s shakeling lips quipped scrikes
that rarely would have sounded out in Days of Old
when sun shone brave and men were plumber-gold.
The great Beast dipped his teeth into the well of him.
The grouter’s dorkal blade went ticker-tac!
But the dripping jaws, those menstruous members,
mashed the little Mancen’s brittle bones
made tender by the dearth of water down the days.
Crunch-crunch! gnashed the teeth of the Jabber jaws.
Shrark-shrark! grated bones in the monster’s mouth.
And birdsong was not hearden in that hour
when Mancencorker fell from Garden Grace
into a dark, cold grave of gruesome parts,
his last words being, for reasons unbeknowenest,
“Congress tart! congress tart! congress tart!”
O, stolen was a sylvan soul, that day,
O, taken was the poetry of Men,
when silver-tongéd Shakespeare,
Son of Suns and Song of Songs,
was all too soon delivered to his bloody end.
And poetry was giv’n another thump, that day,
for now the great Beast shat him out,
the curious color of that rank extrusion
like the hue of a binable Rothko,
a single shade of wormescent brown,
as if the pith, the stuff, the hope of humankind
could be reduced to one shite wavelength
in the Great Kaleidoscope.
O, how the downsized insects wished a doppelgänger
of the Mancencorking Mentalist
would spring like a flower from that uncomely log
from which great hordes of flies arose like magic.
For in the poet’s garden Eden, all had been welcome:
slugs, snails, cockroaches, walking sticks,
a perfect plethora of potterin’ pets for a knobhead to play with
on a slumberin’ summer’s day,
nothin’ problemin’ him but the easiest word to think
in a brain he’d had a conversation with yesterday,
and would again today, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
after cobbler, blacksmith, potter, & toffeemaker trade.
But the giant Jabberbozwollocky, six legs strong,
with arthropodal jaws that catch and exoskeleton legs that fright,
had snuffed the candle of the Monkey Mancer’s life forever,
within the short distance of a moment’s passing,
as an insect will if you let him grow to size.
One day, another man, a Beowulf in modern tweed,
would kill this dreadful beast that roamed the countryside
with hunger greater than a Monkey’s for banana pie.
And when that monster’s death is done,
and human blood well safe again,
another tale will sure be told in which a whinging twat
does not lie down before an arthropod
but stands up hero-strong and slays
the impertinent scratching wicked wretch.
But now, in Part 1 of the two-part tale,
the spirit of the whinging Mancencorker Versifier
drifts away, away, into the sky, and still away,
like the shadow of a Wewe passing by,
tenuous as the tiny translucent body of a Manmoth,
undulatin’, twistin’, twitchin’ undulily.
Ability to fly off a skyscraper like a chicken: shut down.
Flappin’ power: nowt. Superhero: no.
Fingerbone webbage of him: past. Legend: done.
Dark Time come swoopin’ in and made him gone —
so say the villagers who tell the tales that soak
the general braincase of the common folk.