Broken Ankles - Jow Bates

I wish I could apologise enough for this, he coughed through alate lungs. Choking on feathered perspective, a rising torrent of smashed flight and broken dreams.

INT. OVERTLY GREY WAREHOUSE, DUSTY WALLS FORGED INTO WORKABLE CORNERS FOR SPORTS OUTLETS, THE SCENE RECENTLY BOTTLENECKED INTO WHAT SHOULD BE A BASKETBALL COURT. ORIGINAL FEEL TO THE PLACE; APPLE BASKETS AS NETS, CHALK LINES OVER FORGOTTEN FLOOR-PLANS.
PANS TO CONVERSATION BETWEEN TWO HOPEFUL SOULS; RED JORDAN HI-TOPS, AND YELLOW LAKERS JERSEY'S RESPECTIVELY SPLIT THE DIVIDING FACTIONS OF PERSONA.

BANKS:
And like dreams floating on fucked up clouds we smash hope into ourselves.

JALL:
We be all up in this, the tyranny of shattered dreams and cold skull masks.

SHATTERED GLASS AS JALL AIMS ANOTHER 40oz BOTTLE AGAINST THE WICKER RIM OF THE CHAIN NETTING MARKED AS THE MAKESHIFT GOAL.

BANKS:
God plays the puppeteer to these sports, Jall be killin' it.

JALL:
Y'all be killin' it.

BANKS:
Hollar motherfucker.

JALL:
Another real estate agent fuckin' wid'chall broken minds. For three!

ANOTHER 40oz BOTTLE CAST INTO THE ETHER AIRBALLS; THE BOTTLE FLIES WIDE OF THE PSEUDO-NET TO SMASH ON DUSTY CONCRETE.
SLOW PAN ACROSS THE SHADOWED WAREHOUSE FLOOR, TO A GAGGED MID-FORTY YEAR OLD, STILL DRESSED FOR WORK, SALIVA POURING OVER HIS BALL-GAG, EYES WIDE WITH A MIXTURE OF  CONFUSION AND FEAR.

MAN:
Mmmphuughl! (MUFFLED CRIES)

JALL:
And the crowd goes fuckin' wild y'all! Broken bottles and shit nigga! We be ballin';
chain be commandin',
niggas be wantin' ice on their stand in,
liquid kissin' on that cold b-boy stance 'n',
Banks be bustin' tanks-style these mans and-

BANKS:
-The fuck y'all be usin' my name?

JALL:
Witness!

BANKS:
Shit Jall, another sacrifice?

JALL:
God love 'em, right?

BANKS:
Maybe ain't all day, aight?

JALL:
Praise Allah, motherfucker.

BANKS:
Jall, y'ain't Muslim.

JALL:
Dayaam' Banks, suit never clocked that.

BANKS:
Ain't be clockin' the Glock in my low bats, gats is packing' names be flavour, fucker.

JALL:
Fuckin' balls deep in this shit nigga!

JALL, FINISHING ANOTHER 40oz BOTTLE, PASSES IS UNDER HIS LEG, THEN ROUND HIS BACK IN ONE FLUID MOVEMENT BEFORE ATTEMPTING A PRECISION FADEAWAY SHOT AIMED AT GAGGED-MAN.
BOTTLE SMASHES INCHES ABOVE GAGGED-MAN.
GAGGED MAN RECOILS IN FEAR, CRYING.

BANKS:
'Ey Jall, enough;
And life is tough enough,
Without, niggas be actin' an ass.
Chattin' like Kanye meets Eddie Murphie on nitros gas.

JALL:
Haha, whitey's been trying to talk.

BANKS:
No shit.

JALL:
I'mma cross his white ass up.

JALL BRIEFLY EXITS INTO SHADOW, LEAVING BANKS GLEEFULLY BEATBOXING BETWEEN SIPS OF NATIONAL BOHEMIAN.
JALL REENTERS WITH A BASKETBALL.

JALL:
I'mma snap yo' ankles Mr. Whiley!

BANKS:
He'll fuckin' do it too, man.

JALL STARTS PASSING THE BALL ROUND HIS BACK, THROUGH HIS LEGS AND OVER HIS SHOULDERS WITH ALL THE PRECISION OF A SEASONED STREET-BALLER, THE FLUIDITY OF HIS ACTIONS CONTRASTING STARKLY WITH THE LINEARITY OF HIS SCENERY.
TERPSICHOREAN POETRY CAST BRIEFLY OVER ABSTRACT SHADOW.
WITH DAZZLING DEXTERITY JALL PASSES THE BALL OVER HIS SHOULDERS AND AHEAD OF HIMSELF, HE LEAPS FORWARD JUMPING ON MR. WHILEY'S ANKLE WITH BOTH FEET.
A SICKENING SNAP FILLS THE ROOM.
A GAGGED MR. WHILEY CRIES OUT.

BANKS:
He's on fire!

JALL:
I'mma be all star Mr. Whiley.

BANKS:
Yo Mr. Whiley, you want his autograph?

JALL:
Hahaa, yo Mr. Whiley, I'll sign yo' cast.

BANKS UN-GAGS MR. WHILEY AND LEANS IN.

BANKS:
Tell us about the fundamentals again Mr. Whiley.

JALL:

Triangles, Banksy, triangles.

CAMERA PANS BACK ACROSS WAREHOUSE.
FADE TO BLACK.


Wish we understood
Broken ankles and splints of wood
We could fly on these
Severed wings and ten foot dreams

God is, God is.

Broken Ankles - Pumpkin Sheepshanks

"Who the fuck are you" asked the stranger infront of me.
"Pumpkin sheepshanks, and you are..." i replied expectantly
"Not important. what a stupid name, it sounds like bumpkin weepwanks..." the stranger replied with a smile on his face. Continuing to talk at me despite no interest shown, I tried to continue my walk around him when he shoved me.
"What's your problem?" I asked, noticing the rest of the pub had now been attracted to the commotion. I looked back at the table i had come from, a couple of friends and their partners oblivious to the commotion a few feet away. I looked over to his table where he had his football team friends staring quite intently at the scene.
"You are, weepwanks" the stranger took a step closer with a face that begged to be hit/cut/spat on/stamped on.
"Why, I dont even know who the fuck you are and your getting up in my foice" my voice changed a little to a chicago mob boss at the end, I didn't know why at the time but I later realised that it was the great chicago mob boss Al Capone possesing me through the ether.
"the girl I liked liked you bumpkin, thats my beef, so now I will hurt you, to make me feel better" the stranger replied most pathetically.
"dude, thats seriously lame, come on, hear me now, I dont even know this broad who apparently likes me, but im a drug addict, I have no sex drive, I am no threat, I havent had a hard on in four years." i was bullshitting through my teeth, but i did it for a living so was quite natural and this seemed the best way to diffuse the situation.
"I dont believe you" said the stranger still sizing up to me, "When you were talking you eyes kept on going in a down left direction, that to me communicates your bullshitting" the was only about a foot between me and him.
"what the fuck man, are you the eye police or something" i was pissed he sussed me so quickly, but reasoned what ever i had said he would of dismissed it as bullshit, such was his animosity towards me. Realising speaking was a suckers sport i spat in his face and as he went to wipe the gob from his face i suckered him with a meaty right hook, twisting my body to create maximum force through body dynamics i brought me knee up to his face i had grabbed and begun to bring down. his nose made a cracking sound, blood began pouring as the sound of a dozen chairs being emptied resonated over from where his friends had been sat.
"little cunt" one of them said as he grabbed me and threw me to the floor, sending a table over as i landed. four of them took it in turns to kick and jump on me. i lay there for a while expecting the pain to be greater than remembering the chunky line of k i had done in the toilets from which i was returning had probably kicked in, and it would hurt when that had worn off. finally they were pulled off me by bouncers and escorted off the premises. i looked around whilst laying on the floor, noticing the strange red hue that wasn't there before. i tried to stand up but immediately fell back down. my friend came over and helped me up on to a chair.
"have you still got my k" my friend asked. i had a rummage around my pockets and nodded. "are you ok pumpkin?" i nodded again.
A few tables had been pushed over and glasses had smashed. mine and the strangers blood was being mopped by one of the bar staff. the footballers had left a bag containing a load of balls, which i motioned to my friend to collect so i could keep it as a prize.
"what do you want with a bag of balls pumpkin?" one of my friends girlfriends asked when i hopped back to the table, "it looks like you broke your ankle so cant see you using them."
"one mans balls is another mans gold" i replied, thinking i was being humerous/philosophical but probably just coming over a twat.
"Do you not want to go the hospital?" my friend with the k asked.
"manana manana, ill just have another line of your k for now if thats alright" i replied, lounging back across the built in sofa pina colada in hand.
"can you even make it to the toilet?" one of the group asked.
"ill just put the note in the bag, whats the worse that can happen?" i smiled, knowing my broken ankle meant a few weeks off work.

Broken Ankles - Megan Pozzi

My mother was the most beautiful ballerina you ever saw. As a child, she would walk around, right on her tippy toes – graceful, elegant, captivating. As an adult, she remained just the same. ‘Oh mummy, how I would love to dance like you,” I would cry, twirling around the room.

“Oh my dear, aren’t you the sweetest! You should know by now that talent like mine cannot be bought, taught, or learnt. It is a gift,” she replied, smearing her crimson red lipstick around her pursed lips. At that moment, I noticed that her top lip was much thinner than her bottom.

Still I loved her, foolishly and unconditionally. Mother called me petite ombre: little shadow. But I was no shadow, I could not replicate any of what she did with any flair or finesse. My mother began to tire of my undying devotion and adoration, “Ma petite,” she would say, “why don’t you play outside? Leave me to myself please, for once.”

“But I love you so, I love to watch you dance and one day I will be just like you.”

And, at this precise moment she snapped, “You will never be like me! Do you understand? Never – not even the best teacher in the whole world or a new set of feet will help you.”

So I sat. And I cried. But I could not shake the love for my mother. I stood in front of the mirror and lifted myself up onto my tippy toes as I had seen her do countless times before. I felt the strain of my body weight on my ankles and heard my bones click together. I was determined and I would not rest.

Yet each man kills the thing he loves. Me? I used a hammer. Did I steal my idea from Misery? Yes. Would I do it again? In a heartbeat. And I realised, I was looking at the situation from entirely the wrong perspective. I could not be like her, not even with the best teacher or a new set of feet; but with a new set of feet, she could be just like me.

Broken Ankles - Michael Geedrick

My ankles are all broken;
Why am I so outspoken;
I said my prayers;
Fell down those stairs;
And lost my subway token

Broken Ankles - CammyWhite

Everyone had said it was a bad idea.

Sam hadn’t listened.
Sam wouldn’t listen.
It had all seemed like such a good plan.
It should have been awesome.

There would have been cheers.
Maybe even been a smiling girl or two.
And everyone would have been looking at him.
Well... that bit worked out at least!

Sam had planned to do a trick.
Sam had thought it through.
Jump the first set of steps, ollie the rail,
Jump on to the bike shed roof and land on the path below.

So that is what Sam had done.
At 10.15, (morning break)
Only things had not gone to plan.
And here we now find Sam.

Sam is in a lot of pain.
Sam has broken bones yet ...
He knows he’s learnt something key
He’s learnt to practice first.

Broken Ankles - Beau

I'm sitting in the car, happy as hell
My joy will remain as long as my appendages swell
But Mum drove me anyway, so I could watch
My teammates play the soccer game. Oh, they just lost

I got injured last week. Thank fuck!
Now I don't have to play a game that sucks
Too much running around. That sport fucking rankles
I'm so fucking glad that I now have broken ankles