Bunyip

Aaron F Diebelius, Sid Stephenson

Description

This story questions the fragility of myths such as Australia’s bunyip through the unique scrovel format, following a crisis in Simpson Desert.
BUNYIP: A mythical creature from Australia’s ancient history. It is believed by some that the blood and flesh from the BUNYIP can miraculously speed the healing process.
On a remote cattle station in the Simpson Desert a cattleman kills an unidentified creature that is slaughtering his cattle. Within hours the story that a BUNYIP has been shot goes viral world-wide. For political reasons the story is given credibility by the Australian Government to divert attention from a potentially world-shattering news announcement.
Powerful political lobbies and criminal forces relentlessly pursue the truth behind the BUNYIP legend. Challenging the issue of state-sponsored assassination, some possessions may be too big to be owned by a single person. BUNYIP questions whether myth can ever be suppressed or destroyed, when sometimes reality can be tenuous and fragile.
BUNYIP is written in ‘SCROVEL,’ and amalgamation of a screenplay and a novel. All introspective text is removed, and the story is told in what can be seen and heard. The reader experiences the story as a virtual movie.

Sujets

• Thrillers
• Screenplay
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: AuthorHouse UK
• Date de parution: 25 octobre 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781728376042
• Langue: English

Extrait

BUNYIP
 
 
 
 
 
Sid Stephenson and Aaron F Diebelius
 
 
 
 

 
AuthorHouse™ UK
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403 USA
www.authorhouse.co.uk
Phone: UK TFN: 0800 0148641 (Toll Free inside the UK)
UK Local: (02) 0369 56322 ([phone] from outside the UK)
 
 
 
 
© 2022 Sid Stephenson and Aaron F Diebelius. All rights reserved.
 
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.
 
Published by AuthorHouse 10/19/2022
 
ISBN: 978-1-7283-7605-9 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-7283-7606-6 (hc)
ISBN: 978-1-7283-7604-2 (e)
 
 
 
 
Print information available on the last page.
 
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.
 
This book is printed on acid-free paper.
 
Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
 
LOG- LINE:
Powerful political lobbies and criminal forces relentlessly pursue the truth behind the 5000-year-old BUNYIP le gend.
Co-Wri ters:
Sid Stephenson is a former Educationalist evolved into an Author and Screenwr iter.
E: stephensonsid3@gmail.c o.uk
www.sidstephenson .com
Aaron F Diebelius is a professional screenwriter and Au thor.
E: AaronFDiebelius@outlook .com
_________________
This book is written in a unique genre called ‘SCR OVEL’.
This is an amalgamation of a SCREENPLAY and a NOVEL . It tells the story in what can be seen and heard. All introspective text is removed. The intention is that the Reader experiences the story by ‘playing the movie in their head’ as they read.
N otes:
* SCENES replace CHAP TERS
* EXT: Exte rior
* INT: Inte rior
BU NYIP:
A mythical creature from Australia’s ancient history. It is believed by some that Bunyip flesh can massively speed healing proce sses.
SUM MARY:
In a remote cattle station in Australia’s Simpson Desert a cattleman kills an unidentified creature that is slaughtering his cattle. Within hours the story that a BUNYIP has been shot, goes viral worldwide. For political reasons the story is given credibility by the Australian Government to divert public attention away from a potentially World shattering news announce ment.
Powerful political lobbies and criminal forces relentlessly pursue the truth behind the 5000-year-old Bunyip legend. The story challenges and questions the issue of state sponsored assassination for the greater good - some possessions are simply too big to be owned by a single pe rson.
Set in Australia’s magnificent Simpson Desert isolation, this story questions whether myth can ever be suppressed or destroyed, where in comparison, reality is often tenuous and fra gile.
BUNYIP
EXT. CORDILLO DOWNS HOMESTEAD. SIMPSON DESERT OUTBACK. STH AUSTRALIA. MOR NING
The wool station at Cordillo Downs in the Simpson Desert sits in majestic scrub country 100 dry miles southeast of Birdsville. Built entirely of stone the crumbling building, in a homestead of smaller buildings, once saw 85,000 head of sheep shorn by itinerant shearers in relentless heat and dust and working conditions that today’s workers could only gues s at.
The long-time owner, the Beltano Cattle company, switched to beef farming in 1940 and since then the desert has gradually encroached on the homestead despite the family’s continued attempts to restore the historic struc ture.
William Robert Mason,46, dressed for the desert, known as Billy Bob, worked in the deep shade of the old building loading equipment and fuel into a long-wheel-base Land Cruiser. Finishing his tasks, he spoke tersely into a Sat-p hone.
BILLY BOB M ASON
It’s me. In leaving now. Guess I’ll overnight at the MIKIRI, so don’t hang ar ound.
(A beat)
I’ll ring if anyt hing.
About to end the call, he stopped, list ened.
BILLY BOB MASON (CO NT’D)
(Impat ient)
PJ, I don’t know yet, just what Jiemba Ngara told me, half dozen. He said they had been savaged, ripped up. Not pr etty.
(A beat, liste ning)
OK, roger that.
He disconnected, holstering the handset in worn leather, winding his lanky frame into the Cruiser, he headed south-east into vast timeless scrub de sert.
EXT. SIMPSON DESERT OUTBACK. STH AUSTRALIA. DAY
4 HOURS L ATER
Billy Bob sat with his boot heels hooked in volcanic gravel on a ridge and glassed the vast desert floor below him that stretched forever into a horizon of orange shimmering haze. The valley with the MIKIRI waterhole showed as a slash of faint green in falling shapes of dunes and a stand of Gidgee t rees.
He lowered the binoculars, unscrewed a water flask and studied the land. Far to the south, lost in the shimmering haze were the Flinders Ranges, vast ancient twirls of terracotta lava mountains, dazzling white salt pans and broken country, baking and raw, a magnet for the more adventurous four-wheel drivers, and the spiritual home of the Aboriginal Wankangurru tribe. To the west and north lay the deep rolling red of the endless Simpson Desert with its parallel combs of north-west to south-east ridges and sandbanks, some reaching 90M high and 200k long, making it almost impossible to travel in any other direc tion.
Focusing his binoculars, he picked up a small hunting pack of dingoes delicately pacing a low ridge in a single file. The dominant female and her mate leading, with a faint wind in his face, they had not scented him. They were heading towards the waterhole where he knew from Jiemba, that some of his cattle had met an untimely end.
He hefted his rifle, sighting on the dingoes with the high-definition rangefinder of his Hawke 8-25 scope. He studied the animals through the floating air motes and heat distortion. They were moving lazily, ears down and back, unhurried, approx. 7 hundred meters away. Too far for a shot even though that was not his inten tion.
His rifle was a Bull-barrel 270 Cal on a Mauser Bolt action with a laminated walnut stock dressed with an old leather sling bequeathed to him by his Father. The rifle would shoot a 100mm group at 700M, dropping 60mm, but he had nothing to prove, and he had other things to be concerned with.
The sun was behind him as the blazing afternoon wore on and, somewhere out there in front of him on the desert floor, his shadow moved imperceptibly. He hefted his rifle and shoulder pack and slid down in the gravel below the ridge line, then got to his feet, heading downw ards.
When he got near to the foot of the ridge he looked again for the dingoes, they had not moved far but were still 500M away, pacing slow. He wallowed down the gravel scree after them towards the waterhole hidden in a low haze of dull yellow cat claw po llen.
200M on and he bellied up on some smooth warm rocks, cradling the rifle and sighting through the scope. Strangely, the dingoes had now grouped, heads up, alert, ears up and forward, on both sides of their Leader. They were looking away from him and towards the waterhole. He felt vaguely troubled by what he was seeing, his senses prickled, involuntarily pushing off the rifle’s safety c atch.
In the valley below, the late sun glinted off the muddy waterhole, and laying randomly around were seven swollen flyblown carcasses of his ca ttle.
He stiffened, wiping away sweat and slowly traversing the high-def scope across the humped bodies of each of his dead cattle. They were all eviscerated, their intestines and ripped flesh spread across the mud and in the water in a primeval demonstration of a savage ferocity that he had never seen be fore.
He swung the scope back to the dingoes, the fine optics crystallizing into sharp focus. The animals were uncharacteristically standing totally still, staring transfixed towards the bodies of the cattle, noses raised, immo bile.
Billy Bob was shocked, dingoes would normally be now stampeding towards meat, totally focused on a personal feeding frenzy, fighting each other for position, all caution gone.
This wasn’t happening - weird or what?
Without warning, the dingoes suddenly bolted en masse away from the water hole, jinking, and yowling away in spurts of orange dust. Initially they ran towards him, then leaning gracefully away, passed him at full speed less the 100m away but strangely, didn’t seem to register or look at him.
He watched them stream out of his sight, amazed, then they were gone, orange dust settling slowly, and the waterhole silent and empty in the falling afternoon sun as if nothing had occurred there at all. A rotten putrid iron scent he could not identify hung faintly in the air; it unsettled him.
Billy Bob remained in position, watchful, for several minutes, then stood, picked up his rifle and made it safe. It took him 15 minutes to make his way carefully closer to the waterhole. He kept looking back at where the dingoes had gone but saw nothing more of them. 50M away from the remains of his cattle something disquieting made him pause, even though he hadn’t seen a movement. He sat on his shoulder pack for 20 minutes cradling his rifle, his back to a rock, sniffing the air, senses tingling, heart rate high. Something else was out there. For the first time in his 46 years living and hunting in the remote outback, a reptilian curl of fear squirmed in his gut.
The body of the cow furthest away from him was maybe 70M. Suddenly blowflie