The original concept for this was for a short story competition called "Seen Through a Window" (hence the title),but I found the 1000 words limit too hard to work with so extended it into a longer story. All feedback gratefully received, but particularly any suggestions or corrections from people who have worked in the independentfilm industry or done a course in film studies, as you may find it rather obvious that I haven't.

Seen Through a Window

Chapter 1

‘But this is something else entirely. And I feel like ... I feel like a parent watching their child turn into a teenager. One minute they’re playing hide and seek and the next they’re hiding porn under their bed and seeking out ways to acquire hard liquor. Only for that analogy to work, I’d have to be buying their porn for them and leaving open bottles of vodka out on the kitchen counter. I’m ... I’ve written this script and now I’m going to put it onto film and destroy it.’

Rehearsals were going badly.

‘It’s amateur film, mate, it’s not expected to be good. You’ll get a top grade if you actually manage to turn the camcorder on,’ Shane replied in a dull monotone. He found it unaccountably difficult to comfort his friend due to the fact that he knew Casta was absolutely right. He loathed thinking of the moment when they ran out of excuses for running through the script and had to finally commit the travesty to film. In any case, neither of them actually gave a shit about grades any more. Neither of them actually gave a shit about college at this point.

The actors ... they had chosen the best that they could find from the bright-eyed, eager drama students who had shown up, but their criteria had been based around the ability to go for five seconds without actually looking directly into the camera lens rather than acting ability. Their final choices were the cream of a rotten and talentless crop yet seemed to be waiting to be offered a BAFTA, and they took an interest in behind-the-scenes work that was unhealthy when they had so little talent to spare. In the end Casta had been forced to forbid any ‘suggestions’ about direction or the script on pain of being removed from the productions completely. They could deliver lines, so long as there were no shiny-surfaced objects nearby to distract them, but the lines were either delivered like someone reading a takeaway menu or taken to the other extreme and read as if a large, half-naked man wearing a gimp mask and holding a cattle prod was standing behind them screaming, “More emotion! I said MORE EMOTION!”

Filming commenced tomorrow. It seemed that they would both start with a hangover.

Casta drained the last of his pint and stood up unsteadily. ‘I’m going home. I need to be unconscious for a while.’ This was probably wise; Casta was not only the scriptwriter but also the cameraman and since much of the work would be handheld it would help if he wasn’t shaking from a caffeine overdose. He ran a hand over his hair (it was too matted for him to actually push his fingers through it), squeezed Shane’s shoulder miserably with the other hand and weaved his way out of the pub.

‘We should have started this thing fifteen minutes ago, where the fuck is Shannon? What? Speak up! The ... she’s in the toilets again? Is it really severe dysentery or just that she’s unable to take her eyes off her own reflection for more than ... No, I won’t fucking calm down, Shane! You’re the director, drag her out here if you have to!’

‘She’s just nervous about being on film,’ whined the lead male, peering sullenly at Casta through his forelock.

‘It might have been an idea for her to think about that before she made this particular career choice, then...’

Shane listened to Casta rant and wished that he could believe his friend was still drunk, or on drugs, but in his heart he knew that it was just good old Casta and his famous short fuse. He nudged the make-up girl and asked her quietly to go and fetch Shannon, before looking up at the ‘set’. It didn’t matter how many posters and props they had scattered around, it still looked depressingly like a poorly-disguised classroom. He could see the canteen out of the window and due to the camera angles, anyone who watched the film would be able to see it too.

Five minutes later they had finally got Shannon on set. She sat idly on the edge of a desk and starting boasting to her co-stars about how she had redyed her roots especially for the occasion. Shane stared at her miserably and hoped that her cleavage might distract from the fact that she couldn’t act her way out of a paper bag.

‘OK, can I have absolute silence on set, please!’ he managed to call out over the sound of Shannon’s high-pitched giggle. She eventually trailed off, cleared her throat in such a girly manner that she couldn’t have possibly managed to dislodge even the smallest bit of phlegm, and arranged her face into an overly-serious expression.

‘Aaand ... action!’ Shane called.

‘I can’t take this any more, John. I have to get the fuck out of here, this city is choking me...’ Is she smiling? Shane thought, aghast. Why is she smiling? This character is suffering from severe clinical depression, it’s not supposed to be funny! ‘How can I feel like I barely exist and feel so hemmed in at the same time? I see walls, John, they’re everywhere...’ Stop playing with your hair, just stop it, stop it! Without even looking at Casta, Shane could feel the air becoming charged with his anger. It tasted like rain before a storm.

‘Shane!’ Casta hissed through his teeth.

‘I know, I know, we’ll try it again. I’ll cut...’

‘Don’t you dare! Just leave them to it and come and look at this. Now!’

Alarmed by the hysterical edge to Casta’s usual biting tones, Shane turned his back on the actors and walked over to where the scriptwriter was standing, camera glued to one eye.

‘Check the recording on the laptop. Check it!’

Bewildered, Shane swivelled the laptop round to face him. It was tethered to the camera and receiving a raw recording of the scene. Except, he saw - his heart palpitating and a strange ringing sound echoing in his head – it wasn’t recording the scene in front of him. The image on the screen was of two completely different actors, in an unfamiliar location, and though there was no audio he could tell that they were working from a very different script.

Shane’s first coherent thought was that this had to be a mistake, a practical joke, something Casta had set up. His second thought was that all his first thoughts were impossible. Casta was not renowned for his light-hearted nature, and Shane had connected up the equipment himself. He watched the film on the laptop in raptured fascination.

‘Is there a problem?’

‘Huh?’ Shane looked up and found that Shannon had stopped single-handedly lowering the tone of independent British cinema and was looking at him with a half-puzzled, half-flattered expression. Casta had ignored her completely and was still clutching the camera as if in a trance. Looking down at the laptop again, Shane found that the other film was continuing without an interruption.

‘No, Shannon,’ Shane managed at last. ‘Carry on. This ... This is really something.’

And as he said that, Casta finally turned around and grinned at him. It was the sort of grin that Shane imagined Neil Armstrong had probably given Buzz Aldrin after first setting foot in the weirdest place he would ever go in his life. And Shane smiled back in the way that Buzz probably had before turning back to look at the actors.

‘Let’s continue.’