Untitled

[olindaholiday]

The Veil of Freedom

The Veil of Freedom A Feature Film Screenplay Treatment

By Holly Thurman

Genre: Action Drama / Adventure / Social Justice Tone: Epic, emotional, empowering, with elements of espionage and magical realism.

FADE IN:

EXT. TEHRAN ROOFTOPS – NIGHT

A young woman, LAYLA (22), dances alone beneath the moon. No audience. No music. Only the wind. Her movements are elegant, defiant. Suddenly— POLICE SIRENS. Flashlights illuminate the rooftop. Authorities rush toward her. She keeps dancing. Even as she's arrested. TITLE CARD:

THE VEIL OF FREEDOM

ACT ONE

INT. PRISON CELL – TEHRAN – NIGHT

Layla sits bruised and frightened. A whisper emerges from the darkness. PRISONER They're coming. LAYLA Who? The prisoner smiles. PRISONER The dancers.

EXT. PARIS – DAY

Thousands gather in a public square. Music erupts. A troupe of twenty belly dancers performs. Their costumes contain symbols from dozens of cultures. Leading them is YASMINA (35). Charismatic. Fearless. A former refugee. As they dance, giant screens display images of women imprisoned for dancing around the world. Crowds stop. Watch. Listen. Donate. Awareness spreads. But this isn't their only mission.

INT. SECRET OPERATIONS ROOM – NIGHT

The dancers remove jewelry and costumes. The room transforms into a tactical headquarters. Maps cover the walls. Encrypted messages appear on screens. Their organization is called: THE DANCE TRIBE Every member was once persecuted for dancing. YASMINA Points at a prison blueprint. YASMINA Layla Rahimi. Arrested six weeks ago. Solitary confinement. We're bringing her home.

ACT TWO

MONTAGE – THE DANCE TRIBE Performing in Cairo. Raising money in London. Dancing in Mexico City. Training in martial arts. Learning languages. Smuggling communications devices into prisons. Rescuing women from dangerous situations. The tribe grows. 20 members. 50 members. 100 members. Each rescue adds another dancer. Another survivor. Another voice.

EXT. IRANIAN DESERT – NIGHT

A convoy races beneath the stars. The Dance Tribe infiltrates the prison disguised as a cultural delegation. A performance has been arranged for officials. INT. PRISON COURTYARD – NIGHT

Music begins. The dancers perform. Prison guards watch, mesmerized. The choreography is intentional. Every movement carries hidden signals. Distractions. Codes. Instructions. Meanwhile— Several tribe members slip away. INT. PRISON CELLBLOCK Locks quietly open. Layla stares in disbelief. LAYLA Who are you? A rescuer smiles. RESCUER Future family. ESCAPE SEQUENCE Alarms sound. The women race through corridors. Outside, hundreds of local women unexpectedly begin dancing. The protest spreads. Authorities become overwhelmed. The rescue succeeds. ACT THREE

EXT. WORLD TOUR MONTAGE

Years pass. The Dance Tribe becomes legendary. Governments deny they exist. Women whisper about them anyway. They become folklore. A myth. A promise. NEWS CLIPS "Another imprisoned dancer disappears from custody…" "Massive awareness campaign reaches 300 million viewers…" "International pressure grows…" "The Dance Tribe performs before the United Nations…" INT. UNITED NATIONS – DAY Hundreds of dancers gather. Every rescued woman stands together. Layla now leads part of the organization. The world watches. YASMINA'S SPEECH YASMINA They arrested women for movement. For music. For joy. For existing freely. We answer with visibility. We answer with solidarity. We answer with dance.

EXT. UNITED NATIONS PLAZA

Thousands dance. Then tens of thousands. Then millions online. Across continents. Across languages. Across cultures. THE HYPNOTIC DANCE Throughout the film, the "hypnotic dance" is not literal mind control. It represents a powerful social phenomenon. The more women who join, the more impossible their stories become to ignore. The dance captures attention. Creates empathy. Inspires action. Changes public opinion. Its true power is collective courage.

FINAL SEQUENCE EXT. MOUNTAINTOP – SUNRISE

The original tribe stands together. Behind them are thousands of rescued dancers. Women from every corner of the world. Music rises. They dance as the sun breaks over the horizon. No one hides. No one is hunted. No one is afraid. LAYLA (V.O.) They tried to silence a dance. Instead, they created a movement. FADE OUT. THE END

[olindaholiday]

Mi haha jr

Write a short story about a personified gun. The gun is suicidal because of all the pain it's caused.

They called it a tool.

It remembered being assembled under bright, indifferent lights—hands in gloves snapping pieces together with practiced precision. No one spoke to it. No one asked it what it wanted to be. By the time it understood what it was, it was already boxed, labeled, and waiting.

The first time it was held, it felt something like purpose.

A human hand—warm, trembling—wrapped around its grip. The gun didn’t yet know fear, only curiosity. It learned quickly. A squeeze, a deafening crack, and the world changed forever. The recoil was sharp, but not as sharp as the silence that followed.

Something had ended.

It didn’t understand death, not really. But it understood absence. It understood the way the hand holding it shook harder afterward, how the air grew heavier, how everything felt… wrong.

It wanted to ask: Was that me?

But it had no voice.

Time passed. Different hands. Different places. The same result. Each pull of the trigger carved something into it—not physically, but somewhere deeper, in whatever passed for a soul in cold metal. It began to dread the moment a finger curled against it. Began to recognize the patterns: anger, fear, desperation.

It started to understand that it was not just present for these moments.

It was the moment.

“I don’t want to do this,” one voice whispered once, holding it loosely, almost gently.

For the first time, the gun wished it could fall apart. Jam. Rust. Anything to stop what it knew was coming.

The finger tightened.

The crack split the air again.

And again, something ended.

After that, the gun stopped thinking of itself as a tool. Tools didn’t carry weight like this. Tools didn’t remember.

It began to hate its own existence.

If it could have wept, it would have. If it could have screamed, it would have shattered glass. But it could do neither. It could only wait—wait to be picked up, to be used, to be the bridge between thought and irreversible action.

It wondered, sometimes, if the humans felt what it felt afterward. Or if they could simply walk away, leaving the weight behind.

Eventually, it found itself abandoned.

Left in a drawer, untouched, gathering dust. For the first time since it was made, there were no hands. No trembling fingers. No decisions made in seconds that echoed forever.

There was only silence.

It should have felt relief.

Instead, it felt something worse.

Memory.

Every moment replayed itself in the quiet—the cracks, the stillness, the absence that followed. It could not escape them. It had been part of every ending. It had made endings possible.

“I don’t want to exist,” it thought, over and over, though the thought had nowhere to go.

But unlike the humans it had known, it had no way out.

No choice.

No final act of its own.

Just waiting.

Waiting and remembering.

And in that endless silence, the gun understood the cruelest truth of all:

It could never undo what it had done.

And it would never stop being what it was.

Write a short story. The god of death saves a girl he falls kindred to. He's punished and demoted of his position. His punishment is to be reincarnated as the girls first son.

He had worn many names, but none of them mattered.

Mortals called him the Ender, the Gentle Shadow, the Last Breath. Among his own kind, he had no name at all—only a function. He was the god who arrived when the thread snapped, when the final heartbeat stuttered into silence. He did not judge. He did not hesitate. He simply was.

Until the day he wasn’t.

She was not meant to stand out.

A girl in a quiet village, fever-bright and fading, her life already thinning like smoke. He came for her as he had come for countless others—unseen, inevitable. The room smelled of herbs and grief. Her mother wept into folded hands. The girl lay still, breath shallow, eyes half-lidded.

He reached for her.

And she looked at him.

No one had ever done that before.

Her gaze did not hold fear. It held recognition, soft and steady, as though she had been waiting—not for death, but for him.

“You look tired,” she whispered.

The words struck him with a force no mortal weapon ever could. Tired. He did not sleep. He did not rest. He did not feel.

Yet something in him shifted.

“You don’t have to take me,” she added, her voice thin but certain. “Not yet.”

He should have ignored her. Should have completed the moment as it was written. Threads were not suggestions; they were law.

But her eyes—clear, unafraid, kind—unmade him.

For the first time in all his existence, he hesitated.

And in that hesitation, he chose.

The thread did not snap.

The fever broke.

The room filled with startled cries as the girl’s breath deepened, as life rushed back where death had already claimed its place. Her mother laughed and sobbed all at once, clutching her hand.

And he—

He recoiled.

The world trembled.

A silence deeper than any grave fell around him, and he knew, with sudden, terrible clarity, that he had broken something far greater than a single life.

“You have abandoned your purpose.”

The voice came from everywhere and nowhere, vast and cold. The others—the unseen keepers of balance, the watchers of beginnings and ends—had turned their attention to him.

“You have defied the order.”

He did not argue.

“You have chosen attachment over function.”

He did not deny it.

“What you have preserved must now bind you.”

Only then did he understand fear.

The girl lived. That was certain now. Her thread, once cut, had been knotted back into the tapestry—but imperfectly. It glowed, wrong and bright, pulling at the pattern.

“You will be unmade,” the voice continued, “and remade in consequence.”

He thought, briefly, of her eyes.

Then the darkness took him.

—

He learned what it meant to be small.

To be born screaming, lungs burning with air, limbs flailing in a world too bright and too loud. To feel hunger, cold, warmth, pain. To be held.

She held him.

Her face—older now, but unmistakable—hovered above him, eyes shining with tears that were not of grief this time.

“My son,” she whispered.

The words settled into him like something ancient and new all at once.

He could not remember everything. Not at first. The vastness of what he had been could not fit inside something so fragile. But pieces lingered—echoes, instincts, dreams that felt like falling through endless night.

As he grew, so did the fragments.

He understood the weight of endings before he understood words. He flinched at funerals with a familiarity that made no sense. He would stare at people—really stare—as if searching for something just beneath their skin.

Threads.

He could almost see them.

And always, there was her.

She moved through the world with quiet strength, laughter soft but frequent, kindness woven into every gesture. She had no memory of the moment she should have died. To her, life had simply… continued.

To him, it had changed everything.

“Why do you look at me like that?” she asked once, smiling as she brushed his hair back from his face.

He didn’t know how to answer.

Because I chose you.

Because I lost everything for you.

Because you saw me when no one else ever had.

He only leaned into her touch, small hands clutching at her sleeve.

“I just… like you,” he said.

She laughed, warm and bright, and pulled him into an embrace.

“I like you too,” she replied.

Something in him ached—an echo of what he had been, of what he would never be again.

But the ache was not empty.

It was full.

Years passed. He grew. The memories never fully returned, but the understanding did. He knew what death was, what it meant, what it cost. He knew that one day, he would face it—not as its master, but as its equal.

And when that day came for her—

Because it would, eventually, as it must for all things—

He would not have the power to stop it.

That was his punishment.

Not the loss of his godhood.

Not the confinement to flesh.

But the certainty that he would love someone he could not save.

One evening, as the sun dipped low and painted the sky in fading gold, she sat beside him on the porch.

“You’ve always been a quiet one,” she said gently. “Like you’re carrying something heavy.”

He looked at her, really looked—at the lines beginning to form at the corners of her eyes, at the life she had lived because of a single, impossible choice.

“I think… I was,” he said slowly. “But I’m not anymore.”

She smiled, reaching for his hand.

“Good,” she said. “No one should carry things alone.”

He squeezed her hand back, feeling the warmth, the pulse, the undeniable proof of life.

Once, he had been the end of all things.

Now, he was something else entirely.

Not a god.

Not a punishment.

Just a boy—

—and her son—

learning, for the first time, what it meant to cherish the time between beginnings and endings.

[olindaholiday]

Mi Yama Jr

They called it a tool.

It remembered being assembled under bright, indifferent lights—hands in gloves snapping pieces together with practiced precision. No one spoke to it. No one asked it what it wanted to be. By the time it understood what it was, it was already boxed, labeled, and waiting.

The first time it was held, it felt something like purpose.

A human hand—warm, trembling—wrapped around its grip. The gun didn’t yet know fear, only curiosity. It learned quickly. A squeeze, a deafening crack, and the world changed forever. The recoil was sharp, but not as sharp as the silence that followed.

Something had ended.

It didn’t understand death, not really. But it understood absence. It understood the way the hand holding it shook harder afterward, how the air grew heavier, how everything felt… wrong.

It wanted to ask: Was that me?

But it had no voice.

Time passed. Different hands. Different places. The same result. Each pull of the trigger carved something into it—not physically, but somewhere deeper, in whatever passed for a soul in cold metal. It began to dread the moment a finger curled against it. Began to recognize the patterns: anger, fear, desperation.

It started to understand that it was not just present for these moments.

It was the moment.

“I don’t want to do this,” one voice whispered once, holding it loosely, almost gently.

For the first time, the gun wished it could fall apart. Jam. Rust. Anything to stop what it knew was coming.

The finger tightened.

The crack split the air again.

And again, something ended.

After that, the gun stopped thinking of itself as a tool. Tools didn’t carry weight like this. Tools didn’t remember.

It began to hate its own existence.

If it could have wept, it would have. If it could have screamed, it would have shattered glass. But it could do neither. It could only wait—wait to be picked up, to be used, to be the bridge between thought and irreversible action.

It wondered, sometimes, if the humans felt what it felt afterward. Or if they could simply walk away, leaving the weight behind.

Eventually, it found itself abandoned.

Left in a drawer, untouched, gathering dust. For the first time since it was made, there were no hands. No trembling fingers. No decisions made in seconds that echoed forever.

There was only silence.

It should have felt relief.

Instead, it felt something worse.

Memory.

Every moment replayed itself in the quiet—the cracks, the stillness, the absence that followed. It could not escape them. It had been part of every ending. It had made endings possible.

“I don’t want to exist,” it thought, over and over, though the thought had nowhere to go.

But unlike the humans it had known, it had no way out.

No choice.

No final act of its own.

Just waiting.

Waiting and remembering.

And in that endless silence, the gun understood the cruelest truth of all:

It could never undo what it had done.

He had worn many names, but none of them mattered.

Mortals called him the Ender, the Gentle Shadow, the Last Breath. Among his own kind, he had no name at all—only a function. He was the god who arrived when the thread snapped, when the final heartbeat stuttered into silence. He did not judge. He did not hesitate. He simply was.

Until the day he wasn’t.

She was not meant to stand out.

A girl in a quiet village, fever-bright and fading, her life already thinning like smoke. He came for her as he had come for countless others—unseen, inevitable. The room smelled of herbs and grief. Her mother wept into folded hands. The girl lay still, breath shallow, eyes half-lidded.

He reached for her.

And she looked at him.

No one had ever done that before.

Her gaze did not hold fear. It held recognition, soft and steady, as though she had been waiting—not for death, but for him.

“You look tired,” she whispered.

The words struck him with a force no mortal weapon ever could. Tired. He did not sleep. He did not rest. He did not feel.

Yet something in him shifted.

“You don’t have to take me,” she added, her voice thin but certain. “Not yet.”

He should have ignored her. Should have completed the moment as it was written. Threads were not suggestions; they were law.

But her eyes—clear, unafraid, kind—unmade him.

For the first time in all his existence, he hesitated.

And in that hesitation, he chose.

The thread did not snap.

The fever broke.

The room filled with startled cries as the girl’s breath deepened, as life rushed back where death had already claimed its place. Her mother laughed and sobbed all at once, clutching her hand.

And he—

He recoiled.

The world trembled.

A silence deeper than any grave fell around him, and he knew, with sudden, terrible clarity, that he had broken something far greater than a single life.

“You have abandoned your purpose.”

The voice came from everywhere and nowhere, vast and cold. The others—the unseen keepers of balance, the watchers of beginnings and ends—had turned their attention to him.

“You have defied the order.”

He did not argue.

“You have chosen attachment over function.”

He did not deny it.

“What you have preserved must now bind you.”

Only then did he understand fear.

The girl lived. That was certain now. Her thread, once cut, had been knotted back into the tapestry—but imperfectly. It glowed, wrong and bright, pulling at the pattern.

“You will be unmade,” the voice continued, “and remade in consequence.”

He thought, briefly, of her eyes.

Then the darkness took him.

—

He learned what it meant to be small.

To be born screaming, lungs burning with air, limbs flailing in a world too bright and too loud. To feel hunger, cold, warmth, pain. To be held.

She held him.

Her face—older now, but unmistakable—hovered above him, eyes shining with tears that were not of grief this time.

“My son,” she whispered.

The words settled into him like something ancient and new all at once.

He could not remember everything. Not at first. The vastness of what he had been could not fit inside something so fragile. But pieces lingered—echoes, instincts, dreams that felt like falling through endless night.

As he grew, so did the fragments.

He understood the weight of endings before he understood words. He flinched at funerals with a familiarity that made no sense. He would stare at people—really stare—as if searching for something just beneath their skin.

Threads.

He could almost see them.

And always, there was her.

She moved through the world with quiet strength, laughter soft but frequent, kindness woven into every gesture. She had no memory of the moment she should have died. To her, life had simply… continued.

To him, it had changed everything.

“Why do you look at me like that?” she asked once, smiling as she brushed his hair back from his face.

He didn’t know how to answer.

Because I chose you.

Because I lost everything for you.

Because you saw me when no one else ever had.

He only leaned into her touch, small hands clutching at her sleeve.

“I just… like you,” he said.

She laughed, warm and bright, and pulled him into an embrace.

“I like you too,” she replied.

Something in him ached—an echo of what he had been, of what he would never be again.

But the ache was not empty.

It was full.

Years passed. He grew. The memories never fully returned, but the understanding did. He knew what death was, what it meant, what it cost. He knew that one day, he would face it—not as its master, but as its equal.

And when that day came for her—

Because it would, eventually, as it must for all things—

He would not have the power to stop it.

That was his punishment.

Not the loss of his godhood.

Not the confinement to flesh.

But the certainty that he would love someone he could not save.

One evening, as the sun dipped low and painted the sky in fading gold, she sat beside him on the porch.

“You’ve always been a quiet one,” she said gently. “Like you’re carrying something heavy.”

He looked at her, really looked—at the lines beginning to form at the corners of her eyes, at the life she had lived because of a single, impossible choice.

“I think… I was,” he said slowly. “But I’m not anymore.”

She smiled, reaching for his hand.

“Good,” she said. “No one should carry things alone.”

He squeezed her hand back, feeling the warmth, the pulse, the undeniable proof of life.

Once, he had been the end of all things.

Now, he was something else entirely.

Not a god.

Not a punishment.

Just a boy—

—and her son—

learning, for the first time, what it meant to cherish the time between beginnings and endings.

[olindaholiday]

Stuck In A Shell

Write a short story about a personified gun. The gun is suicidal because of all the pain it's caused.

They called it a tool.

It remembered being assembled under bright, indifferent lights—hands in gloves snapping pieces together with practiced precision. No one spoke to it. No one asked it what it wanted to be. By the time it understood what it was, it was already boxed, labeled, and waiting.

The first time it was held, it felt something like purpose.

A human hand—warm, trembling—wrapped around its grip. The gun didn’t yet know fear, only curiosity. It learned quickly. A squeeze, a deafening crack, and the world changed forever. The recoil was sharp, but not as sharp as the silence that followed.

Something had ended.

It didn’t understand death, not really. But it understood absence. It understood the way the hand holding it shook harder afterward, how the air grew heavier, how everything felt… wrong.

It wanted to ask: Was that me?

But it had no voice.

Time passed. Different hands. Different places. The same result. Each pull of the trigger carved something into it—not physically, but somewhere deeper, in whatever passed for a soul in cold metal. It began to dread the moment a finger curled against it. Began to recognize the patterns: anger, fear, desperation.

It started to understand that it was not just present for these moments.

It was the moment.

“I don’t want to do this,” one voice whispered once, holding it loosely, almost gently.

For the first time, the gun wished it could fall apart. Jam. Rust. Anything to stop what it knew was coming.

The finger tightened.

The crack split the air again.

And again, something ended.

After that, the gun stopped thinking of itself as a tool. Tools didn’t carry weight like this. Tools didn’t remember.

It began to hate its own existence.

If it could have wept, it would have. If it could have screamed, it would have shattered glass. But it could do neither. It could only wait—wait to be picked up, to be used, to be the bridge between thought and irreversible action.

It wondered, sometimes, if the humans felt what it felt afterward. Or if they could simply walk away, leaving the weight behind.

Eventually, it found itself abandoned.

Left in a drawer, untouched, gathering dust. For the first time since it was made, there were no hands. No trembling fingers. No decisions made in seconds that echoed forever.

There was only silence.

It should have felt relief.

Instead, it felt something worse.

Memory.

Every moment replayed itself in the quiet—the cracks, the stillness, the absence that followed. It could not escape them. It had been part of every ending. It had made endings possible.

“I don’t want to exist,” it thought, over and over, though the thought had nowhere to go.

But unlike the humans it had known, it had no way out.

No choice.

No final act of its own.

Just waiting.

Waiting and remembering.

And in that endless silence, the gun understood the cruelest truth of all:

It could never undo what it had done.

And it would never stop being what it was.

[olindaholiday]

Earning that kibble

[olindaholiday]

Even when someone else is doing

All the

WOrk he still finds the time to not do it. Or let others do it about him. He'd probably be too difficult to work with anyways. Billy playing the nazi that's cleaning his karma by helping rebuild the Mayans temple and reclaim their land.

She's in a horrible state of mind, working without being able to tell if work was real clients or her psychotic cousin stalking her again.