#fake sequel

[thefantasticjourneytoozfan]

I have a huge idea for a monster in Paris sequel I know it’s never gonna happen, but I wanna post about it and the reddit is dead

At the circus

[slifers-executive-writer]

After the events of Dark Side of Dimensions, Kaiba continues his journey to the afterlife in pursuit of a long awaited rematch with the Pharaoh. Little did he know that using the Quantum Cube would lead him and the world into great danger.

A trailer/sneak peek to a new project I’m working on. Please leave your reviews and/or comments. Feel free to also reblog and share with others who might be interested!

[hafdaln]

Jasmine Hill - Pt.1

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Note: This is an idea that has been in my mind for a long time. Myth The Foreseer left me with a lot of emotions, the open ending of the story and Zayne's feelings made me want to write a small fantasy sequel.

Tags: Bittersweet, hurt/comfort, storyteller, a little angsty.

Summary: No one in the village knows when the jasmine hill appeared; although time has passed, the flowers still give off a sweet fragrance and show off their brilliant white color.

There was a boy who had heard about that strange hill when he was very young. People just called it "the mysterious jasmine hill" but no one knew the story behind it. One day, his curiosity arose and he went to that place — and then he understood why it was considered so strange.

Chapter 1: The mysterious woman

The boy took small steps, weaving through the bushes to reach the strange hill. The villagers said, “It’s a hill covered in snow all year round. Some people have risked going up there, but in the end, all they saw was a pure white expanse!”

As he walked, the boy wondered: snow can’t fall all year; it only appears when the temperature drops to its lowest. Or maybe it’s just a myth?

Snow didn’t belong in summer, just as he didn’t belong in fairy tales. Yet as the child pushed through the dense shrubs, before him lay a scene that couldn’t be explained by medicine or physics: white snow fell gently on the warm ground, without melting. Jasmine flowers bloomed amid the unusual cold, their fragrance mingling with the thin mist as if weaving another world.

He stood still, staring at the whiteness, stepping slowly on the frosty snow, feeling the unusual chill. And then…

A large hand touched his shoulder from behind.

“You made it here too?”

The voice—so familiar that his heart skipped a beat.

The boy turned sharply. Before him was a woman in a short white dress, her long hair reaching her waist, eyes sparkling like shooting stars through the frost. She smiled softly:

“Welcome to the Jasmine Hill, young one.”

“…?” The boy hesitated, then nodded. “H-Hi…”

The woman tilted her head slightly: “The Jasmine Hill only appears to those whose hearts still hold pure memories… and love that has never cooled.”

At that moment, the boy didn’t understand.

The boy followed the mysterious woman up to the hilltop, unaware of how much time had passed, walking on the cold snow without feeling the chill that had struck him when he first arrived. Perhaps it was the warm golden light emanating from the staff she carried that kept him warm?

He couldn’t help but marvel at the jasmine flowers—they were resilient and magical to survive here, and truly beautiful.

The jasmine here wasn’t like the flowers in the village he knew; these blooms were large, with more and thicker petals.

The woman stopped, turned lightly, and gently tapped her staff on the snow. A blue light spread out, then faded into the ground like a breath. She smiled:

“They survive because they are nurtured by memories. Beautiful, isn’t it?”

The boy frowned, used to thinking logically rather than in terms of invisible things like memories or emotions. But this place… didn’t follow natural laws. No temperature could explain snow not melting in summer. No fertilizer could make flowers bloom brilliantly without care.

The woman extended her hand, and the boy felt compelled to take it.

“Cold? If so, hold my hand, and I’ll take you somewhere warmer.”

The boy felt her words were oddly familiar, as if he had heard them before.

Though it wasn’t cold, he still held her hand—having someone to guide him felt better than being lost in this place.

As they walked, the snowfall began to ease, and he felt the snow underfoot gradually melting. Looking down, he was puzzled—under the snow, soft green grass appeared.

He looked at his small hand holding hers, warm and alive, a real person.

He glanced at her.

Even seeing only her back, he felt he could trust her; there was a solid, reassuring sense.

The two of them reached the hilltop, where a wooden house lay quietly beneath a towering old tree. The snow had fully melted, revealing soft green grass and jasmine flowers swaying gently in the wind. Warm sunlight bathed the path in gold, creating a scene as beautiful as the ending of a fairy tale.

Only then did he get a clear look at the woman. Her hair, long and silky, shone dark brown under the sunlight. Parted in the middle, two strands framed her face softly. Her straight hair fell like a gentle stream, held neatly with an intricate headband, giving her the appearance of a mystical creature stepped out of a story.

The boy glanced at the simple wooden house under the old tree.

The woman smiled brightly and said, “Isn’t it cute?” The boy nodded, feeling his ears warm.

She opened a pale wooden gate and led him inside the yard. The scene resembled village houses, with grass, and vegetable patches, making him feel as if he were still in his own village, in his own home.

The boy looked around and noticed a set of furniture made from tree trunks, standing out with smooth, glossy brown-orange surfaces and natural circular grains. A large table was made from a thick trunk, its legs retaining their raw shape, surrounded by two small chairs also crafted from cross-sections of tree trunks, sanded smooth and polished.

“Sit,” she said gently, pointing to one of the chairs.

The boy hesitated briefly, then sat—surprised by the warmth of the wood beneath him, as if it had been basking in sunlight all day. He lightly touched the wood grain.

The woman went into the house, returning with two cups of warm cocoa, apparently having stored her staff inside.

The cups were set on the table with a soft clink. Steam rose, wrapping around Zayne’s fingers as he lightly touched the rim.

“Would you like to drink?” she asked, sitting across with gentle eyes. “It’s warm cocoa, no poison.”

The boy blinked, feeling a bit amused—she even anticipated his hesitation about poison.

He raised the cup to his lips and took a deep breath: the sweet chocolate aroma mixed with a faint scent of jasmine, slowing his heartbeat for a moment.

“Why are you here alone?” he finally asked, looking around to see only her.

She smiled, stirring her cocoa:

“I’m resting after a long journey.”

“Resting?” the boy asked again.

“Yes,” she replied, eyes distant. “I’m searching for my Foreseer.”

“Is it the Foreseer from the legend?” the boy placed the cocoa down.

She looked back, a mix of surprise and amusement on her face.

“Now it’s a full-blown legend, huh?”

The boy said he had once read about it in an old book in the village library. When he asked the librarian and the elders, no one remembered much about the Prophet, except that he had once been a representative of the high gods.

Yet the woman before him looked like the Prophet from long ago, as if she had just appeared recently, not a figure lost and buried in fading legend.

“The Foreseer represents the god Astra above, receiving power to convey the god’s will. He resides at the Thorn Tower, at the northernmost tip of Planet Philos, surrounded only by bitter snow.”

She told the tale as if recounting an ancient story.

“The royal family sends an envoy every hundred years, but He never delivered any guidance, and each envoy disappeared.”

The boy listened attentively, tasting the thick cocoa on his tongue, and a question arose:

“Have you ever met the Foreseer?”

She paused slightly, then her eyes glowed with a hint of happiness.

“Of course I have,” she replied. “He was the warmest person I’ve ever met in this world.”

She recounted how He lived alone in the tower, initially hard to please. Once, a gardener fell gravely ill. Everyone said she was beyond hope, but she didn’t believe it. She disguised herself as an envoy to ask the Prophet for guidance.

“But… He knew she was pretending,” the boy said, eyes bright.

She nodded, smiling as if recalling a beautiful dream.

“Yes. He didn’t kill her, but froze her, because she quickly understood what the Foreseer cared about most at that time.”

“What was that?” the boy asked softly, eyes fixed on her.

She answered gently: “How to make the jasmine bloom.”

[thehorrorfangirl]

Alien 2: On Earth (1980) is an obviously fake, super low budget and ultra violent sequel to Alien before Aliens had come out.  A pre cert VHS version was released by VTC under the name Alien Terror.

[groovydoom]

From 1981, a pair of re-releases with alternate titles: the 1972 film “Tower of Evil”, which was re-released with the more familiar title “Beyond the Fog” so as to appear to be a sequel to John Carpenter’s 1980 hit “The Fog”. Second feature is also from 1972, “They’re Coming To Get You”, originally titled “All the Colors of the Dark”.

[fakesequels-blog]

Fight Club 2: The Hunger

When we last saw Raymond K. Hessel, the hapless convenience store clerk tormented by a deranged Tyler Durden, he was sprinting down the street, chased by the threat of a bullet and the promise that the next meal he eats will be the finest he’s ever had.

And it was. 

Bodies react to stress in different ways.  Fear can induce vomiting in some; for a number, it’s sexual arousal. Still others feint away, choosing to abdicate awareness from whatever horrors may come. 

Raymond’s very being burned with an insatiable hunger as he sprinted up the street.  With each step the command reverberated:  Eat.  Eat everything.  Unused to strenuous activity, his body cried out for sustenance, and five minutes after the moonlit conversation with Tyler, he turned a corner to behold a 24 hour Chinese food storefront.  Stomach rumbling at a disturbing volume, he obliged, and entered.

With the third heaping of General Tso’s, he confronted the ultimatum bestowed at gunpoint.

“What is the one thing you want to be?” Tyler had asked.

“A veterinarian,” he had answered, sputtering. It seemed innocuous, even slightly altruistic.  

The only problem: it was a lie.

Raymond never wanted to be a veterinarian but he had been reading about one while hunched over the counter, before the armed lunatic burst through the doors and changed his life forever.  So he blurted it out, and now he’s tied to it. 

The second problem: he sucks at biology.

After consuming the remainder of the menu, Raymond staggers home realizing with each step that his life is now changed.  He was informed that if he does not chase this (arbitrarily decided) dream and become a veterinarian in six weeks, he will be dead.  He remains in bed for the first 24 hours of this enforced crossroads, wrestling with how best to pursue a new life as well while also resisting the urge to gorge. For that need is even then beginning to blot out the fear of leather clad, shaved headed death…the hunger.

Raymond awakens mid-bite from a blackout period of indeterminate time with the remains of a doughnut binge strewn around him.  Powder covering his face, he frantically searches for the date, terrified that his six week grace period has passed.  Using his expanding waist like rings of a tree, he gauges the time elapsed as no more than a week. 

He suffers a perilous run in with his former employers, the owners of the convenience store, when he literally bumps into them loitering at a butcher stall within their local market.  Crisis is averted when they don’t recognize his new, hefty frame, simply believing that some tubby stranger was shoving them out of the way for a fresh ham hock (he was).  Suddenly anonymous, he questions his next steps.

Raymond devotes the next two weeks attached to his laptop at the local Arby’s, absorbing fledgling internet pages devoted to animal physiology and subsisting off of a steady stream of Beef ‘n Cheddars.  Listless no longer, he begins to enjoy this new purposeful life of intake and consumption. 

Frightened by what he fears is a vengeful Tyler checking on him (it is really a panhandler draped in a leather throw rug), Raymond books a ticket to Lawrence, Kansas, seat of the premier veterinary school in the country.  He is now close to 300 lbs.

At the airport he confronts a twin dilemma:

Will he score high enough for admittance to his school of choice? He has, after all, just been memorizing the body parts of randomly selected animalia.

Will he be able to afford tuition AND the cost of servicing his burgeoning bulk?

The first act concludes with the flight attendant telling him, in tones heavy with concern, that his paunch will require purchase of two seats (cliffhanger?).

[fakesequels-blog]

Godfather 4: Sins of the Grandfather

Michael Vito Fredo Santino Corleone hails from a lineage of proud Italiano-Americans.  Like his grandfather and semi-namesake, the protagonist before him, he suffers as only one with elevated intellect surrounded by philistines can: by shaking his head, muttering, and planning for the next disaster.

Michael has inherited both a surname and a dream: to make the family business legitimate.  A series of car washes and laundromats in New Jersey technically constitute an empire, but one with limited upside.  He longs to see Corleone emblazoned in something other than neon, printed in the business pages rather than the police blotter.

To that end he uses the surplus from the prostitutes and cocaine trade, conveniently embedded within the aforementioned businesses, to finance a back room stem cell research operation in Paterson, NJ.  Burdened by vociferously doubtful constituents within his family and his Family, with profits dwindling,  Mikey needs a breakthrough.

Enter Bart Corleone.  Hailing from an equally proud yet ignominious lineage of illegitimate Corleones, Bart possesses the charming smile and killer instinct of his forefathers.  Caked in blood from a hit, he returns to his apartment in Bayonne one evening  with some takeout capiccola, only to find that his pothead roommate, Phil, has passed out on the couch watching Breaking Bad.  To make matters worse, the remote is lost!  Bart is put off by the unfamiliar topography and scientific vernacular of the program at first, but unable to turn the channel, he forcibly acclimates to the misadventures of Walt and Jesse.  By the time Phil wakes up, Bart is enraptured.  Capiccola consumed, he calls up his cousin Michael.

“What now?”

“Cuz, I’ve got it.”

Mike has been reviewing financials.  His Hugo Boss suit is rumpled.  One cuff link is missing, gone.  He has no time for his idiot cousin.

“What have you got Bart?”

 “Meth!”

“Congratulations, you’ve admitted to a felony.”

“No cuz.”  Bart is laughing now while Phil sits terrified on the couch.  Sober for the first time in months, he recognizes that it is not marinara staining his roommate’s hands.  “We sell it!”

The laboratory in Paterson is split by a sheet.  Employees work in double shifts, cooking meth and exploring genome manipulation, while Bart charts lines of distribution and Mike brushes up on his Excel proficiency. 

Familial bonds will be tested when one inquisitive lab tech notices a desperate tweaker staggering around the parking lot.  Will he go to the Feds?  Will Bart verify his legitimacy after finding Phil’s laptop open to Ancestry.com? Will Michael legitimize the business, be forced to murder his shareholders, or pursue a long dormant passion, and enroll at University of Phoenix?