Looking for a short story for film adapation

Hey geniuses and geniusettes, I'm a young, quasi-serious film-maker who have just finished a short film due for several film festivals this year. In the absence of having a project on the hold I feel completely listless and hollow. I've been trying to find inspiration but, as you probably know, it doesn't really respond to any active search. Therefore I'm looking for short stories to adapt, and I think there's a huge potential here. Also there's of course and ulterior motive to this, "non-established" writers isn't represented by some greedy publisher who wants to drain all the life out of small projects, which enables me to actually finish a project with my ultra small budget (I have to say that the exception is Harper Collins, who were extremely generous in giving me Bukowski-material to film).

So, I can't pay you, it's non-profit and completely self financed. If we by some unattainably small stroke of luck should make some money, you will of course be paid your share. The main factor is basically to be psyched about having your story filmed by someone you trust, and getting credit on the several film festivals the project will end up on (I use Withoutabox which allows me to plug the film to over 2000 festivals all over the world.)
I've got a bunch of old 16mm film in my fridge, which looks damn good, it's gritty, saturated and extremely fickle, so a story which mirrors this concept would be awsome. To give you an idea how old 16mm film looks, here's a film (not mine, and badly encoded for the internet) http://www.vimeo.com/1209195

I'm basically open for any story, as long as it's not hackneyed or cowardice.
One thing that could interfere with the transition from novella to film is of course the discrepancies in what makes a short story good, and what makes a short film good. Writing is obviously contingent on words, film is contingent on visuals. My concept of film is an extreme approach, I don't like to merge writing with film too much, for me, a film is visual, and should remain so unless something else is called for in the dramatic structure.
I have about 152 minutes of 16mm film so with a 10:1 shooting ratio that should land us a 15 minutes film.

So to sum it up; if you have a story with minimal dialogue, visual language, that you think would be a good candidate for film adaptation, please, please send me your contribution. There's, as I said no official money involved, if we should win some price, that of course takes care of your end aswell. It's purely based on trust, if you don't like my attitude, you leave, if I don't like were the project is going, I leave. No contracts, just artistic freedom and enthusiasm.

Wow, that's a pretty long post for something that should be simple.
For me, the most important thing is that you feel safe in me translating your work into cinema. So here's a few excerpts of my hobby-made films:
http://www.vimeo.com/user419230/videos

Cheers!

You can sellect one of my stories written on this site. I don't expect payment, only, if you decided to take one I would like to know which and to see your "trasnlation" into the film's language. Good luck!

Short story for film adapation

Hello Hampusforev,

Where can I see a sample of your film clip?

The Song of Our Times

heres a short story ive been working on. if you like it my email is [email protected]

The Song of Our Times

The whip crack of his heels echoes through the crowd, whirling amongst the clatter of a full house. Myriads of people are jarring together. Their heads and shoulders spiked and glistening, and the metal adornments cut a gleaming contrast to the black faded clothing. Coated with spray painted and patches the rough hewn effigies of drug corrupted idols betray their loyalty. This testament in modern art colors speaks to the mind of both their denial of the mundane common society and their allegiance to the banner of hedonistic anarchy. All the patches are unique save one. The unity in this room is completed by the choppy urban stencil that reads: “Fredrik Hayes” and stage lights and smoke set a perfect tone of light for this rare appearance of unity. This chaotic union stretches the hall, running together from person to person, meshing together in a stream until it hits the stage. A god stands fearless on the cowboy boots that elevate him above the masses. Leather straps sewn to iron rings, mismatched thread, and fading patches tell the tale of a road run life. His tight black pants curve up along the contours of his lean legs, the tears untouched, the rips unsewn. A silver sprayed effigy of a past revolutionary ripples beneath his leather jacket. This cowhide proclamation declares his allegiance to no one. His arm shoots high and alone above the roaring crowd. Their screams intensify as he speaks with a rough edged voice. He rebels against everyone by listening only to the gnarled notes that have guided him since his lonely childhood. His bass guitar scarred with a thousand battles swings down across his legs as it peels once more into sonic war. Slow, piercing groans start up the song, impatient growls of a beast newly awakened and fiercely hungry thrum in the night air. Drums beat, threading a tattoo of violence and angst in amongst the deep thunder of an electronic roar. The guitar starts up, a solo lightning that peels through the audience, fast and dangerous in its audio duels with the singer. The lyrics scream out, charged and in your face with their brutal, uncontrolled honesty. The high pitched wail of a heart-wrung scream spirals into the night. Chaotic waves of desperation driven by the drums and soaring into the sky with the jangling footsteps of the guitar’s frenzied dance---pulsing with the tumultuous scream of the crowd…
…a crowd that mirrors the sashaying sway of the jazz dance floor in its intensity. A heavyset man jangles on the piano, the jazzy uplifting notes plank out from his fingers and onto a corduroy road over day to day worries. The wailing harmonica laces in with the mournful hum of a saxophone as sorrow spins tunes into a world of sound--- inked by the lacy drum taps and colored by the pianist James King. The gravelly glass-throated proclamation of blue jazz band curls out from his lips, brassy emanations that reverberate through the moaning crowd of sensual ecstasy. Blue thought pervades the senses, from the sapphire smoke curling and twisting from fingers to the spiraling motions of conversation. The click of gleaming black heels and the swish of taffeta dresses speaks to flashing eyes. Eyes that flicker up above the crowd to James, his dark skin glows with exertion and his bright white teeth flash in perfect harmony with the worlds of words he spins from his lips. His Complete confidance radiates from his gaze as he rules the six bars of musical escape. This smile, a smirk almost in its self absorption hovers on his lips…
That selfsame smile floats on the lips of Fredrik Hayes as he walks off stage, and out into the night air. The fading screams of the crowd hold no appeal to him, their desperate pleas for an encore lost to his mind. He walks out to the call of the fragrant night air and the airy jangles of a far off jazz trio. That smile hears the farewell cries of his band and twists in cynical amusement that as he walks off into the night, turning his back on a way of life that has consumed him for nearly twenty years. A faint smile quivers on his lips, one red slash of emotion that opens slightly for the next cigarette. Blue grey fumes release wafts away into the night sky…
Where James looks up, the windows to the heavens show only the starlit sky. He looks back down, the twinkling notes of the final score patter to a stop, and his deep voice draws out the final note of this song. The snares tap into silence, their voices ending where the saxophone takes over, and its brassy moan quivering amongst the fumes and into the hearts, its final note drawn out in the blue grey emotion of jazz. Patters of applause scatter the auditorium as the crowd drifts away, leaving only the band on the stage, their tired chatting wafting amongst the rafters of the near-abandoned room. The only other sound comes from the ragged heel taps as a dark figure enters the room…
Unnoticed by the band, Fredrik Hayes lounges in one of the upturned chairs. His unkempt hair draws spiky silhouettes on the wall, and his bass guitar gleams with black lacquer, the liquid light flowing down its length, pooling around the battle scars on its face and dripping to a soft reflection on the floor. Fredrik’s smile curves down almost imperceptibly as the conversation on stage grow edged. The once casual conversation is sharpened with the darting accusations that tear friendships apart. Their instruments now packed, the band storms off, leaving the pianist, James King slumped on the bench, his large frame hunched as he lights another cigarette.
James slams his large hands against the keys, the discordant thunder echoing with his anger around the silent concert hall. His dark eyes gleam with despair and his cheeks are sucked in as he draws out his anger, blowing it with his smoke across the liquid black top of his grand piano. Hearing a scuff, his eyes dart to the other end of the stage, where the dark stranger stands, his bass guitar slung across his lap, his eyes flash blue under the hooded brows, his teeth piercing the gloom with a smile, arrogant, and certain in their invitation to James.
Fredrik looks down at the pianist, his lips pull tight, and his hand dramatically falls to his bass. He draws out a solitary chord, one single thrum of deep, drawn out reverberations emanating in the smoky air. The low octave growls of music growing in strength, multiple chords tumbling darkly over each other. Their deep strength draws out the dark cerulean power of the ocean as they slowly speed up, threatening to overpower James, dark notes flashing alone in the vibrating air. Original notes are forgotten as the new chords return sevenfold with a rhythmic offbeat funky life that fills the mind with swirling colors. “Plink” the single note drops like the footstep that comes before an avalanche. The high jangling sound of jazz as it was meant to be played tumbles out into the air with the bass thunder echoing before the lighting-fast piano. Dark clouds brew in the eyes of these men, their heads turned up to the sky, their minds spiraling towards the heavens with the music they weave. The sonic patterns travel along the weft of this new woven song with growing intensity before they coast to a crawl, the deep rumble of the bass rolls down to its heady finally, reverberations climbing the octaves until they reach the top, slowing into riffs that meander the low plunks of the piano as James growls out this mournful song. His low silky voice pierces the deep sea rhythms of Fredrik’s bass. James’s low gravelly tones speak to the empty room of love and war, the sad footnotes on a gravestone, and the numbers on a dead mans arms. He whispers urgently to the silent, warning them to take heed. His voice grows until the words of language can bear his grief no more and he cries. Tears run down his cheeks as he sings of the past. Salty expressions of joy and sorrow that are mirrored in Fredrik’s face as together they loose their pain wholly into the reverberating chords and harmonies of a heart strings pluck. Slowly the song crawls to a stop, Fredrik’s bass echoes amongst the final plaintive sobs of James’s song. They nod to each other in understanding, the tear streaks painting jagged pictures along their cheeks as they turn to go. They walk away from each other, in step, and out of tune, their heels snapping amongst the ghostly sounds of the end of their song.

It would be interesting to find out if anything had came out of this project? This story sounds quite poetical and maybe dificult for a low budget short.

Quote:

Originally Posted by hampusforev

So to sum it up; if you have a story with minimal dialogue, visual language, that you think green smoke reviews, would be a good candidate for please, please send me your contribution. There's, as I said no official money involved, if we should win some price, that of course takes care of your end aswell. It's purely based on trust, if you don't like my attitude, you leave, if I don't like were the project is going, I leave. No contracts, just artistic freedom and enthusiasm.