Monday, May 27, 2013


Blue Volcano Productions has scripts available for option or purchase...genres such as romantic comedy, horror, drama, psychological thriller, etc.  Contact us directly at 828-483-7123 to discuss your needs.

Tuesday, April 23, 2013

Catching up

We've filmed a few of the special effects shots for Devil's Vein recently.  So far so good.  I have quite a few more to acquire before all is said and done.  I have edited together 1 hr, 10 min of the movie, albeit, in rough edit form.  Still, it's exciting to see it come together though losing so much original footage requires a lot of nips and tucks to what should have been a very fit movie.  One scene, in particular, will be difficult to live without, I haven't actually decided on how I will handle it.  I'll probably just cry, then get over it.

I've written another script, a romantic comedy/drama that excites me.  I am also in talks with another writer, and it is very likely that I will soon be involved with getting this production off the ground, to whatever degree he wants my assistance.  That is awesome.  He has a great script and it will only get better after he does a rewrite or two.  I look forward to the potentiality of being involved with it.

I have a lot of things going on in my life right now, some I want to get behind me, and hope to do so damn quickly.  Anyway, I am thankful to have a wonderful wife at my side as I navigate through, around and over this crap that is trying its best to knock me down.  I love her.  She's my best friend.  And, my little dude...he definitely puts the wind in my sails as I navigate the rough waters.  I love him so much.  Two lighthouses on the shore, always shining brightly, keeping me on my path.

Thursday, March 7, 2013

BVP Update

BVP is developing a script for possible production after the re-shoots for Devil's Vein are complete. It's been a long wait for the proper time of the year to roll around to acquire the needed shots but we are now actively pushing toward completion.

We currently have our eyes on two scripts, both romantic comedies, for our next production.

We are also sitting on several other feature length scripts and would be willing to option any or all to the right production company.  We have scripts in the following genres: 2 Horror, 3 Romantic Comedies, 1 Drama & 2 Psychological Dramas.

If you are interested in learning more about these scripts contact Keith at 828-782-6069.

Monday, November 19, 2012

blue volcano productions: Flashback to 2001: Homecoming

blue volcano productions: Flashback to 2001: Homecoming: I found an active blog I began way back when. Kind of surprised me to come across it after all this time. This story, Homecoming, was my fir...

Flashback to 2001: Homecoming

I found an active blog I began way back when. Kind of surprised me to come across it after all this time. This story, Homecoming, was my first sale as a writer. I optioned 3 stories and then co-wrote a short script based on this story entitled Presumed Dead. It premiered at the Sedona International Film Festival in 2003-4. 

Copyright in Library Of Congress, 2001 MKB

An emotional tide washed up fragments of a suddenly broken life. Memories weighted her down, rendering her helpless to make preparations for her husband’s burial. Mourning was natural but not now.

She could immerse herself in bottomless sorrow, regret and reflection later, but now was not the time to ponder the laughter, the tears, and each moment that she and Sam had experienced together---the good, the bad.

What she had possessed was lost with a single twist of fate; one fleeting moment that would dwell forever in her mind. The world was less great; offered less promise. Even the sun seemed reluctant to rise in the eastern sky outside her bedroom window.

Sam was dead.

She was alone.

The spray of colorful daffodils, petunias, and lilies that usually greeted her with an optimistic good morning, were silent today, not even whispering hello.

To hell with them. Perhaps, she would yank them up this afternoon and toss them into the compost bin---let the worms deal with their flowery attitudes and sugary aromas.

It was difficult to appreciate their beauty without hearing Sam’s voice in the head---the Garden of Eden beckons you this morning, sweetheart. That’s what he called the area outside their bedroom window where Eden had painstakingly planted and nurtured hundreds of flowers around a small fountain of cherubs.

Eden pondered the white concrete cherubs that sat at the edge of the little pond, their feet dangling carefree in the shallow water.

Damn their smiles.

How dare they sit there in their gleeful bliss, enjoying the benefits of her labor, while Sam lay in a smelly parlor waiting to be loaded into a hearse, driven to the cemetery, and lowered into the ground.

No. They were smiling. They were smirking.

They knew. They knew that Sam had been ripped apart in an automobile accident, and they didn’t care.

Eden held her head and suppressed the urge break down and bawl like a baby. This was crazy. She had to be strong. Now was not the time to come unraveled.

Calls had to be made, decisions considered. Insurance agents, attorneys, and all the other legalities that descended on a person during a painful time such as this had to be faced.

And a real estate agent. She would have to find a good real estate agent because selling the house was a given. It held too many memories---sweet, wonderful memories that stabbed her from all directions. Someday, she would confront them. Someday, she hoped it would be possible to smile as images of the past resurrected in her mind---but not today or tomorrow---perhaps never.

She cursed the flowers and the cherubs, even the bees that hovered over the delicate petals in search of a succulent stamen.


The telephone.

Who could that be---a solicitor---a wrong number---or, one of Sam’s old girlfriends, calling to offer their insincere condolences. That would be like them. Rub it in. Gloat. They were just jealous that she had been the one that walked down the isle with Sam.


Eden hastened to the phone, eager to crawl down the caller’s throat and inform them exactly where to put their heartfelt sympathy.

“Yessss,” she hissed into the receiver.

An annoying silence, then, “It’s---”

What do you want?” she spit viciously, having little patience to spare.

“It’s---me, Eden,” a familiar voice said.

Eden’s chest tightened. The son-of-a-bitch sounded like Sam. So much in fact that she was left breathless. Then, the words came through the phone that jabbed her gut with a sickening blow.

“Eden---it’s me---Sam. I’m not dead, baby.”

Eden felt shocked, confused, and angry. Not even an ex-girlfriend could be this cruel---could they?

She fought the urge to vomit; it was difficult to see through the tears. She sobbed, “You bastard.” She inhaled with short, choppy breaths. “I don’t know what game you’re playing---”

“It’s not a game, Eden, let me---”

“Go to hell!” she screamed.

She hammered the receiver into its cradle. Her body was weak, her breathing sporadic; it seemed she had no other alternative than to collapse at the base of the kitchen counter like a discarded marionette.

The man’s voice echoed in her mind. I’m not really dead. I’m not really dead.

How could anyone be this cruel? Eden stammered from the kitchen, her head swimming, her insides burning, as if piranha’s had ripped through her stomach.

Not yet recovered from the caller’s cruelty, the telephone rang, again.


She wheeled around slowly and stared defiantly at the white, plastic piece of annoyance. Was it truly a modern convenience or could it be argued down to little more than a socially accepted invasion of privacy.


Considering the phone now, in this time of loss and burden, it was undeniably an evil device that had wormed it’s way into most American homes under the guise of necessity and comfort, so that anyone, anywhere, could mettle into a person’s affairs, drive an arrow into the bulls-eye of their sacred comfort zone and split the carefully constructed sense of security and serenity that had been prized and protected during the pre-phone era.

And cell-phones. God, she didn’t even want to go there.

On the other hand, the phone might offer a kind voice, perhaps her mother or best friend, Kelly. It was like that---it could bless or damn, soothe or agitate, please or disgust---a roll of the dice, the spin of the wheel.


Attempting to deprogram her lifelong reaction to snatch up the receiver and press it to her ear would be futile. Heeding its call was as natural as shoving food in her mouth when her stomach craved sustenance. The mystery of not knowing who was at the other end of the line reeled her closer---a subtle yet powerful urge to satisfy her curiosity.


Eden approached the phone warily as a mouse might near a trap crowned with an alluring chunk of cheese. She tapped her finger against the cool, lifeless phone and then almost involuntarily yanked the receiver toward her ear; the silence at the other end pulsated into her eardrum, causing alarm and panic as she briefly forgot proper phone etiquette and said nothing.

An uncertain and puzzled voice broke the silence. “Hello?” the man said.

It was him, again.


She said nothing---couldn’t. This person’s audacity was disarming. Sam was dead. She had seen him at the morgue with her own eyes, his mangled body pieced together to give some indication of normality. The mortician had almost succeeded in arranging Sam’s facial features so that he appeared peaceful. Almost. But she knew better. Wherever her beloved husband was, he most certainly was not at peace---he was confused, lonely, and filled with grief at the loss of the life they shared together.

His corpse was nothing more than a shell that had been physically manipulated to relay a sense of serenity. Serenity soothes and calms, and in the wake of death, is what those left behind need.

But it was a lie.

If the essence of Sam’s death had been captured, his face would have been twisted with agony, sorrow, and fear, a few tears strategically placed under each eye. That was reality. Those were the emotions her Sam was experiencing.

“Eden---are you there?”

The man’s voice bludgeoned into her heart; a merciless assailant who refused to relent even though she was sprawled on the mat, down for the count. He apparently wanted to inflict pain, drill home the horrid reality that Sam was dead. For him it was a joke, a little fun at her expense---for her---a living nightmare. No words could aptly express her feelings on contempt and hatred toward this demented individual.

“Please, don’t hang up,” he said. “I know you think it’s a joke but I’ll be home in five minutes to explain everything.”

His words struck her with horror. Home? Five minutes? Her brain feverishly processed the words. Did he say he would be home in five minutes?

The man was still talking on the other end of the line. What was he saying? This was all so surreal. Could it be happening?

“Eden, lis---I---ome.”

The man was probably on a cell-phone and breaking up as he drove---possibly on minutes away. Eden concentrated. Yes. She heard noise in the background---traffic.

“Damn phone---I---thing---min---death.”

Then silence.

Eden stood rigid with wide, teary eyes and confused thoughts. Should she call the police? Probably not. This maniac could pull into the drive at any moment. She couldn’t risk another second.

She dashed through the house in search of her car keys. If memory served her right, they were on the nightstand beside the bed where she and Sam had made love countless times before the accident. Her memory earned an A---the keys lay in a jagged mound just as she had envisioned. She palmed them and started toward the garage. Her BMW would deliver her far from this absurdity where she could compose herself and figure out what course of action to take.

A dull thud outside diverted her attention---possibly a car door. Breaking stride, Eden froze in her tracks and jumped toward the living room window to ease the drapes aside. She swallowed hard as her eyes were drawn to a sleek, silver sedan that sat motionless in the driveway.

It was empty.

The man was here.


Her heart pounded in her ears.


She pressed her cheek against the window, attempting to view the garage area. Still, she saw nothing. With a quick turn, she realized that windows were open throughout the house---potential ports of entry for an intruder. Suddenly, she heard a familiar metallic grinding sound.

The garage door was lifting.

The intruder was opening the garage door. Had he retrieved the opener from Sam’s wrecked car? Did he have the keys to the house as well? This man was obviously prepared and willing to carry out his threat of coming home.

She should run. She knew she should. But this person, this evil person needed to pay for his cruelty. Escaping out the back door was not an option, but the .22 caliber revolver in the drawer of the nightstand was. Besides the fact that she had the home field advantage, she knew that the police would not file charges against her if she killed this man.

The garage door was on its downward trek. Time was running out. Within seconds, as if moving in elapsed time, she held the revolver and sought refuge in the bedroom closet. This domestic bunker would provide her the leverage she needed to win this battle. He would never know what hit him.

Squatting uncomfortably, surrounded by countless garments, she waited. Sam’s clothes---trousers, coats, and pullover knits, haunted her---designer labeled reminders that he was dead.

Eden parted the fabric wall, enabling her to view the intruder through a narrow slit. Her muscles cramped. She repositioned herself and placed her sense on a high state of alert and waited.

A noise. Keys. It sounded like the clanging of keys. The man just entered the house through the door connecting the garage and dining room. He was inside.

She listened.

“Eden?” the Sam-sounding man called out---his voice echoing down the long hall. “Eden---listen, baby---I know this is a shock to you. But, it was all a big mistake. It wasn’t me in that coffin---“

No. Of course, it wasn’t you, jackass. It was Sam. If it were you, you wouldn’t be in my house.


She shivered as the familiar voice worked beneath her shield of sensibility and tugged her heartstrings. No---she wouldn’t allow herself to be duped by this master manipulator of the voice box. Sam was dead. This man’s intent was malicious and likely dangerous. Things had to be kept in perspective.

“I know this is confusing. Just let me explain.”

He was getting closer. Too damn close.

“A couple of years ago---”

Eden could see his feet. The man stood in the doorway.

“I was approached by a group of men---”

He wasn’t in her sight. What should she do? What if he left the room? Should she leave her bunker to pursue him? This wasn’t her plan. He was supposed to come all the way into the room so she could get a decent shot at him

The idiot.

He turned and left.

“Eden---” he called out loudly.

It sounded as if he was in the adjacent bedroom. Eden grimaced. This was it. She couldn’t squat in this uncomfortable position any longer without risking cramps. The now or never philosophy kicked in as she decided that the hunted was about to become the hunter.

She eased from the protective walls of the closet and entered the battlefield. The intruder was silent. Had he heard her? Had she made noise exiting the closet? Was she breathing too loud?

It didn’t matter.

She held her ticket to freedom in her right hand and she wasn’t afraid to use it. She inched closer to the doorway of the room where she suspected the man to be and tightened her grip on the revolver.

A tapping noise came from the room.

She closed the gap between her and the doorway and peeked inside.

There he stood, staring out the window, tapping his fingers against the wall beside the mauve, floral drapes. He appeared oblivious to her.

From the back, the bastard even resembled Sam. Eden could see that he had no weapon. She leveled the revolver, targeting a spot between his shoulders. But despite the phone calls and the home invasion, she couldn’t shoot him in the back.

“Hey!” she screamed, hoping to startle him.

The man flinched.

“Turn around slowly,” she ordered, “so I can see your face when I put a bullet between your eyes.”

The man started to turn. “Eden---”

“Shut up!” she demanded.

The man now faced her. She gasped. He looked like Sam---or was he Sam? Had he been telling the truth? No. Impossible. Sam was dead. He was in a coffin. She had seen him with her own eyes.

“I know this is confusing,” he said, stepping toward her.

“No! Stay where you are.”


She pointed the revolver at his face. “Who the hell are you? You---you can’t be my husband.”

“But I am---you can see that.”

Eden shook her head. “What I saw was my husband in a coffin. Mangled. Dead. What are you trying to pull? What do you want from me?”

“I want to tell you the truth.”

“The truth? You want to tell me the truth? Then, tell me where we were married.”

The man seemed passionate. “In the Bahamas. I can still smell the flowers around the gazebo.”

Eden faltered somewhat but remained firm. “Okay---tell me the name of your biological father.”

The man held a hand up. “My adoptive parents never told me---you know that, dear.”

“Don’t call me, dear.”

Just let me explain---“ the man pleaded.

Eden shook her head. “No---just tell me what’s so special about my yard.”

“That’s easy---your Garden of Eden. I know how much you love it out there.”

A small tear trickled down her cheek. “I---I want to see---a birthmark.”

The man smiled. “Yours or mine?”

Eden lost her composure. “I don’t have a birthmark,” she said, trying to maintain the upper hand.

“Sure you do, dear---and, it’s in the cutest place.”

Her tears flowed. “Yours. Show me yours,” she sobbed. “Turn around and lift your shirt.

The man pivoted slowly, tugged his shirt over his head and let it fall to the floor. Eden’s knees weakened as she observed the dark, heart-shaped birthmark on the man’s skin.

“Eden---the man in the car---he wasn’t me. He was a clone---manufactured in a laboratory.”

“A clone?” Eden waved the revolver. “Why? I don’t understand---”

“I volunteered several years ago to donate DNA for a government experiment, “ he explained. “I know it sounds unbelievable---but it’s the truth. Our government has been secretly messing around with this stuff for years---”

“I don’t believe it.”

“It’s the truth, Eden. They can break down the molecules of the human body---and, they can construct biological matter from random molecules. By introducing my DNA to a group of random molecules, they manipulated and constructed an exact replica of me. I know it’s absurd---but, they can really do this---”

Eden’s protective wall was crumbling. She studied the man’s expression. He seemed earnest---but it was all so fantastic. He just wasn’t sure what to believe.

“Tell me---how did this---clone---get into your car?”

The man shrugged. “Against my will---they decided to send him home to you---it was the ultimate test---to see if you would notice anything unusual.”

Eden became flustered. “How long---how long did this---thing---live with me? How many times did I sleep with it?”

“It didn’t---It was on its way here for the first time when the wreck occurred. It was fate, Eden---I could’ve been in that car---but, it was just wasn’t meant to be.”

A flicker of happiness sprang up inside Eden. She was buying into the miracle. She lowered the .22 and the corners of her mouth turned up. “So, what’s my favorite desert?”

“I believe that would be pumpkin pie.” The man held up a finger as if in protest. “But, only at Christmas time,“ He shook his head and grinned, “you’re kind of weird in that way---”

Eden dropped the revolver and cried. “Oh, Sam.  I can’t believe it---this is---just---” She wanted to believe.  She had to believe.

Sam rushed to Eden and embraced her. The embrace was long; it comforted, assured, and then it flared into a passionate entanglement of arms, legs, and tongues. Lowering themselves to the floor, they grappled at each other’s clothing and made love on the floor for over an hour.

After the urgent passion was spent, they stared at the ceiling, exhausted, fulfilled, and thankful. Sam fell asleep and Eden was content to watch him breath as she raked her fingers through his hair and thought about the many years they had shared.


The telephone startled her but this time it was only a mild annoyance. People needed to know that Sam was alive and she was eager to announce it.

She quietly stood, smiled at Sam, who still slept, and rushed into the kitchen. She picked up the receiver, smiling and feeling optimistic.

“Hello,” she sang.

A familiar voice answered, “Eden---It’s me, baby---Sam. I’m not really dead.”

The color drained from her face.

“Eden? Eden? I’ll be home in a few minutes. I’ll explain everything.”