The Fixed

Logline: In a totalitarian near-future, a brainwashed former peace activist must regain his memories and identity in order to discover who is manipulating him.

The Sense of Being Watched

How much plot can be condensed into one page? Can one have a full story, with beginning, middle, and end? That's the challenge in this super-short script parable.

The Thick Window

This art-film script is intended to be a subjective read. It is a character study of two people in an undisclosed location for an undisclosed reason. Hints are given towards the "official" backstory and future events, but the reader's own preferences and imagination are allowed to inform the wider events.

Self-Portrait of a Quiet Eye

"Collateral damage". That's the term that's used in wars and battles for the accidental victims caught in the crossfire. Every well-intentioned domestic war has its own form of collateral damage, as well. This artsy, avant-garde script briefly explores one such potential casualty of America's latest domestic campaign.

Ordinary Time

In a world of non-stop holidays, what is the impact of a ho-hum day?

ORDINARY TIME
by Kyle Patrick Johnson
Represented by:
Canton Literary Management (CLM)
Contact: Eric Canton
(866) 429-3118
ECanton@Prodigy.net
www.CantonLiteraryManagement.com
FADE IN:
INT. KITCHEN - DAY
A glum head propped on two world-weary fists, cheeks squashed
flat. Two listless eyes peer out at a bleak world. Pale lips
puckered, ready to blow.
This is RONNIE (13) at the kitchen table. He wears a tattered
party hat perched at an uncaring angle, strapped-on remnant
of a faded joy. A sole candle plunked in a massive iced sheet
cake, four feet wide.
Ronnie blows. The candle goes out.
His parents clap, delirious with pasted-on happiness. One on
either side of him, they almost seem like hovering prison
guards: GERALDINE (50) and JIM (60).
GERALDINE
Happy January fifth!
JIM
Well, go on!
Ronnie reaches for a knife, cuts the cake.
Dirty dishes by the sink display uneaten leftovers of apple
pie, ice cream, chocolate pudding. Candy wrappers litter the
floor near the garbage can.
Ronnie distributes the slices. He stares down at his piece.
JIM
Eat up, Ronnie. It’s a holiday.
Geraldine and Jim dig in, delight in every icing-sweet bite.
GERALDINE
What’ll we do tomorrow?
JIM
What’s tomorrow?
GERALDINE
A holiday!
JIM
Gee whiz, a holiday? Which one?
GERALDINE
January sixth, silly!
Ronnie turns from his cake in disgust.
JIM
Ronnie, not hungry?
GERALDINE
The sixth, let’s see.
JIM
You have to grow up strong. Eat
your breakfast, son.
RONNIE
I want to go to school.
GERALDINE
Sixth, sixth-- School?
JIM
But it’s a holiday, Ronnie.
Ronnie slides a hand up to his head, slow, strips the party
hat off his head, slow, slow. He gets out of his chair, plods
out, shoulders bowed.
Jim watches him go, not a spark of concern. As soon as Ronnie
is around the corner, Jim snatches Ronnie’s piece of cake.
INT. RONNIE’S ROOM - DAY
Ronnie sits on his bed, watches out the window. Clumps of
CHILDREN sit in the neighboring yards and streets, wear party
hats. Each Child bows over a personal handheld video game
systems. Wrapping paper wafts in a gentle breeze.
The bedroom is cluttered with dirty clothes, toys, video
games. The floor might be somewhere under the mess.
Geraldine enters, hands on hips.
GERALDINE
Look at this room, Ronnie.
Ronnie looks.
GERALDINE
You’ll have to clean this up after
the holidays.
Ronnie nods.
Jim leans in the doorway.
2.
JIM
You should get outside, Ronnie. I
hear it’s going to rain later.
RONNIE
I’m bored of playing.
Jim and Geraldine share a knowing look. Jim whips a present
out from behind his back, a small wrapped item.
Ronnie peels the wrapping paper, casual: a video game.
JIM
It’s a game!
Ronnie nods at the absurd obviousness.
Geraldine rumples Ronnie’s hair, kisses his head.
GERALDINE
Happy January fifth.
Geraldine and Jim leave.
Ronnie.
Alone.
INT. LIVING ROOM - DAY
Jim watches a ball game on the television. He lounges in
complete feet-up beer-gut remote-control comfort.
Rain begins to fall outside, gentle against the windows.
Panicked PARENTS under umbrellas sprint through the
sprinkles, shepherd their absorbed Children indoors.
Jim doesn’t notice the tableau outside, absorbed in the TV.
INT. KITCHEN - DAY
Ronnie slumps, head on crossed forearms, the ragged party hat
even more askew.
He stares at a candle, on a cake with written icing: “Happy
January 6th, Ronnie!” A wrapped present rests next to the
cake: the same size and shape as the video game earlier.
Geraldine and Jim clasp their hands, await Ronnie’s exhale.
3.
INT. RONNIE’S ROOM - DAY
Ronnie lies face up on his bed, plays a video game without
even looking at his big-screen television, a remarkable
mastery of the controller.
The room is messier, dirtier.
INT. KITCHEN - DAY
Ronnie’s chin on the table, stares at a candle. This cake:
“Happy January 7th!” Another present, same size.
He looks sick to his stomach.
He blows. The candle goes out. Geraldine and Jim clap.
The eroded elastic band of the party hat snaps in two. Ronnie
doesn’t even flinch.
INT. RONNIE’S ROOM - DAY
Ronnie lays on his bed, arms splayed, the portrait of apathy.
MONTAGE - INT. KITCHEN - DAY
A succession of cakes...
- “Happy January Great Eight!”
- “Happy January Divine Nine!”
- “Amen! It’s 1-10!”
- “It’s Heaven! January Eleven!”
INT. RONNIE’S ROOM - NIGHT
Dark, Ronnie sleeps in bed.
Geraldine opens his door, creeps in. She stumbles her way
across the treacherous floor, kisses him on the head.
GERALDINE
(whisper)
I love you, Ronnie. Hope you’ll be
all right with a regular day.
Geraldine leaves.
4.
Ronnie’s eyes snap open.
INT. KITCHEN - DAY
Ronnie, excited, shovels huge spoonfuls of corn flakes into
his ravenous mouth.
Jim, hair tousled, rubs his eyes, checks his morning breath.
JIM
Slow down there, Ronnie. It’s just
cereal.
RONNIE
(mouth full)
I know!
Geraldine, in a terry cloth bathrobe, holds up a bookbag.
GERALDINE
It’s almost time. Sorry.
After one last milky bite, Ronnie races from the table,
snatches the bookbag from Geraldine’s hand, flies from the
kitchen like a rocket.
RONNIE (O.C.)
Bye, Mom!
EXT. RONNIE’S HOUSE - DAY
Ronnie slams the front door, stands on the porch.
Rain splashes to the ground in torrents, churns the front
yard into a mudbath.
Ronnie’s eyes open wide. He bites his lip in anticipation.
He jumps off the front porch.
He lands in the muddy front yard.
A solid sheet of mud and water splashes straight up, shoots
past his ankles, above his knees, beyond his waist, his
shoulders, and hides Ronnie’s delirious, exuberant, joyful
smile.
FADE OUT.
5.

Taggered

A prolific young filmmaker named Robbie Comeau is running an informal screenplay contest with some of his fellow writers. Looking to film a screenplay, but with only the first scene set in stone, he asked some of us for our ideas on where to take the rest of the script.

So, the first half of the first page is Robbie's work, and the rest is mine. I thought his idea, though dark and rather twisted, had flashes of genius and visual interest, so I continued in that vein.

How to describe this work? Think "Type I Diabetes meets Alfred Hitchcock" and you're almost there. :)

WARNING: This gets rather dark, so if you're not into nasty psychological pieces, you might want to go to the right sidebar and click on "Comedy" instead.

TAGGERED
by Kyle Patrick Johnson
Represented by: Registered with:
Canton Literary Management (CLM) Writers Guild of America,
Contact: Eric Canton West, Inc.
(866) 429-3118 Registration #1394569
ECanton@Prodigy.net
www.CantonLiteraryManagement.com
FADE IN:
INT. BATHROOM - NIGHT
An assortment of kitchen knives, big and small, gleaming,
spread across the counter top.
Each knife has a price tag tied to it.
WRIGHT, 40’s, stands in front looking in the mirror.
His baggy eyes and bed-headed hair shows that he’s half
awake.
He looks down, scans the knives from left to right.
He notices a small plastic shaver and picks it up.
He tests its weight, watches the light play on the thin steel
edge.
Then, confident, quick, no hesitation, slides the shaver to
his Adam’s apple.
He applies pressure, slides the razor blade across his throat
slowly. Thick dark blood pours down his neck.
WE MOVE out of the bathroom, down the hallway, into an opened
door bedroom to see WRIGHT, sleeping in his bed, writhing...
BEDROOM
PUSH IN on Wright’s face: he looks uncomfortable as his
nightmare continues...
He suddenly wakes up, sits up in sudden panic.
WRIGHT’S POV
The room goes hazy, fuzzy, fades out...
INT. BATHROOM - NIGHT
Wright stares at his haggard reflection in the mirror. He
reaches one hand to his mouth, pulls his cheeks up into a
hideous, cheerless smile.
He lets go of his face. His cheeks flop back down into jowls.
He looks down at the counter...
No knives. No shaver.
He looks down at his feet.
A price tag tied to his left big toe.
IN THE MIRROR
Wright’s downturned face... but his eyes flick up at the
mirror, menacing, dark, eery, creepy...
WE MOVE out of the bathroom, down the hallway. SOUNDS of
glass breaking, the bathroom mirror smashing.
BEDROOM
Wright gasps for air in his sleep.
PUSH IN on his face: his eyes pop open, pupils dilated to
bursting.
He sits up in bed.
WRIGHT’S POV
The room goes fuzzy, woozy, again...
INT. BATHROOM - NIGHT
Wright stares himself down in the mirror, unblinking.
The knives are on the counter, price-tagged and shiny new.
Wright’s hand moves for a large cleaver, as if beyond his
control.
He fights his own hand, forces it back to his side with his
other hand.
His eyes never leave the mirror.
An intense struggle, inside his head, inside his body.
A THIRD HAND sneaks in FROM OFF CAMERA, a wrinkled, elderly
hand.
The Third Hand picks up the shaver from the shower stall,
carries it over, places it gently in Wright’s shaking hand.
MALE VOICE (V.O.)
Drink some juice, all right? Just
drink it. Man! Why you got to be
so... so... man!
2.
Wright’s eyes shiver in place, oscillate... he’s trying to
look down at the third hand.
MALE VOICE (V.O.)
Oh, now you don’t want to?
Sounds of a struggle, sounds of overpowering, sounds of
gagging and gurgling.
Wright tears his eyes away from the mirror, looks down.
The third hand has disappeared.
But the shaver is in Wright’s hand. His eyes flick back to
the mirror, a new desperation, a new purpose.
He raises the shaver to his Adam’s apple.
WE MOVE out of the bathroom, down the hallway, turn the other
way, away from Wright’s bedroom, into another open door...
SECOND BEDROOM
An ELDERLY COUPLE sleeps in a wide bed, plush comforter
almost to their noses.
PUSH IN on ELDERLY MAN’S face, wrinkled...
MALE VOICE (V.O.)
He’s our only kid. Is being normal
too much to ask, really? Man!
PUSH IN on ELDERLY WOMAN’S face, faded, worn...
FEMALE VOICE (V.O.)
He’s just diseased, and there’s
nothing to be done.
MALE VOICE (V.O.)
Well, he came outta you. I ain’t
gonna pay for fixing him.
PULL BACK to an upper corner of the room. Elderly Couple
looks smaller and smaller and non-threatening.
FEMALE VOICE (V.O.)
He’s diseased, and... son, Wright,
are you there? Wright?... I thought
I heard something.
MALE VOICE (V.O.)
Sneaky retard. Man!
3.
FEMALE VOICE (V.O.)
There’s nothing wrong with his--
MALE VOICE (V.O.)
Cost a fortune. Man!
PAN TO HALLWAY. Wright’s boxer shorts and legs disappear,
crawling down the hall.
WE MOVE TO FOLLOW Wright down the hallway, as he army-crawls
to the...
INT. KITCHEN - NIGHT
Wright, using every last bit of energy that he doesn’t have,
struggles across the floor to the refrigerator...
The looming refrigerator...
Wright reaches a trembling hand to the door, his hand slips
off the handle.
He swallows hard, breathes deep, sweats, trembles all over.
He reaches up again for the handle, the effort like climbing
Kilimanjaro.
The refrigerator door cracks open, opens wide.
The white-hot light inside the fridge momentarily blinds
Wright, but he fights through the light to grab something,
something hidden in the white light...
MALE VOICE (V.O.)
Sell the hunting cabin? You crazy?
FEMALE VOICE (V.O.)
You can’t put a price tag on
Wright’s health.
Wright pauses, as if to catch his breath, rests.
MALE VOICE (V.O.)
Oh, is that what you’re calling it
now?
FEMALE VOICE (V.O.)
His health?
MALE VOICE (V.O.)
He’s diseased, remember?
4.
Wright withdraws his hand, a tiny child-sized purple juicebox
in his palm.
MALE VOICE (V.O.)
I’ll tell you what. I’ll buy his
juice with my food stamps.
Wright, a trembling hand, jams a plastic straw into the juicebox
on the third try.
FEMALE VOICE (V.O.)
(resigned)
He’ll need his juice.
MALE VOICE (V.O.)
Now can I go to sleep? Man!
Wright slurps the juice, purple streaks run down his wobbly
chin.
He sits back against the open refrigerator, closes his eyes,
visibly regains energy.
His trembling stops, he relaxes... dozes off...
INT. BATHROOM - NIGHT
Wright stares into the mirror...
Price tags hang from his body like branches from a willow
tree. He is covered in strings and tags.
He raises his arms, his body shaped like a “T”. Price tags
dangle from his arms like a fringed cowboy suit.
MALE VOICE (V.O.)
You know how much you cost me, boy?
FEMALE VOICE (V.O.)
He couldn’t move out on his own.
Wright mouths the word: “Yes.”
MALE VOICE (V.O.)
He’s a... a... sponge. Man!
FEMALE VOICE (V.O.)
He’s helpless.
Wright mouths the word: “No.”
Wright looks down at the counter, the bare knives laid out,
the small shaver next to them.
5.
FEMALE VOICE (V.O.)
He’s helpless.
Wright picks up the shaver.
FEMALE VOICE (V.O.)
He’s helpless.
Wright saws at the price tags all over his body. The razor
seems dull, won’t cut through a single one.
FEMALE VOICE (V.O.)
He’s helpless.
Wright hacks at the tags, the strings, his eyes grow more and
more desperate as he stares into the mirror, anguished...
FEMALE VOICE (V.O.)
He’s helpless.
Wright screams, throws the shaver at the mirror.
WRIGHT
No!
Wright whips the largest kitchen knife up to his Adam’s
apple.
His eyes, enraged, cornered...
WE MOVE out of the bathroom, down the hallway, to the...
INT. KITCHEN - NIGHT
Wright wakes up. He’s cramped and freezing cold, leaning back
into the open fridge.
He stands up, tosses the juice-box into a garbage can full of
other empty purple juice-boxes.
He rubs his frozen back.
He looks inside the fridge, the bulb burned out. It’s empty.
Not a thing inside it.
Wright walks down the hallway, still stretching and rubbing.
INT. SECOND BEDROOM - NIGHT
Wright stands in the open doorway for a moment, staring in at
the Elderly Couple in bed.
6.
He tip-toes across the room, around the other side of the
bed.
MALE VOICE (V.O.)
Next thing you know, the kid’ll
want an allowance for doing
nothing.
FEMALE VOICE (V.O.)
That’s not the worst idea.
MALE VOICE (V.O.)
Man! What would he do with money?
On the other side of the bed, Wright bends down, out of
sight, stands up again with a wooden box in both hands,
carries it out, quiet as a mouse.
INT. BATHROOM - NIGHT
Wright looks into the mirror, his quiet eyes drained of will.
The wooden box sits on the counter, two feet wide.
Wright’s eyes slowly track down the mirror, come to rest on
the wooden box.
MALE VOICE (V.O.)
Probably just buy candy. Come on,
he’s worthless.
FEMALE VOICE (V.O.)
It might teach him responsibility.
MALE VOICE (V.O.)
Are you kidding... Man!
Wright’s hands caress the wooden box.
FEMALE VOICE (V.O.)
It’s time Wright learned about the
world.
MALE VOICE (V.O.)
Then make him get a job.
FEMALE VOICE (V.O.)
That’s moving too fast.
Wright cracks the wooden box, opens it slowly, dark inside.
7.
MALE VOICE (V.O.)
If he ain’t gonna earn it, he ain’t
gonna get it. He’s got nothing to
spend it on. Serious. What would he
do with money?
Inside the wooden box: a brand new set of kitchen knives,
price tags still on them.
Wright lays the knives out on the counter, one by one, each
one placed perfectly straight, parallel to each other, long
rows of gleaming new stainless steel.
MALE VOICE (V.O.)
What would he do with money?
FEMALE VOICE (V.O.)
He’s helpless.
Wright closes the wooden box.
He runs his hand across the variety of knives, almost
playful, but not playful, almost carefree, but not carefree.
MALE VOICE (V.O.)
What would he do with money?
FEMALE VOICE (V.O.)
He’s helpless.
Wright’s eyes flick up at the mirror. He mouths: “No.”
The Third Hand sneaks INTO CAMERA, picks up the shaver, puts
it gently into Wright’s hand.
Wright tests the shaver’s weight, watches the light play on
the steel.
MALE VOICE (V.O.)
What would he do?
FEMALE VOICE (V.O.)
He’s helpless.
Then, confident, quick, no hesitation, slides the shaver to
his Adam’s apple.
He applies pressure, slides the razor blade across his throat
slowly. Thick dark blood pours down his neck.
His dark eyes, haunted, stare at his eyes, not at his neck.
WE MOVE out of the bathroom, down the hallway, into...
8.
INT. SECOND BEDROOM - NIGHT
WE CIRCLE the bed, look at it from a new angle, from the far
side of the room...
A thick red streak runs vertically down the comforter, as if
from the neck of Elderly Man.
PUSH IN on Elderly Man. He’s grayer than before, as if his
blood is all drained from his body.
The sheets around him are stained red.
SINK THE CAMERA to the floor: a credit card, bloodstained red
along one edge.
FADE OUT.
THE END
9.

Takers Toll

Logline: "When a sports fanatic suspects his girlfriend and an agoraphobic apartment manager of stealing expensive memorabilia, jealousies and selfishness take their toll."

I wrote this story at the request of a young San Francisco filmmaker. He requested something intense, emotional, and ultimately touching. I put my own emphasis on intense. Enjoy.

Note: Adult language.

FADE IN:
INT. SHABBY APARTMENT - DAY
A dingy, claustrophobic living room cluttered with sports memorabilia: posters, trophies, helmets, jerseys.
ANTON (20s), skeletal, angular, sideways in an armchair, long bony legs dangle, wears a baggy wool sweater. He holds an autographed football to his eyes, examines it languidly.
Anton sniffs the football. Inhales.
Closes his eyes, as if in ecstasy.
He rubs his face against the armchair, feels the texture.
He jumps up from the chair, crosses to a glass trophy case. He presses his nose against the glass, eyes closed, feels the smooth slickness against his face, up and down.
The football bumps against the glass.
Anton looks down, remembers the ball is there. He runs his fingers across the bumpy leather, caresses it.
He pretends to throw the ball. He doesn't have an athletic muscle in his body.
He jogs across the room, awkward, holds the ball up, makes a wooshing sound as he imagines the ball flying.
He pretends to catch the ball in the kitchen.
He nods to an imaginary crowd.
Anton sniffs the ball. Hugs it, fondles it.
He lies on the floor, squirts a dollop of ketchup onto the football, examines it in shafts of dusty sunlight.
Anton licks the ketchup off the ball. Savors it, enraptured.
The front door opens to reveal...
JAKE (30s), beer belly of a former quarterback, a paper sack of groceries in his arm.
JAKE
Who the hell are you?
Anton shoots to his feet, ram-rod stiff. His eyes roll up, stare straight to the ceiling.
Anton sways, the forgotten football clenched in sweaty palms.
Jake is not one for patience.
JAKE
I said, who the hell are you?
Anton's mouth opens, nothing comes out.
LUCIANA (20s), softhearted, merciful enough to leave the living room sports shrine untouched, pushes in past Jake. She lets her grocery bags fall to the counter.
Gently, Luciana pries the football from Anton's hands.
Anton sways, lets her have it.
Luciana tosses the ball to Jake.
Jake sees the red smear on the ball.
JAKE
Is this blood?
LUCIANA
No, this is Anton. I told you.
Anton gulps. His hands make little circles in the air.
Luciana pushes Anton softly in the back.
LUCIANA
Okay, Anton, time to go home.
Anton shuffles past a gaping Jake. Luciana closes the door.
JAKE
This stuff is money!
LUCIANA
I know.
Luciana puts away the groceries.
Jake inspects his collection.
JAKE
That moron better not have busted anything.
LUCIANA
He's not a moron, Jake.
Jake scoffs.
JAKE
He knows how to break in.
LUCIANA
I gave him a key.
Jake freezes. Turns so slowly towards her. If looks could...
Luciana pretends to ignore him, puts away the milk.
JAKE
You gave him a key. Of course you gave him a key. Who else wants a key? Manson? Dahmer? Sure, guys, come on in whenever you want and just feel free to TRASH MY STUFF!
Luciana bites her lip.
LUCIANA
He needs to learn how to--
JAKE
He needs? I need!
Jake stalks to the front door, whips it open.
JAKE
Out.
Luciana looks up, startled.
Jake grabs her by the arm, shoves her into the hallway.
He slams the door, locks it.
INT. ANTON'S APARTMENT - DAY
The door opens. Anton shuffles in, chest plastered to the door as if clutching a life preserver, still stares upwards.
He closes the door, immediately slumps into a comfortable posture, a normal human being again.
The rooms are immaculate, furnished with exquisite modern taste, glass and steel and white fabrics.
He throws himself onto a white leather couch.
He idly plays with an exquisite white fringed afghan blanket.
Flicks on a TV, watches a nature program.
TV NARRATOR
...this poor thing had been left outside in this cage for several days and nights without food. The only water he drank was from a passing rainstorm. When the owners were finally apprehended--
A knock at the door.
Anton flicks off the TV. Sits as still as can. His eyes flick towards the door, all other muscles rigid as rope.
LUCIANA (O.S.)
Anton? Anton? Are you in there?
Anton sits, still as a statue.
Another knock.
LUCIANA (O.S.)
Anton, please. Where am I going to go?
The knocking stops.
Anton exhales, long, slow breath out.
He smiles.
The TV turns on again.
TV NARRATOR
...no one has the right to mistreat a defenseless animal.
EXT. APARTMENT BUILDING - NIGHT
Luciana sits on the steps up to the building.
Alone.
She pulls her coat tighter against the cold night.
Rain falls.
She stands, presses an apartment intercom button.
JAKE (O.S.)
(filtered)
Yeah?
LUCIANA
Jake, please, I don't have any--
JAKE (O.S.)
Go away.
LUCIANA
Jake, please, it's just for the night. It's cold. I didn't mean... Jake?
No answer.
Luciana huddles against the front step, miserable.
A first floor curtain moves slightly.
INT. ANTON'S APARTMENT - NIGHT
Anton peeks through the curtains at Luciana.
His hands work up and down in the curtain fabric, absorbed in the sensation.
His face relaxes. He smiles. A plan!
He bounds to the door, opens it.
Immediately he reverts to his wooden-legged self, eyes shoot to the ceiling.
It's a struggle for him to close the door. Ever... so... slowly... There, it's closed.
He skips into the bedroom.
He reemerges with a blanket.
He opens the window.
EXT. APARTMENT BUILDING - NIGHT
A blanket flies through a first-floor window, lands on wet grass.
The window closes with a crash.
Luciana gets up, retrieves the blanket. It's soaked.
She snuggles under the blanket, wipes her nose.
EXT. APARTMENT BUILDING - NIGHT
Luciana shudders under the blanket.
EXT. APARTMENT BUILDING - NIGHT
Luciana, feverish.
INT./EXT. POLICE CAR/STREETS - NIGHT
PROSPERO (30s) drives, trolls the wet streets with shrewd, vigilant eyes. BOB (20s), the eager recruit, always a smile and a hand on his sidearm.
BOB
Every night, busting the same hookers. How do you meet nice women like Kathy on this job, anyway?
PROSPERO
I met Kathy in college.
CAR RADIO (V.O.)
Car one five niner. Sixty-two bee at five-two-two-one Becker, number two oh six.
Bob flips the radio to his mouth, jaunty.
BOB
Copy that.
Bob flicks the radio off.
PROSPERO
Quick quiz: sixty-two bee?
BOB
Easy, a simple burglary. That's the same one, same place as yesterday.
PROSPERO
No imagination.
EXT. APARTMENT BUILDING - NIGHT
The police car crunches to a halt. Lights off, no siren.
Prospero and Bob hop out into the rain, dash up the steps. Prospero almost trips over a pale Luciana.
Prospero nudges her with his foot.
PROSPERO
Go on, now.
Luciana coughs, rolls over.
Bob leans over her.
BOB
She's sick.
Bob hoists Luciana, carries her down the steps, his face averted from her constant coughing.
Prospero enters the building.
INT. ANTON'S APARTMENT - NIGHT
Empty living room.
A hard knock.
No answer, of course.
Another thumping knock.
Nope.
A sigh from outside. Stumping footsteps recede.
Anton's head pokes around a bedroom door. He smiles.
INT. SHABBY APARTMENT - NIGHT
A hard knock.
Jake, watching a loud sports game on TV, shouts over the noise without turning in his armchair.
JAKE
I told you to go away!
PROSPERO (O.S.)
This is the police, responding to a call.
Jake hops out of his chair, opens the door. The TV blares into the hallway.
PROSPERO
You reported a burglary?
JAKE
Hell, yeah.
Jake juts out his chin, waits.
PROSPERO
I suppose you want to let me in.
JAKE
Oh, yeah.
INT. ANTON'S APARTMENT - NIGHT
Anton sits at his kitchen table, plunks down a large binder, opens it: chock full of pink slips of paper.
The pink slips are maintenance requests from building occupants: toilet blockages, creaky floors, stuck faucets.
All are signed "Anton Lossa".
He rubs the thin, crinkly paper between his fingers, gazes at them one by one, each one a memory.
INT. SHABBY APARTMENT - NIGHT
Jake sits in his armchair. Prospero stands between Jake and the TV.
Jake peeks around Prospero, watches the game.
JAKE
So yeah, it's rare, you know, right off his back.
PROSPERO
It was in this case here?
JAKE
Yeah.
PROSPERO
Do you mind turning that down?
JAKE
What?
PROSPERO
Down.
Jake presses a button on the remote. Now the announcer cacophony is only a dull roar.
PROSPERO
Do you have any idea who might want it?
JAKE
Hell, anyone. It's autographed, too. I coulda sold it years ago for eight hundred.
PROSPERO
Why didn't you?
JAKE
Huh?
PROSPERO
Is it insured?
JAKE
Huh?
PROSPERO
Is anything else missing?
JAKE
No.
PROSPERO
So it's not a break-in?
JAKE
That's your job.
Jake shrugs.
PROSPERO
Was anyone left alone with the jersey?
JAKE
Yeah, there was-- oh, man, check out the replay. Right there, right there. Yeah!
Prospero takes a deep breath, relaxes. Very polite, turns off the TV.
JAKE
Hey, man!
PROSPERO
If you don't want help, I can go.
JAKE
Dick.
PROSPERO
Anyone left alone--
JAKE
I heard you. Yeah. Luciana was my girlfriend.
PROSPERO
Did you two break up?
JAKE
Not much of a detective, are you?
PROSPERO
Do you think she wanted revenge?
JAKE
Probably.
PROSPERO
When did you break up?
JAKE
Dinner.
PROSPERO
Today?
JAKE
Yeah.
PROSPERO
Does she live around here?
JAKE
I don't know.
PROSPERO
You don't know?
JAKE
She lived here.
PROSPERO
She-- describe her.
JAKE
So tall, dark hair, 24...
PROSPERO
And soaking wet. Uh-huh.
JAKE
Huh?
Prospero pulls his radio to his mouth.
INT. POLICE CAR - NIGHT
Luciana lies in the back seat, covered in thick wool blankets. She looks terrible, pale, sick.
Bob crouches next to her, squeezed behind the drivers seat. Solicitous, helpful, dries her face with a towel.
His radio crackles.
PROSPERO (V.O.)
(filtered)
Bob, are you with the girl?
Bob contorts his body, reaches for his radio.
BOB
Yup.
PROSPERO (V.O.)
Is her name Luciana?
Luciana nods weakly.
BOB
Yup.
PROSPERO (V.O.)
Bring her up to two oh six.
BOB
I don't think we should move her.
PROSPERO (V.O.)
She's accused of burglary.
Luciana coughs.
INT. ANTON'S APARTMENT - NIGHT
Anton fingers the curtain, looks out.
EXT. APARTMENT BUILDING - ANTON'S POV - NIGHT
Bob helps a swaddled Luciana out of the car.
Bob hustles Luciana through the rain, inside.
INT. SHABBY APARTMENT - NIGHT
The door opens, Bob sits Luciana down on a couch.
JAKE
Hey, she'll get it wet.
Bob wants to punch Jake.
Prospero puts a hand on Bob's shoulder.
PROSPERO
(to Luciana)
Jake here claims you stole a valuable football jersey.
Luciana shakes her head.
JAKE
Oh, come on. You always want money.
BOB
Back off, she's sick.
JAKE
You her mother?
PROSPERO
Did she have an opportunity to steal the item today?
JAKE
Not today... but, oh, yeah, she gave Anton a key!
PROSPERO
Who's Anton?
INT. ANTON'S APARTMENT - NIGHT
Anton's left hand fingers play in his hair.
He pours Cheerios out on his immaculate kitchen counter, swirls them around with his right hand, feels the circles under his fingertips.
He eats the Cheerios one at a time.
A knock at the door.
Anton freezes stock-still. Eyes up.
Another knock.
JAKE (O.S.)
(muffled)
He's there. The moron never leaves.
PROSPERO (O.S.)
I don't have a warrant.
JAKE (O.S.)
See if it's unlocked.
PROSPERO
I don't--
The door opens. Jake at the handle.
Anton is frozen in place. His hands flit in circles.
Jake scoffs, tosses the couch cushions away, searches.
Prospero dives at Jake, holds him still.
PROSPERO
We don't have a warrant.
JAKE
I'm not a policeman.
Prospero wrestles Jake into the hall, slams the door.
Prospero turns to Anton, sighs.
PROSPERO
Sorry. May we come in?
Anton doesn't move a muscle.
PROSPERO
May we? We need to talk to you.
Not a muscle.
PROSPERO
Silence means yes.
Prospero looks at the ceiling, wonders if it's interesting enough to absorb Anton. The ceiling looks normal.
PROSPERO
I'm reporting implied consent.
Prospero opens the door.
Bob leads Luciana in, lays her down on the couch.
Jake comes in, bounces like a boxer, ready for a fight.
JAKE
I figured it. They're lovers.
LUCIANA
Jake.
PROSPERO
We've had a recent rash of burglaries out of this building. If anyone here is responsible, let's get it all cleared up now.
Luciana is racked with coughing.
BOB
My money's on the statue.
All eyes turn to Anton, who doesn't even appear to be breathing.
JAKE
Sure, this is a stupid act.
LUCIANA
But he didn't know where you keep the case key.
PROSPERO
Where do you?
JAKE
In my silk boxers.
PROSPERO
That's too obvious. Anyone would look in an underwear drawer.
JAKE
That's why they're not in my underwear drawer.
BOB
This isn't a guessing game.
JAKE
The drawer under the oven.
BOB
Under the--
JAKE
You didn't look there.
PROSPERO
Is the key still there?
Jake shrugs, goes out.
LUCIANA
Anton wouldn't.
PROSPERO
That's hardly conclusive.
LUCIANA
You know he can't leave. Why would he risk his job and apartment?
BOB
You know what you're saying?
LUCIANA
I'm saying he can't do it.
BOB
You're saying you did.
Luciana shakes her head, coughs, looks miserable.
Anton hasn't moved.
Jake dashes in.
JAKE
My boxers are gone.
Prospero sighs, pulls out a pair of handcuffs.
PROSPERO
Who is it going to be?
LUCIANA
Not him... Jake...
Prospero puts the handcuffs on Luciana, loose.
PROSPERO
(to Jake)
We'll book her on your surety, but without evidence, we'll probably have to let her go.
JAKE
You find my stuff.
LUCIANA
I loved you, Jake.
JAKE
Come on.
Luciana reaches deep under the blankets, searches for something. She winces with the effort.
PROSPERO
Hold on, there.
Bob lifts the blankets, brings her hands back into view.
LUCIANA
In my pocket.
Bob reaches into her pocket, pulls out a pregnancy strip test.
He hands the pregnancy strip to Luciana.
Luciana shakes her head, looks at Jake.
Bob gives the strip to Jake.
Jake looks at it.
It's positive.
Jake scoffs.
Bob picks up Luciana's frail, pale figure, carries her out.
Prospero, disgusted, pushes Jake outside, follows him.
The door closes.
Quiet.
Anton relaxes, his eyes roll down from the ceiling.
He tip-toes to the window.
He looks out, his fingers wrapped in the curtains.
EXT. APARTMENT BUILDING - ANTON'S POV - NIGHT
Luciana, inside the police car, leans against the window, lifeless eyes.
She's crying.
Prospero and Bob get in the front seats.
The police car pulls away.
INT. SHABBY APARTMENT - NIGHT
Jake stands with arms on hips, conquering hero, surrounded by his memorabilia.
A proud smile.
INT. ANTON'S APARTMENT - NIGHT
Anton rubs the curtain against his cheek, enjoys the feel.
A bead of sweat on his forehead.
He crosses to the kitchen, gets a drink of water.
Wipes his forehead with his sweater.
Takes his sweater off.
He's wearing a football jersey.
The jersey is autographed.
He rubs the jersey against his stomach, luxuriates in texture heaven.
He walks, still rubbing, into...
INT. ANTON'S BEDROOM - CONTINUOUS
Anton strips off the jersey.
He lays the jersey lovingly on the bed, smooths out wrinkles and creases, runs his fingers across the bumps and holes.
He runs his hands across other items, also laid out in rows on a white comforter:
A cashmere sweater.
A ribbed buttonhook corset.
A linen handkerchief.
A toupee.
A bridal veil.
Shiny gray silk boxers.
Anton lays down on the bed, his naked torso touches all the different textures.
Anton sleeps.
FADE OUT.
THE END

Sweet Dreams

This script is a foray into a new type of genre for me, but I hesitate to give too much away. We'll let the story speak for itself. Enjoy!

SWEET DREAMS by Kyle Patrick Johnson Represented by: Canton Literary Management (CLM) Contact: Eric Canton (866) 429-3118 ECanton@Prodigy.net www.CantonLiteraryManagement.com FADE IN: EXT. WOODS - NIGHT A heavy sedan parked in low grass. A front door magnet sign: “Redemptor Omnis Church.” Just beyond, a roaring campfire shoots sparks to the sky. AGNES PARKER (70s), perched on a log like a gnome, knees by her ears, tosses the last bite of a hot dog into her mouth. PARKER Marshmallows, anyone? COLE (9), nods, furious up-and-down head pumps. The third person at the fire, ESTHER TAYLOR (70s), rumples Cole’s hair. She waddles to the car, blue hair shining. TAYLOR I’ll get them, Mrs. Parker. PARKER If there is one thing Pastor does well, it’s stock marshmallows for our youth mini-trips. Taylor hauls a half-ton bag of marshmallows from the trunk. PARKER Thank you, Mrs. Taylor. COLE Gee, I bet the other kids wish they coulda come. This is great. Taylor smiles. She heaves the bag to Cole. He tears into the bag, skewers several marshmallows with a long, sharp stick. Holds the white puffs over the flames. COLE Do you know any stories? PARKER Stories? Why, I’m a walking library, Cole. I could tell you stories all night long... but I’m sure you want to sleep sometime. Taylor smiles. 2. COLE No, no. Tell me. PARKER How about Creation, boy? You know that story? COLE (disappointed) Yeah. Cole examines his marshmallows. Not done yet. PARKER Do you? Were you there for it? Huh? COLE PARKER I was there. COLE You’re not that old. Parker and Taylor sit on the far side of the fire, unblinking faces surrounded by flames, stare at Cole. PARKER In the beginning was the dark. And the dark was the funhouse of the Employer. We call the Employer by many names now. The whole universe was asleep in him, for in the dark there was no need for wakefulness. Cole’s mouth drops open, the marshmallows forgotten. PARKER In fact, no creature in the universe even had eyes. There was no need to see, for the Employer was our light and our joy. He would visit us in our dreams, you know, and tickle our fancies with his wit and his gaiety. Oh, yes, he is really something once you have a relationship with him. Cole’s marshmallows catch on fire. Unnoticed. PARKER And the Employer was undisturbed. 3. Until... TAYLOR PARKER Give me time, Mrs. Taylor. I want to give the boy a sense of the peace we felt. Cole’s eyes dart back and forth between them, uncertain. COLE You’re not that old. PARKER In perpetual sleep, there the Employer would mold us to his will, and the universe was in harmony under him. Until the Other appeared from some unbalanced cosmos beyond. The Other. TAYLOR Taylor spits into the flames. PARKER The Other brought evil, terrible things to us. Shape, flesh, blood, excrement, all some damnable plan to absorb the Employer’s power. TAYLOR And the light, Mrs. Parker. PARKER Yes, Mrs. Taylor. That which keeps us from our sleep. We hate the light. For without sleep, there are no dreams. Without dreams, the Employer has no gain. Now, we even forget our dreams when we are awakened by the light. COLE You mean God? Taylor and Parker look at each other, back at Cole. PARKER Light is evil. With a woosh, the campfire extinguishes completely. Total and utter darkness. 4. Parker flicks a flashlight on. It shines into Cole’s eyes, a distance of mere inches. He squints. COLE How’d you... where’d that... TAYLOR He is not listening, Mrs. Parker. PARKER Boy, pay attention. Taylor claps her hands near his ear. He winces. PARKER It is in your dreams that you will find fulfillment and peace. When you surrender yourself in slumber, then the Employer can make something useful out of you. You want to be useful, yes? COLE Yes... I wanna go home. PARKER Your home is in the Employer’s bosom, boy. Taylor creeps behind Cole, ties his hands together in a sudden, quick gesture. COLE Help! Help! Parker stuffs marshmallows into his mouth, stops his screams. Cole’s cheeks bulge as Parker, relentless, shoves them in one after another, no respite, impossible numbers. Cole gags. PARKER When you go to sleep tonight, you will be nine years old, nine months old, nine days old. With no moon. TAYLOR Light is evil, Mrs. Parker. PARKER (cackle) The Employer will have no trouble attending the boy’s dreams this night, no trouble at all. 5. Cole’s eyes, wide with fear. The flashlight falls, lights a crazy angle on the ground. PARKER Can you lift him, Mrs. Taylor? TAYLOR If you take his head, Mrs. Parker. Parker and Taylor carry Cole to the car. Cole looks up at Parker, her head upside down to his view, lit from the grounded flashlight, ghoulish. PARKER Your offering will make the Employer very pleased with us, boy, so, when you meet him, best manners, please. COLE (muffled) Mom... Dad... Cole wriggles, but Parker clenches his head with vise-like fingers. PARKER They won’t miss you. We will see to that. You will have no more desires for family, nor for sport, nor church, nor school, nor any of the activities which you have been deluded into thinking were good. The Employer comes, and he will teach you the way of righteousness. Taylor opens the trunk. TAYLOR That he will, Mrs. Parker. Parker and Taylor toss Cole into the car. PARKER Sweet dreams, Cole. Taylor smiles as Parker closes the trunk. FADE OUT.

Par 4

Logline: "One man's lifelong devotion to golf is unriddled by playing a hole backwards."

Enjoy.

PAR 4 by Kyle Patrick Johnson Represented by: Canton Literary Management (CLM) Contact: Eric Canton (866) 429-3118 ECanton@Prodigy.net www.CantonLiteraryManagement.com Registered with: Writers Guild of America, West, Inc. Registration #1348264 2. FADE IN: EXT. GOLF COURSE - 18TH GREEN - DAY A dull, scratched white ball rests six inches from the hole. IAN (80s), stooped, polyester shirt, on his knees, holds himself up with a putter. Eyes the shot. OLD WOMAN’S VOICE (O.S.) Ian, we haven’t all day. It’s past your suppertime. IAN I have this now. I see it. OLD WOMAN’S VOICE (O.S.) You don’t even like this game. Ian heaves himself to stand. Takes careful aim, putts. Sound of the ball bouncing in the hole. 18TH HOLE - BUNKER IAN (now 40), looks down at his sand-covered ball with disgust. He slams his club in the sand, frustrated. Ian’s CADDY (70) sidles up behind him. CADDY Ian, get a strong stroke and sweep under the ball. IAN But there’s a lip there, Dad. I’ll never get it over. Caddy grips Ian’s arm with a pincer hand, squeezes hard. CADDY I’ve waited my entire life for this, Ian. Don’t let me down. Ian shakes his arm free. Approaches the ball, takes several practice swings. He hits it. Sand sprays everywhere. The ball flies straight up... OLD WOMAN’S VOICE (O.S.) Get in the hole! 3. And lands on the green, exactly where 80-year-old Ian had begun his putt. Ian pumps a triumphant fist. Sound of a huge crowd cheering. 18TH HOLE - IN THE TREES IAN (now 18) looks at a white ball in the underbrush. Ian swings in hurried practice, clods of dirt fly. Ian’s CADDY (now 50) stomps through the trees towards him. CADDY That was the worst ball strike I’ve ever... What the bloody hell are you playing at? The years I’ve wasted on you! IAN I’m trying, Dad, I’m trying. Tears in his eyes, Ian hits the ball. A line drive. Ugly. The ball skitters into that bunker next to the green. CADDY Concentrate, boy! Your rough play is as half-crap as your attitude. Ian throws his club to the ground, crying. 18TH HOLE - TEE BOX Ian (80 again) puts a sparkling white ball on a gleaming white tee. Readies a driver, swings through the ball. It shanks into the trees. Ian starts a slow, long walk to it. OLD WOMAN’S VOICE (O.S.) Oh, Ian. Not the trees again. We’re late for your supper. IAN I always do that on this hole. OLD WOMAN’S VOICE (O.S.) Why do you still drag me out here every day, Ian? What good is it? You don’t even like this game. Ian pauses in his walk. IAN It reminds me of Dad. FADE OUT. 

Sin

A homage to Flannery O'Connor, this short (and sweet?) script with a short (and sweet?) title examines the overbearing burden of a well-formed conscience, and our differing responses to moments of grace.

Sin by Kyle Patrick Johnson An Original Screenplay KyleJohnsonScripts@gmail.com Represented by: Contact: Phone: Fax: Email: Website: Canton Literary Management Eric Canton 866.429.3118 888.843.7193 Ecanton@prodigy.net www.CantonLiteraryManagement.com FADE IN: EXT. CITY SIDEWALK – NIGHT Cold frozen breath hangs in the air. A dull flickering glow of a broken streetlight. the straining bulb. A hum from A hooded head swivels back and forth, a ceaseless vigil, a lookout. Hands rub vigorously. A frozen exhale. The streetlight suddenly flicks on full. SARAH (20s), gangsta wannabe, jumps against a storefront. She shrinks into the shadows under cut wires leading to an old-fashioned burglar alarm bell. Her head continues its perpetual motion. The streetlight fails again. Sarah steps back out into the dark street. behind her: “Goldinger’s Jewelry.” She glances at her watch. Boom. A muffled gunshot. The store’s sign Sarah’s eyes are confused, troubled, panicky. INT. GOLDINGER’S JEWELRY Security cameras hang lifeless, dangling from cords. MATTHEW (30s), cold-faced viper, stands behind a broken glass jewelry counter, holds a gun. SCOTT (20s), younger than he looks, white with fright, crouches by a safe in the back wall. He slowly turns his head, looks at Matthew. Matthew spits at a dark, huddled body in a side wall’s open doorway. MATTHEW We don’t have time. Let’s go. 2. Scott scoops up a small garbage bag, scurries towards the front door. Matthew jerks his head, internally furious, swearing to himself. He kicks the body. Scott goes out the front door. pocketing his gun. SIDEWALK Sarah opens the two passenger-side doors of a small car as Matthew and Scott hurry out of the store. She circles the car, sits in the driver’s seat, starts it up with trembling fingers. Matthew and Scott leap headlong into the car as it starts moving. The doors close as the car speeds away. INT. GARAGE - NIGHT (MOMENTS LATER) The car sits idling as the garage door closes. The garagedoor-opener machine casts a sickly yellow light. Sarah turns the car off, still trembling, still in shock. Matthew aggressively opens his door, gets out, slams it shut. Scott, ashen, gets out of the car. Tosses the garbage bag on a workbench. Sits on the car’s front bumper, thinking. Matthew upends the bag, dumping loot, jewelry, cash all over the workbench. He sorts it. Cash in one neatly stacked pile, jewels and gold in another. He looks back at Sarah. MATTHEW You cold, or what? Quivering, Sarah shakes her head. She gets out of the car. Matthew follows close behind, Matthew hands her the pile of cash. MATTHEW You did good. Get out of here. Sarah pauses, then takes the money. She stands, waits. Matthew points to an interior door, emphatically. 3. MATTHEW I said, get out of here. leave when we’re ready. We’ll The door closes. Sarah turns, slowly, goes into the house. Locks. Matthew stuffs all the valuables into his pockets. MATTHEW I’ll find the fence. few days. See you in a Without looking at Scott, Matthew goes to an exterior door and leaves. Scott remains on the bumper, stock still. The garage-door-opener light goes out. In the dark, Scott gropes his way to the exterior door. exits, closes it softly behind him. INT. SCOTT’S APARTMENT – DAY Scott sits forward on the couch, remote in hand, eyes anxious. Watches TV. TV ANNOUNCER (O.S.) …the brutal murder of a robbery gone wrong. Police are still trying to identify what is missing from the store. The victim has been identified as… SAME – NIGHT Scott leans back on the couch, hair tousled, eyes bleary. licks dry, chapped lips. Watches TV. TV ANNOUNCER (O.S.) …if you know anything about this crime, the police ask you to call their crime task force hotline at… SAME – DAY Scott’s throat is dry and thick. He tries to swallow, can’t. His lips are involuntarily drawn back across his face, his bloodshot eyes glued to the glowing screen. He He 4. TV ANNOUNCER (O.S.) …no progress at this time. Police Commissioner Smith reports that every available unit is combing the streets… SAME – NIGHT Scott looks like Death. He pulls his eyes open with his hands. TV ANNOUNCER (O.S.) ...difficulty of finding criminals without eyewitnesses. If you saw anything suspicious, you are asked… Scott presses a button on the remote. The TV clicks off. Starts to fall He leans forward, puts his head in his hands. asleep. Slaps himself in the face, forces himself awake. He staggers to his feet, collects his thoughts, heads for the door. EXT. CATHOLIC CHURCH – NIGHT Scott stumbles up the steps to the massive front door. tries to open it. Locked. He tries a smaller door to the side. Another. Locked. Scott swings his head like a wounded animal looking for escape. He awkwardly lopes down the steps to the building next door, the -EXT. RECTORY Every window is dark. A motion-sensitive light flicks on as Scott approaches the front door. Blinded, Scott reaches for the doorbell, can’t find it. He bangs on the front door. No response. He knocks with all his might, both hands. Finally, a light inside. The front door opens. Locked. Locked. He 5. FR. REYNOLDS (40s), soft hands and soft heart, pokes a sleepy head out. What? FR. REYNOLDS Yes? The Scott pushes past Fr. Reynolds, bullies into the house. outer door squeals as it is forced open. Fr. Reynolds stumbles back. INT. RECTORY - FOYER Scott whirls around, towers threateningly over the smaller priest. Fr. Reynolds placidly stands his ground. Yes? FR. REYNOLDS Before speaking, Scott tries to swallow, still cannot. Fr. Reynolds nods. FR. REYNOLDS Let’s get you a glass of water, son. Watch that loose rug in the kitchen. KITCHEN Scott sips a glass of water as though swallowing is painful. He stands on an old, frayed rug with upturned corners. Fr. Reynolds leans against a counter, patient, waiting. Scott puts the empty glass down. SCOTT I gotta get something off my chest. FR. REYNOLDS You’re in the right place for that. FADE TO BLACK. INT. SCOTT’S APARTMENT – DAY Scott sprawls across his couch, limbs splayed. A key in the door. Asleep. The door opens: Matthew enters. 6. Matthew bounds into the apartment, plops down on the couch, pokes Scott in the ribs. MATTHEW Hey, Scott. Great news. man. Come on, Scott opens an eye, stretches, yawns, not ready to wake. Matthew punches him in the leg. MATTHEW Scott, man. I dusted it all! We’re home free. Matthew pulls a wad of hundred dollar bills from a pocket. Sprinkles them on Scott. MATTHEW That’s your half. I got an idea for our next -No. SCOTT Matthew waits, perplexed. MATTHEW I think we oughta hit -No. SCOTT Matthew’s eyes narrow. MATTHEW Oh, you don’t want Sarah along this time? I thought she did -SCOTT No, that’s not it. We killed him, man. That’s not cool. We can’t just do another job now, pretend it didn’t happen. Matthew is taken aback, looks at Scott with contempt. MATTHEW What should we do? What, you’re okay with stealing but not with killing? What’s the difference? SCOTT I went to see a priest. 7. Matthew’s eyes instantly turn icy. He pulls a gun from a pocket, points it between Scott’s eyes. Scott doesn’t seem to even notice. MATTHEW Man, you didn’t. SCOTT Stealing didn’t hurt anyone. MATTHEW Are you an idiot? Of course it did. That’s not the point. You tell him? SCOTT I confessed, yeah. MATTHEW We’re going to jail for life now. SCOTT No, he won’t tell anyone. can’t. Rules. He MATTHEW I don’t believe it. He’s gonna. This can’t happen, man. Matthew cocks the gun, straightens his arm. MATTHEW Who’s the priest? Scott shakes his head. No. But his eyes stray to the window. Matthew looks over the back of the couch, over his shoulder, out of the window. He sees a church across the street. He grits his teeth. He turns back to Scott... who is not there. The front door is open. Matthew leaps off the couch in pursuit. HALLWAY Scott races to the stairwell, throws open the door, fairly flies down the steps. 8. Matthew rockets out of the apartment, pocketing the gun. runs after Scott. STREET Scott weaves across the busy street, dodging cars. RECTORY Scott heads straight for the rectory door, not knocking, pushes it open. The door squeaks. RECTORY FOYER Scott swings the door closed behind him as he runs in. door fails to fully close. SCOTT Fr. Reynolds! FR. REYNOLDS (O.S.) (mouth full) In here. STREET He The Matthew races across the street, narrowly missed by a honking truck. RECTORY KITCHEN Fr. Reynolds stands at the sink, eating a bowl of ice cream. Scott bursts in. Ah, Scott. pleasure. FR. REYNOLDS Sorry, my guilty He holds up the ice cream, winks. SCOTT (breathless) Matthew, the guy, I said in confession, he knows, he’s coming to kill you. FR. REYNOLDS Son, I don’t remember anything you said in confession. It’s grace. Remind me. 9. SCOTT I stole, my friend killed someone, I can’t get forgived till I turn myself in, he’s gonna kill us. FR. REYNOLDS It’s absolution, not forgived. The outer door creaks. He’s here! SCOTT Too far. Fr. Reynolds looks at his phone. FR. REYNOLDS Then there’s just enough time to pray. Matthew slams open the kitchen door. Points the gun at Fr. Reynolds, points it at Scott, back to the priest. MATTHEW You’re stupid, Scott. stupid. No. SCOTT He said I had to. Stupid, FR. REYNOLDS There’s always time to do the right thing, Matthew. Your sin -MATTHEW No such thing. FR. REYNOLDS It seems real to Scott. MATTHEW Scott’s gonna put me in jail, so I don’t give a damn what he thinks. SCOTT It’s the only way to forgiveness. MATTHEW Piece of... I killed her, I killed her, not you. What -SCOTT It was my fault. store. I picked the 10. FR. REYNOLDS One sin leads to another. They’re both commandments, you know. Matthew looks as though his head will explode with rage. God! MATTHEW Matthew raises the gun one last time at Fr. Reynolds. A noise from the hallway, the outer door opening. Matthew wheels, running to get a firing angle into the hallway against the intruder. He trips on the loose rug. SLOW MOTION The gun slips forward out of Matthew’s hand as he tries to maintain balance. Matthew flies horizontally, reaching out for the gun. The gun twists and tumbles in air. Matthew’s groping hand reaches the gun, grabs it too tightly. The gun is backwards. Matthew lands on the ground. His hand clenches. The gun goes off against his head, muffled. BACK TO SCENE Matthew lies on his stomach, bleeding profusely onto the rug. He gasps for air. FR. REYNOLDS Oh, son, oh, son. Scott stares in horror. Fr. Reynolds, as though perfectly used to such situations, briskly walks over, kicks the gun away from Matthew’s hand, kneels down beside him. FR. REYNOLDS (to Scott) (to Matthew) (MORE) 911. 11. FR. REYNOLDS (CONT'D) You still have a chance, son. Aren’t you sorry at all? Matthew looks up at him with fading eyes. Sorry? Matthew dies. The kitchen door opens... Sarah stands there, her eyes red with prolonged weeping. SARAH I heard someone in here. need to confess. I just FADE OUT. MATTHEW 

Dreamwalker

Logline: "A man's relationship with his wife deteriorates throughout an unwaking series of dreams. Concurrently, a detective investigates the murky case of a comatose suicide victim. The two stories merge as the detective uncovers a breathtakingly simple motive for murder and the man discovers the truth regarding his wife."

This script took more time to plan than any of my other projects, simply because first and foremost it is a mystery. It is a deeply characterized whodunit, a whydunit, a howdunit. I was naturally forced to remove about half the script in order to present a suitable preview, since I do not want to give so many details that I ruin the story for those who wish to view the full version.

"Dreamwalker" features a fantasy tinge, in that I attempt to portray one way in which so-called "normal" people can communicate with comatose patients. This attempt may well be scientifically unverifiable, but it makes fascinating fiction.

DREAMWALKER by Kyle Patrick Johnson Represented by: Canton Literary Management (CLM) Contact: Eric Canton (866) 429-3118 ECanton@Prodigy.net www.CantonLiteraryManagement.com Registered with: Writers Guild of America, West, Inc. Registration #1321463 2. FADE IN: INT. UNKNOWN - DAY (SEPIA) Wide eyes. Eyes of surprise. In an intelligent face. Attached to an athletic male body in a button-down shirt. ADAM HEALEY (33), the kind of charming guy who gives you all of his attention for a moment before forgetting you completely. A clean-cut guy you’d love for your daughter to meet, but you’d never remember his name. Two hands planted on his chest. Small hands, female hands. A ring on the left hand’s marriage finger. The hands push Adam. Adam falls backwards. EXT. HANSEN BUILDING - SCHNEIDER STREET - DAY (SEPIA) Adam falls through the air, his shocked eyes register little more than “Why me?” He plummets towards a geese-packed, poop-green sidewalk. The Canadian geese waddle out of his way. The ground comes closer, closer, behind his head... Adam never looks down... The moment of impact... WHAM... FADE TO BLACK. TITLE SEQUENCE EXT. HANSEN BUILDING - SCHNEIDER STREET - DAY (B&W) Adam levitates, as though standing on a glass floor, rises up over the small parkway trees. A bright sun, prominent. 3. There are no cars in the street below him. Instead: WOMEN. Hundreds of women, as far as the eye can see. Tall, short, beautiful, plain, motherly, all reach out to him. He floats over the crowd, his discerning eyes dart from face to face, he tries to choose. The task is too much for him, and he sighs. Then, far off, at the end of the street, he sees... A woman rises out of the feminine melee, float over their heads. She is IANA (30), dressed as a ballerina, complete with tutu and ballet slippers. Adam approaches her as she spirals upwards, ever upwards, fascinated by her delicate pirouettes, her strong legs striding against the wind. He flies up to her and grasps her hands, halts her twisting climb. She looks him in the face for the first time. They are hundreds of feet above the city. Neither notices. ADAM I know you. IANA Of course you do. ADAM It’ll come to me. Everything always does. Iana rolls her eyes, spins higher into the clouds. Adam zooms up to meet her. Iana does a splitz. Adam is impressed. IANA Are you from around here? ADAM No, I just flew in. IANA I need you, Adam. ADAM That’s what I do for a living, I help people. 4. IANA Take me away from here. Iana snuggles in to Adam, wraps her arms around his trunk, begging eyes. Adam lifts her legs across his right arm, in the pose of a newlywed groom carrying his bride across a threshold. Iana closes her eyes, waits for ecstasy. They soar higher, deep into the clouds. ADAM You’re mine. Iana’s eyes pop open, alert. Excuse me? IANA Adam bends down for a kiss. Iana turns her head at the last second. Adam gets her cheek instead of her mouth. Iana struggles to get out of his arms, he holds her tight. ADAM I worship you. Iana slips out of his arms, bounces away through the air like a deflating balloon. Adam floats away from her. He flails, struggles to get to her side, but his legs and arms seem coated in thick dream-goo. ADAM I don’t understand, I don’t understand. We are so perfect for each other. Iana twirls back to him with pirouettes, stops an inch from his face. She rotates, a vertical circle, hangs upside down. They kiss. Iana smiles at him, pushes him in the chest playfully. She drifts a few feet away from him, flips, spins like an ice skater, hands above her head, faster and faster. She stops suddenly, faces him. 5. IANA I’ve never felt more free. ADAM Why can’t you kiss like normal people? Iana looks at a thin wristwatch, doesn’t hear him. IANA Sorry, what? ADAM I said, why can’t you be normal? IANA Listen, it’s 6:16. (beat) Don’t you know what time that is? No. It’s time. Okay. ADAM IANA ADAM Adam strains to fly away, but Iana does not follow. Adam beckons. ADAM Come on, Iana! Iana merely floats in place. She crosses her arms, stares with melancholy. ADAM Iana, are you all right? Is it something I said? Are you coming? Iana’s eyes flick quickly, sees something just beyond Adam’s left shoulder. Adam, with foreboding, twists around to see... A jet airplane roars towards him, too close to avoid, fills his sky. Its wing strikes Adam full in the chest. 6. Breathless, Adam plummets towards the ground, out of control. Iana has vanished. He tries to gasp her name, can't make a sound. A feeling of inevitability washes over him. Beneath him, the ground rushes up at him as he falls face down. A serene Canadian goose flies below him. It poops. He falls past it, faster than the poop, slams through it, the poop stains his shirt. He tries to wipe it as he plummets. Adam flips over, face up, tries to get a glimpse of Iana. Iana? She’s gone. Behind Adam, the ground rushes up to meet him, ever closer, ever closer, almost at impact.... Adam’s face frozen in terror.... The ground is fifteen feet away, ten feet, five feet, here it comes... THERE IT IS.... INT. APARTMENT - BEDROOM - MORNING (B&W) Adam wakes, startled, sits, suddenly upright in a twin bed. Breathes hard, pulse racing. Looks at his alarm clock: 6:16 AM. He breathes in and out, deep breaths, slow it down. Adam glances down, sees a sleeping woman under the sheet, crammed next to him. Iana. Adam fingers his own left hand, touches a wedding ring. He leans across the prone body of Iana and looks at her left hand. He sees a wedding ring there. Adam climbs out of bed, crosses the room to a small nightstand on Iana’s side of the bed. Her purse is perched on the table next to a small lamp. ADAM 7. Adam pulls items out of Iana’s purse, looks at them, places them on the nightstand: lipstick, compact, comb, keys, innumerable women’s beauty products. He finds her wallet, buried at the bottom of the purse. He opens it, pulls out her California driver’s license. Iana’s picture smiles, faded and awkward like all license photos. Her name: “Iana Wayde Healey”. Adam squints at the license. He looks back at Iana, scratches his chin. He replaces everything in the purse. He walks into the... HALLWAY Of the simple one-bedroom apartment. Pokes his head around a corner into the empty... KITCHENETTE AND LIVING ROOM He looks over the rooms thoroughly, as though seeing them for the first time. He walks out the main door. EXT. MINYON STREET - DAY (B&W) Adam strolls into the street that fronts his building. Complete desertion. No cars, no people, no birds: just silent trees, buildings, lonely streetlights. Adam turns 360, slowly, aghast, gets scared. A honk. Adam looks up. A lone Canadian goose flies overhead. Green goose poop splatters down on his shoulder. The goose disappears. Eerie silence. Scraping at his soiled shirt, Adam looks up at his apartment, and is truly terrified by... IANA glaring evilly down from a window above. 8. ADAM steps backwards involuntarily, as though struck by an uppercut. His left foot finds only air: an open manhole. He topples backwards and disappears down the hole, which of course is bottomless. Adam’s face turns from panic to resignation and dismay as he fades into the deep... INT. APARTMENT - BEDROOM - MORNING (B&W) Adam starts, suddenly upright in the twin bed, flies up into a sitting position. He breathes hard, pulse races. He looks at his alarm clock: 6:16 AM. Adam looks down at his dress clothes, the same as before. He clutches at them, tries to rip them off. He looks around, uncertain whether to be afraid, confused, angry. ADAM What the hell is happening? He looks down at Iana, sleeping next to him. ADAM (to Iana) What the hell is happening? She continues sleeping. Adam touches her arm. Nothing. He shakes her shoulder. Nothing. He shakes her harder. Nothing. Nothing. He puts both hands on her and rocks her, almost pushing her off the bed. Nothing. Adam decides on surprise. He yells suddenly. ADAM IANA! WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING TO ME? Iana continues to sleep. No response. Adam closes his eyes and forcefully rolls out of bed, smashes onto the floor. He opens his eyes, hopes to see something different. He hangs his head. ADAM Is this a dream? Am I going crazy? Is everyone else crazy? 9. A thought strikes him. He dives across the bed, looking in Iana’s mouth, scrabbling across her nightstand, not finding. ADAM Thank God. No drugs. (beat) Damn it. What am I even thinking? He puts his hand to his head, blinks. The room disappears from around him, as if sucked up into the sky by a sudden vortex. The world rushes by. He falls through oceans, through mountains, through space... Falls... EXT. BASKETBALL COURTS - DAY (SEPIA) A nice part of town. Where trees actually surround the court. Shade and greenery. The blacktop free of cracks. HIGH-SCHOOL ADAM (18), shirtless, dribbles the ball past a bevy of PLAYERS his own age. High-School Adam is cocky, and for a reason: he’s a prodigy. His moves on the court are the stuff that pros dream of. PLAYER #1 Hey, Adam, slow down, let the rest of us play a bit. ADAM Man, if you want to go shopping with girls, go ahead. If you want man time, get me the ball and quit whining. Adam dazzles everyone, revels in his own prowess. Not the best way to make friends. PLAYER #1 and PLAYER #2 exchange evil glances. Player #2 sticks out his leg as Adam runs toward him, Player #1 uses his body to guide Adam towards the trap. Adam takes a pass from PLAYER #3, soars over the outstretched leg, twists with effortless ease, makes the basket. Player #1 and Player #2 are only madder. Adam gathers up the ball. 10. ADAM Eleven-oh. Wanna go again? Adam’s eye is caught by a vision of a GIRL beyond the chainlink fence. Girl is slender, athletic, a tantalizing miniskirt. Player #1 notices. PLAYER #1 That’s jail-bait, Adam. Iana Wayde. She’s only fifteen. Go for it. ADAM Iana Wayde, huh? She go to our school? PLAYER #3 She’s fifteen, man. Adam tosses the ball to Player #2. ADAM What’s the use of being a stud? Adam jogs to the fence, walks alongside Iana. Iana, used to her own good looks, is nonetheless starry-eyed at the older jock coming after her. Hi, Iana. ADAM IANA Put a shirt on. I only talk to strangers who wear shirts. ADAM Then I better not be a stranger. IANA Can’t get stranger than you. ADAM Adam Healey. There’s prom next month. Iana stops walking. An older boy just asked her to prom. She wants to squeal and flail her arms. She suppresses the urge. IANA It’ll take you that long to clean up. They’ve reached the end of the block. Iana keeps going, crosses the street. Adam, head turned, slams into the fence. 11. Adam smiles, shakes it off, runs back on court. Takes the ball back from Player #2. PLAYER #3 Dude, don’t jeopardize that scholarship. You better not be thinking-ADAM Who’s thinking? Adam dodges, plants a foot, about to go around Player #2 with a beautiful fakeout... Player #1 leg whips him. Crunch. Adam’s knee implodes. He collapses in agony. INT. POLICE STATION - DAY (COLOR) KURT CATHCART (40s), a Rottweiler of a plain clothes cop, walks amongst the desks and cubicles, peeks over shoulders and into paperwork. Carries a small paper cubby with four coffee cups. Cathcart ducks his head in a corner office. Murph? CATHCART CHIEF DETECTIVE MESSINEO (50s), mustached Adonis, looks up from his paperwork. MESSINEO On time as always, Cathcart. Cathcart holds out the cubby. Messineo takes a steaming cup. CATHCART Good weekend? MESSINEO Like all the others. Divorced life is one big round of doing your own goddamn chores. Cathcart laughs a polite laugh. Nods a polite goodbye. CATHCART Later, Chief. 12. Messineo, head down, waves a goodbye. Cathcart pulls his head out of the office, blows out a breath as if to say: “Well, that chore’s done for the day.” Cathcart approaches a conspicuously neat desk. Sits down in his comfortable swivel chair, leans back with a grateful sigh. He drops the cubby on his desk. Only two cups are steaming. Cathcart picks up the cool cup. Sips. His upper lip turns purple. CATHCART Jays. Come on over. Two other plain-clothes cops pop from their seats, rush over to Cathcart’s desk. They are: JEAN (30s), nailbiting stress addict, and JOE (40s), plump paternal figure. JOE Morning, Kurt. Which one’s mine? CATHCART They’re all the same. Jean grabs her coffee first, nearly swallows the styrofoam. JEAN I need it, I need it. Thanks. Joe picks up his coffees leisurely, nods a thanks. Jean peers at Cathcart’s face. JEAN What’re you drinking, Kurt? You holding out on us? What? CATHCART Joe points to Cathcart’s purple lip. JOE Hair of the dog, huh? JEAN I’m a cat person. CATHCART I hate cats. JOE My kids want a horse. 13. Jean puts down her emptied cup, exhales gratefully. JEAN So, what’re you drinking, Kurt? CATHCART Purple grape juice. JEAN Fallen off the coffee wagon? CATHCART Antioxidants. My wife decided that coffee’s a nasty filthy habit. JOE Well, you’ll save your paycheck if you kick it. CATHCART Not if I keep buying for you. Joe salutes Cathcart with his coffee cup. JEAN Isn’t coffee supposed to be good for you? CATHCART Sure, ’cept when I’m coming down from the caffeine. JOE What’d you guys see on the docket this morning? CATHCART Same old stuff. JEAN I was checking through back files last night, and found something. JOE Jean’s gonna burst if she doesn’t get her daily stress quota. JEAN (as only friends can) Shut up, Joe. CATHCART What’d you find, Jean? 14. JEAN Failed suicide on Schneider Street. Fella’s a doc, chiropractor, in a coma at General. His secretary filed some complaint about no follow-up on the case, she’s worried about filing papers for unemployment. But I gotta stand in Narc for the day. Jean gives Cathcart a hopeful look. He smiles. CATHCART I’ll check out the hospital. You wanna come, Joe? Joe wags his head: “you overachiever”, he thinks. Melodramatically, Joe and Jean wave their hands goodbye as Cathcart puts his badge and handgun in his pockets. CATHCART I get all the fun to myself. As Cathcart disappears, Joe turns to Jean. JOE I hate hospitals. They smell. Joe sits down, feet up, flaps open a newspaper. The rest of this screenplay is unavailable for preview. Please contact the author for the full script.