For Jennie

Here's a short story that combines April Fool's Day, a birthday, a pub crawl, and a lonely Irish lad.

Healthy

Tragic Carmedy

A Shakespeare mashup. In a car.

All of the lines of dialogue belong to William Shakespeare.

Checking Out

A foray into a new genre... film noir.

Soft

Zombie movies have never been my cup of tea. I've never understood why they attract such a mass audience. So the best way to understand their appeal, I figured, was to try my hand at one.

Warning: Language alert.

There Are No More Heroes

Our iconoclastic culture is perfectly encapsulated by a documentarian. WARNING: language alert.

It'll Come

In a dangerous drought, one sister prays for rain while another works for it.

I Blank You

This was a fun writing experiment.

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.

Research & Development

After you research a new project, how do you develop as a person? After all, what is the point of research if not to enrich yourself?

FADE IN:
EXT. WASTELANDS - DAY
The ground is smooth and shiny as glass. To the horizon.
AVERY (40s), a timeless gaze of weariness on his soft regal face, sits astride a small GRYPHON with folded wings, lion’s body, eagle’s head.
Gryphon’s collar displays four numbers: “4915”.
GRYPHON
Avery, let’s go home.
AVERY
You are all so eager to have me lose the grant monies. I will win.
Avery rearranges the numbers on Gryphon’s collar. Avery and Gryphon vanish.
The howling wind is alone once more.
EXT. OUTDOOR MARKET - DAY
Gryphon’s collar: “1594”.
High-collared YOUNG MEN and long-skirted YOUNG WOMEN walk arm in arm.
Avery’s face falls.
GRYPHON
All taken. Homeward now?
AVERY
No. No. And look a fool disproved? Lazy fool, I swear I’ll undo you.
GRYPHON
Even if you are to find one...
Avery growls.
EXT. DENSE JUNGLE - DAY
Gryphon walks slowly, Avery on his back. Gryphon’s collar reads: “1495”.
They reach a cliff, look down...
CONQUISTADORS swarm off a ship onto a shore.
GRYPHON
Self-importance, tsk, tsk. ‘Twas your own undoing to wax philosophical at the Grand Council.
AVERY
Curse your tongue!
Avery rearranges the collar numbers.
EXT. AMERICAN SUBURB - DAY
Gryphon’s collar: “1945”. Gryphon perches on a brick wall between houses.
A small group of GIRLS (20) chat over a picket fence.
Avery fixes his gaze on one girl, GAIL. Her slender figure, light breezy skirt, air of genteel daintiness.
Gail looks up, notices Avery in the distance.
She smiles.
Avery’s eyes light up.
Avery bends to Gryphon’s ear.
AVERY
Aha! I win, Gryphon. Be undone.
Gryphon dies, turns to stone.
Avery hops down from the wall. Approaches Gail.
EXT. CITY - DAY (1945)
Gail and Avery stroll, window-shopping.
Hand in hand.
EXT. DRIVE-IN THEATER - DAY
In a huge convertible. Gail and Avery kiss. Long and low.
INT. GAIL’S HOUSE - DAY
Avery perches on the edge of the couch, uncomfortable.
Standing over him, Gail and her PARENTS argue. Point at him.
EXT. DRIVE-IN THEATER - NIGHT
Gail weeps. Avery holds her close.
EXT. GAIL’S HOUSE - NIGHT
Gail, crying, rushes inside.
The door slams in Avery’s face.
Avery turns, slow, walks to the gate.
Avery stops...
He sprints to the door, throws it open, dashes inside.
Comes back out, holds Gail lying across his arms, she’s still crying. But with joy.
Avery runs down the street, twirls with Gail.
Gail’s Parents, bewildered, stand in the door.
INT. TINY CHAPEL - DAY
Avery and Gail, married. Two bored witnesses in a far pew.
INT. TINY APARTMENT - DAY (1955)
Baby cribs in a corner.
Avery (still 40), dressed like a businessman. Gail (now 30), dressed like a waitress. Give each other a huge, sweep-off-your-feet kiss.
They go out the door, ready for the day.
INT. TINY APARTMENT - NIGHT
Avery and Gail enter, the end of an exhausting day.
A peck of a kiss.
EXT. LARGE HOUSE - DAY (1965)
Avery (still 40), holds his hands over Gail’s eyes (now 40).
He releases his hands, lets her see the house.
She screams for joy, hugs him.
INT. CHURCH - DAY (1975)
A wedding.
Avery (still 40) and Gail (now 50), dressed in finery, in the front row. Both faces bathed with happy tears.
INT. AVERY’S HOUSE - DAY (1985)
Avery (still 40) and Gail (now 60) read, comfortable, in matching chairs near a fireplace.
They look up from their books, share a smile.
Avery picks up Gail in his arms.
EXT. AVERY’S HOUSE - DAY
Avery, carrying Gail, runs down the street, twirls.
Their laughter echoes off the houses.
INT. AVERY’S HOUSE - DAY (1995)
Christmas time.
Avery (still 40) and Gail (now 70), surrounded by CHILDREN and GRANDCHILDREN and GREATGRANDCHILDREN, hand out presents.
INT. HOSPITAL ROOM - DAY (2010)
Gail (now 85) lies in bed, helpless, attached to tubes.
Avery (still 40) at her side... A DOCTOR pats his shoulder.
INT. AVERY’S HOUSE - DAY
Avery sits on the bed, holds Gail lying across his arms.
Kisses her.
AVERY
No. No. You are so young yet.
GAIL
Wherever you come from, wherever you go, will you remember me?
AVERY
How could I forget you wondrous?
INT. AVERY’S HOUSE - DAY
Gail, white, lies unmoving in his arms.
Avery, tears down his cheeks, twirls once with her, tender, slow. Lays her still body on the bed.
EXT. AMERICAN SUBURB - DAY
Gryphon, of stone, still on the eroding brick wall. Just another tacky bird-pooped gargoyle.
Avery, gentle, remembrance, touches the numbered collar.
The stone cracks, crumbles. A new-colored FEMALE GRYPHON emerges, alive.
FEMALE GRYPHON
Ah, you must be Avery. And you failed as the Grand Council predicted?
AVERY
No. No. I was right. It is human to be destined for life and beyond.
FEMALE GRYPHON
Are you off home to publish your findings, then?
AVERY
No. No. I am weak without her now. I am so weak. I am undone...
She wins.
Avery fiddles with Female Gryphon’s collar, now it reads: “1945”. Avery climbs onto her back.
EXT. AMERICAN SUBURB - DAY (1945)
Gail (20), looks up, notices Avery.
She smiles.
FADE OUT.

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.

5/35

A slice of family life as seen through the eyes of a child and her dolls.

5/35
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. DESERTED PARKING LOT - DAY
A small sedan stutters through the aisles of painted yellow
parking spots. It jerks, stops, starts again.
The sedan goes in wobbly reverse, eases into a parking spot,
a crooked parking job.
The sedan launches forward, straightens, slams to a stop.
Reverses slowly, then sudden speed, flies backwards through
the spot into the next aisle, skids to a halt.
The sedan sits there, stopped. Two vague figures seen inside,
both make wild arm gestures, build in intensity.
The driver’s side door bursts open. SARA HAYES (16), huffing
and puffing and rolling her eyes, stomps out of the car.
SARA
I don’t care! It sucks, you suck.
Sara runs for a nearby busy road, chokes on her tears.
The passenger’s door opens. DOMINIC HAYES (40s) gets out,
leans on the car, chin on roof, gazes at a receding Sara.
He slams the passenger door. Walks around the car, gets
behind the steering wheel, drives after Sara.
EXT. HAYES HOME - DAY
The small sedan eases to a gentle stop in the driveway.
Sara leaps from the passenger’s door, tear-smeared face, runs
to the front door.
INT. HAYES HOME - LIVING ROOM - DAY
Sara dashes through the room, to the kitchen, loud sobs.
SARA
Mommm!
Wide-eyed little MARITA HAYES (5), quiet introvert, in a
corner, plays with a dollhouse and four little dolls: a
daddy, mommy, and two girl dolls.
Dominic enters, full of sighs, heavy heart, heavy feet.
MARITA
When can I learn to drive, Daddy?
Dominic laughs to himself, sarcastic, looks at the kitchen.
DOMINIC
When you’re thirty-five.
Marita examines the daddy doll’s buttons. Thinks.
Dominic throws himself into an armchair, turns on a sports
game on the television.
Marita separates her little doll family: the mommy and daddy
dolls on the dollhouse’s ground floor, two girls upstairs.
CAROLINE HAYES (30s) comes in from kitchen, carries a can of
beer, hands it over the back of the armchair, lowers it like
a UFO into Dominic’s field of view.
Dominic starts, laughs. He opens the beer, takes a sip.
Caroline massages his shoulders.
CAROLINE
She’s pretty upset.
DOMINIC
She wouldn’t be if she ever
listened to me.
CAROLINE
We all have to start somewhere.
MARITA
Daddy?
DOMINIC
She just off and does whatever.
CAROLINE
She learns different than you do.
MARITA
Daddy?
CAROLINE
Just adjust your--
DOMINIC
Adjust my? Gimme a break!
MARITA
Daddy? Am I five, Daddy?
2.
Dominic and Caroline look over at Marita, surprised.
DOMINIC
(child’s voice)
I’s five year old.
Marita, thoughtful. Holds up five fingers to the girl dolls.
Sound of a car starting. Dominic’s eyes flick to the window.
DOMINIC
Oh, no. No, no.
Dominic dashes to the window, spills beer on himself.
DOMINIC’S POV - THROUGH WINDOW
The small sedan, Sara in the front seat, pulls backwards out
of the driveway, shudders to a stop, leapfrogs down the
street.
BACK TO SCENE
Dominic dashes to the door. A cell phone rings.
Marita throws one of the girl dolls into a far corner.
Dominic yanks a cell phone from his pocket, looks at the
screen.
DOMINIC
It’s Sara.
Caroline puts her hand over her mouth.
DOMINIC
(into phone)
Sara! What... Stop crying! I should
call the cops on you... Uh, what?
(long silence)
She did?... Come on home. If she
promised, we’ll make it up to
you... Yes, I mean it. Come on.
Dominic hangs up. An accusing look at Caroline.
DOMINIC
You said she could get a tattoo?
CAROLINE
When she learned to drive.
3.
DOMINIC
You didn’t... a tattoo? Not till
she’s thirty-five! We should’ve
talked it over. We... A tattoo!
The sound of squealing brakes.
DOMINIC’S POV - THROUGH WINDOW
The small sedan jolts a screechy journey into the driveway.
CAROLINE (O.S.)
Well, she is driving.
BACK TO SCENE
Dominic, deep in his rage, startled into laughter. He chokes
on a laugh, splutters, coughs.
Caroline laughs, a joyous end to the conflict.
Sara comes in, red-rimmed eyes, a look of wonder seasoned
with a pinch of teenage distaste at adult humor.
Dominic, doubled over, belly-laughs, waves his arms to Sara,
invites her over.
DOMINIC
Come here, gimme a hug.
MARITA
No.
Marita stands in the corner, tender tears welled up, tiny
hands clenched into sad little fists.
Dominic, shocked.
DOMINIC
It’s okay, honey.
MARITA
No. No.
Marita explodes into body-bursting sobs.
Caroline rushes over, strokes her hair, murmurs, soothes.
MARITA
You... can’t get... a hug... till
you’re... thirty-five.
Dominic drops to a knee in front of Marita, lifts her
quivering chin, looks her in the eye.
4.
DOMINIC
You can get a hug at five...
Dominic hugs her.
DOMINIC
And at six...
Dominic hugs her harder.
DOMINIC
And at seven...
Dominic bear-hugs her, lifts her off the ground. Marita
giggles.
DOMINIC
And at eight...
Dominic throws her in the air. Marita squeals.
Even Sara smiles.
DOMINIC
And nine and ten and eleven...
Dominic tickles her in the air, rolls her up in his arms,
sways back and forth, kisses her hair and face.
DOMINIC
And everywhere in between.
Marita catches her breath. She puts her hands on Dominic’s
face, rubs his bristly five o’clock shadow.
MARITA
I’m hungry.
CAROLINE
Then, by golly, we’d better go out
to eat.
Marita smiles. Dominic carries her to the front door.
Dominic tosses the keys to Sara. Her face brightens, a new
purpose.
The Hayes family goes out the front door, closes it. The
sound of giggles and happiness fades...
The dollhouse family is back together on the ground floor,
embrace each other.
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.

Double Lock

It seems that most of my short inspirations these days are coming directly from deadlines and calls for scripts. I've been busily at work on a feature for some time now, so it's actually quite relaxing to be called away to scribble down a tidbit as a short script.

This script was devised in a semi-black mood. Enjoy.

DOUBLE LOCK
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 #1393970
ECanton@Prodigy.net
www.CantonLiteraryManagement.com
FADE IN:
INT. HANNAH’S DOOR - NIGHT
CLOSE UP on a wooden door, the stained grain deep and faded.
An ornate, curved handle on the right side.
Slouched against the door, head lolling back, tear-streaked
cheeks and balled-up fists: HANNAH (30s), fair skin and
gorgeous flowing hair and sparkling eyes on a good day. This
is not a good day.
HANNAH
I told you not to do it.
INT. PETER’S DOOR - NIGHT
CLOSE UP on another wooden door, looks the same as the first,
but the handle is on the left.
Crouched against the door, head drooped, breathless: PETER
(30s), rumpled hair, rumpled shirt, stubbled chin.
PETER
I was wrong, all right?
HANNAH (O.C.)
You were wrong, you were wrong!
PETER
I can’t help what I love.
INT. HANNAH’S DOOR - NIGHT
Hannah reaches a hand up, tests the handle. Locked. She
shakes it a couple times, echoes a defiant rattle.
HANNAH
Oh? Oh! You don’t love us, then.
PETER (O.C.)
You know that’s not what I meant.
HANNAH
I think I know you better than--
PETER (O.C.)
Stop it, Hannah. Stop it.
Hannah looks down at an open cell phone in her hand. The
backlit display reads “911” before the backlight turns off.
Hannah flips the phone shut.
HANNAH
It’s your fault, it’s all your
fault. She can’t hear--
PETER (O.C.)
Would you cut it out? She might be
all right.
Hannah bursts into tears, pounds the door behind her with a
fury born of desperation.
HANNAH
(screams)
Why do you always lie to me?
INT. PETER’S DOOR - NIGHT
Peter’s lips press tight, anger in his eyes.
HANNAH (O.C.)
You said you were done with them.
Peter hefts a fearsome shotgun.
PETER
I didn’t know she knew how to lock--
HANNAH (O.C.)
Then you said it was safe around
kids.
Peter loads the shotgun.
PETER
It was.
INT. HANNAH’S DOOR - NIGHT
Hannah shakes her head, cold eyes shimmer with disgust.
HANNAH
“They’re just for breeding.” Can
you buy her back again? Can you?
PETER (O.C.)
I didn’t know it’d go after--
HANNAH
Did you even care?
2.
INT. PETER’S DOOR - NIGHT
Peter rises, determined chin, angry at Hannah’s insinuation.
He points the shotgun at the door handle.
HANNAH (O.C.)
(sweet, hope)
Abby? Abby, honey? Can you hear me?
Peter fires. The handle disintegrates, the door swings open.
PULL BACK TO REVEAL Peter and Hannah in a home hallway, each
outside two doors into a large Master Bathroom. Hannah,
surprised by the blast, curls into a tiny ball.
PETER’S POV
A large ROTTWEILER, growling lips tinged with white foam
specks, stands over the still body of a LITTLE GIRL.
Peter pumps another shell into the chamber.
FADE OUT.

Nocturne

I wrote this script in an effort to give a different kind of face to the generic alien abduction/invasion story. It was, in large part, inspired by the song "Lion Tamer" from the musical "The Magic Show" by Stephen Schwartz.

NOCTURNE
by Kyle Patrick Johnson
Represented by:
Canton Literary Management (CLM)
Contact: Eric Canton
(866) 429-3118
ECanton@Prodigy.net
www.CantonLiteraryManagement.com
SOUND FADES IN:
A carousel and crowds. Children laugh.
WOMAN’S VOICE (V.O.)
You’ve never cared about me or
anybody else. It’s just you and
those damned ca--
Loud explosion.
Running. Agonized breaths.
LEO (V.O.)
Nocturne. Nocturne!
SOUND FADES OUT.
FADE IN:
INT. BUBBLE ROOM - NIGHT
At the bottom of the dark sphere sprawls LEO (50s), in a
shredded black tuxedo and top hat. Unconscious.
The walls glow red from nearby explosions.
INT. BUBBLE ROOM - DAY
The curved walls are milky white, semi-transparent. Outside
part of the room, water laps against the bubble’s equator.
Constant rumbling explosions shake the room.
Leo, terror-eyes, scrambles up the walls, slides back down.
He punches the wall, but it bows out around his hand like
spandex, snaps back into place, jams his wrist.
He winces in pain, shakes it off.
He slumps to the floor.
Leo looks inside the hat. A photo of a woman taped inside the
flat top. She has a beard.
His shoulders shake, he weeps inside.
He subsides, lays down hammock-like on the convex floor.
He blinks his eyes dry, whistles a broken classical tune.
An intense, low, menacing growl echoes throughout the room.
Leo freezes. His eyes dart to all sides.
He whistles the tune again.
Another growl.
Leo climbs to his feet, wary. He holds the hat in one hand
like a shield, the other fist pulled back. He revolves, ready
for anything, from anywhere.
But nothing happens. He’s alone.
Constant explosions.
A splash outside.
Leo dashes to the opaque wall, peers through it.
A body of a woman surfaces, face up. She has a beard.
Leo clutches his mouth, falls on all fours, vomits.
He rips at the wall like an animal, blurry pumping arms. The
wall tears into thin strips that heal instantly, too fast for
him to put his arm through.
A back-and-forth mosaic, the woman’s body vivid then cloudy.
Leo screams, an anguished primal yowl.
A long blue finger touches his back.
Leo whips around, ready for a fight, but not ready for...
An alien queen, KEHNIKKQ, tall, slender, blue-skinned, two
large blue eyes, two green eyes where her ears should be. A
regal red robe with a myriad of sequins flows to her feet.
Kehnikkq floats in the middle of the bubble, flanked by two
smaller blue ALIENS.
Kehnikkq points a long arm at Leo, touches his cheek.
Leo swats her hand away, snatches up his hat-shield.
Kehnikkq draws back, no expression. She brings her long
finger to her side, presses a sequin on her left hip.
A hiss of gas. Leo grabs at his throat, unable to breathe. He
drops to his knees, turns as blue as Kehnikkq herself.
Kehnikkq and Aliens float placidly above his struggling form.
2.
EXT. BUBBLE ROOM - DAY
A rush of gas out through the walls, a fine mist scatters in
all directions.
The room is just one of a massive honeycomb of bubble rooms.
The giant white vessel floats in New York Harbor.
The Statue of Liberty cut off at the knees.
Distant gray explosions rock the horizon, rubble of New York.
INT. BUBBLE ROOM - DAY
Leo’s eyeballs bulge out of his head, about to burst.
Kehnikkq takes her finger off the sequin. Gas rushes in.
Leo gasps, intakes a huge amount of air. He gulps the oxygen
with alien-forgetting delight, intent on the pleasure.
Kehnikkq touches a sequin on her right shoulder.
Leo rises off the floor like a marionette, propelled to face
her.
Kehnikkq touches more sequins, forces Leo to gaze into her
mesmerizing blue eyes.
LEO
Fuck you.
Leo tries to look away. He can’t.
Kehnikkq touches a large sequin over her abdomen.
Leo’s body, racked in agony. Red and white blood cells burst
out of his skin, suspended in mid-air.
Aliens lean towards the cells, study, examine.
Faraway explosion-clouds seen through the translucent walls.
Kehnikkq touches a sequin on her right arm.
Leo drops to the ground, falls hard. He can barely move, the
pain overwhelms him.
He struggles to contort his bruised face. His cheeks puff
out, every movement a study in torment.
He whistles the classical tune.
3.
A low growl echoes in the room.
Kehnikkq and Aliens don’t seem to notice.
Leo whistles once more, exhausted by the effort.
A loud growl, an enraged snarl.
An internal white wall indents, as though a large object was
hurled at it from beyond. The wall snaps back into place.
The growl takes on a life of its own.
Leo closes his eyes.
A huge slash appears in the wall behind Kehnikkq. And heals.
Kehnikkq and Aliens are absorbed by the red blood cells,
cannot hear, do not notice the theatrics behind them.
A sharp, curved claw pierces the wall. Another next to it.
The two claws draw apart as a large black head thrusts
through the wall between them, forces the hole wider.
A huge pure black jaguar with glowing yellow eyes.
The jaguar shoves its lithe bulk through the tight hole,
little by little.
Kehnikkq presses a sequin. The red blood falls to the ground,
spatters on Leo and the white floor.
She begins to turn around.
The jaguar is almost through, just hind legs to go.
Leo, in an agonizing motion, racked with pain, waves his arm.
Distracted, Kehnikkq turns back to Leo.
LEO
Can’t you hear this?
Leo whistles a new tune, more modern, harsh.
Kehnikkq makes no sign of recognition.
LEO
For Arturo the Knifeman... Fuzzer
the Clown... Bearded Lady...
Leo whistles, harsh, gives it everything he’s got. He points
at Kehnikkq.
4.
The jaguar gets all the way through, slides down the wall,
scrabbles for a foothold.
The jaguar pushes off the curved surface, launches towards
Kehnikkq from behind and the right, sharp white teeth gleam.
An inhuman scream from the cat’s throat.
Kehnikkq sees it coming with her side green eye, the lunging
predator reflected in her shiny cornea.
But the jaguar reaches her before she can push a sequin...
And tears out her alien throat.
Kehnikkq falls, dead, onto her left side.
The Aliens collapse with her, bound to her life force.
Kehnikkq’s lifeless finger, trapped under her body weight,
presses against the sequin on her left hip.
The gas escapes from the bubble room.
The jaguar, muzzle painted with blue blood, gags in the
vacuum.
Leo gasps, turns blue.
The jaguar creeps to Leo’s side, inch by painful inch.
LEO
Good... girl... Nocturne.
The jaguar lays a massive black paw on Leo’s cheek.
They die.
The explosions cease.
FADE OUT

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.

Come Fly Away

A light-hearted love story between...

Well, if I tell you now, it'll ruin the story. Enjoy!

COME FLY AWAY 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. COURTROOM - DAY Twelve JURY MEMBERS, a variety of races and IQs, listen to a venerable JUDGE (60) with stonefaced apathy. JUDGE ...are charged to agree upon a decision. Jury dismissed. Judge bangs the gavel. Jury Members file out a nearby door. A back row REPORTER turns to his BUDDY. REPORTER Oh, man. I’d love to be a fly on the wall in there. INT. JURY ROOM - DAY ZEEB, a full-bodied hairy black fly of Brooklyn lineage, struts his stuff on a closed door. SHAYA, a smaller Southern belle of a fruit fly, admires him from a window. The door opens. Zeeb zips away to the ceiling. Jury Members hand over their cell phone batteries to a hallway BAILIFF. Led inside by an Asian FOREMAN (40), they settle around a table, naked cell phones piled in the middle. Zeeb’s crazy compound eyes lock in on Shaya. He whistles. SHAYA Little old me? Zeeb makes a beeline for her, bounces against the windowglass with a BZZZZZ! Settles next to Shaya. ZEEB Hey. How you doin’? SHAYA I declare, you are forward. ZEEB I got ten more days to live, honey. I ain’t gonna spend ‘em in talk. Whaddya say, sugarlips? 2. SHAYA Kindly be a gentleman, then, and fetch me a snack. Foreman opens a box of doughnuts. ZEEB Look, crullers! My fav. Name’s Zeeb. SHAYA Shaya. I’d be delighted to taste your cruller. Zeeb breathes faster at the double entendre, pretends to bow. He plummets to the doughnut box, dodges reaching hands. Zeeb lands on an sticky-iced cruller. Foreman reaches for the cruller, sees Zeeb on it, makes an icky face, withdraws his hand. SHAYA Well, now. Looks like he passed with fly in crullers. Shaya looks at the camera, smiles, lets the punchline soak. She looks at her window reflection, preens. Zeeb shoots straight up, burdened with a giant crumb, eager to show his strength. He grunts. He’s never going to get to the window. Shaya snickers. SHAYA Come on, Zeeb, big boy. Show me how strong you are, show me muscles. Zeeb, spurred on by her honeysuckle voice, gives it his all. He careens into glass, drops the crumb. SHAYA Surely you don’t expect me to go all the way down there for a snack? Zeeb pants, exhausted. SHAYA You have nothing left for me, Zeeb? Shaya-ZEEB 3. BANG! Foreman karate chops a cell phone with a furious hand, snaps it into two pieces. Foreman displays eleven slips of paper with “Not Guilty” in one hand, one slip of “Guilty” in the other. SHAYA Manners, manners. These humans. Zeeb rubs his front legs together. ZEEB Down to business, eh, Shaya. Come here, babydoll. He puckers his lips. SHAYA You can’t even fetch me a morsel. You expect a reward? Gracious me. Zeeb’s blood pressure skyrockets. With a henpecked grunt, he lifts off again, heads down to the doughnuts. Foreman swats at him, his mood darker. Zeeb zooms in merry circles around Foreman’s hand, plays the matador, eyes his chance to get to the crullers. Zeeb dives in, grabs a tiny piece of icing, off again. Foreman, a mighty overhand straight-armed swat, crushes the rest of the doughnuts. SHAYA Who said the hand is quicker than the fly? Shaya looks at the camera, smirks again. She walks up the window, knows full well that Zeeb struggles to elevate to her. ZEEB Hold up, sugarlips. I’m carryin’, here. Have a heart, babe. Shaya gets to the top of the window, in shade, stops. Zeeb plunks down next to her. He smears icing onto his hairy lips. Puckers up. ZEEB Your snack’s ready, dollface. 4. Shaya, irresistible in her coyness, edges close to him. She breathes on him. He shudders in anticipation. SHAYA That’s my honeybear. She kisses him, licks icing off his lips. Wowza. ZEEB BANG! Another cell phone split in half. Foreman, boiling mad, face beet red, hand smarts from the blow. His slips of paper, now ten “Not Guilty” and two “Guilty”. Jury Members look at Foreman with sickened fright. ZEEB Oh, baby, you give me wings. SHAYA Flattery won’t get you where you want to go, big boy. Only the best are good enough for Shaya. ZEEB The best, babe? I am da best. Biggest, strongest, fastest. Fastest? SHAYA ZEEB Yeah. You wanna time me? SHAYA I don’t handle rides very well. Sometimes my little old tummy feels downright funny. ZEEB I’ll show you, really. Time me. Shaya, with a mournful head shake, flies to a large clock on the wall, lands on the second hand’s far tip. Tick, tock, tick, tock. She zooms around the clock face. SHAYA Let me see your style, Zeeb. Oop. Shaya holds in a vomitous urge. 5. Zeeb zooms across the room, bangs headfirst into the door. ZEEB (yells) How many was dat? SHAYA Four tocks. ZEEB Watch dis, lover! Zeeb zooms down towards the table, swoops under Foreman’s hand as it smashes down towards another unlucky cell. Shaya holds her breath. BANG! Zeeb flies out, unhurt. SHAYA Phew! Just my luck. Time flies when they’re halving phones. Shaya looks at the camera, simpers. Shaya flies back to the window on shaky legs. Zeeb joins her. Foreman looks down at his slips of paper, enraged. Wait a sec. He’s taken aback. He spreads the papers out on the table, one by one. Each one reads “Guilty”. Smiles all round. The Jury files out. ZEEB Come on, babe, let’s ditch this joint for a life outdoors, with kids, the whole works. I’m yours. SHAYA They gaze into each other’s eyes. Arm in arm, leg in leg, they fly into the window. They fly into the window. They fly into the window. They fly into the window. FADE OUT.