This was written as an exercise in Writing Group. We chose this picture (above) and the sentence, "She even climbs into bed the same way." The theme was "Fire and Brimstone." We wrote for 20 minutes.
"Fire & Brimstone"
by Andie Bottrell
EXT. A SCHOOLYARD - DAY
Weeds and tall, brown grass grow up and around the long abandoned playground as if ball-and-chaining them to the ground like prisoners of a forgotten war.
The surrounding town, that's almost entirely viewable from the top of the slide, is likewise empty of new growth and vitality of life.
A squeaking sound draws our attention to the fence where a chubby little girl licks her lips into a sinister smile before waddling over to the swing set.
SUPER: 1974
The little girl hums while she swings, pumping higher and higher and higher as the wood and chain creak and strain. Just as she reaches the height of her pumping one of the sides of the swings breaks, sending her crashing to the ground so instantaneously that there is neither time for scream or shock.
Black out.
INT. CABIN - DAY
A slightly chubby woman in her late 20's opens her eyes in a white sheeted bed. Light flows in through the windows and cracks in the cabin logs. An intensely gazed man of 50 with a strong white beard and wild grey eyes comes in from the wintery outdoors carrying firewood which he adds to the fire.
SUPER: 2000
MAN
It's negative 15 degrees if it's 20! She even climbs
into bed the same way as you did and you're 20 if
you're 5 still so she's still you and it's still, it's still
winter in Utah, ya know. Fuck cold fu- Fuck! Sorry.
The woman gets out of bed slowly and covers herself in a banket. She looks out the window longingly.
MAN
Hey! So, I went to town again and they're looking
for you, for me, for us, for our bodies. I think I'm
real, but you, you're just imagination. Here, Here.
Kiss me now. It's morning in Utah. Cold as fuck.
The woman stands still. The man kisses her on the neck tenderly and then runs back over to the kitchen area to prepare breakfast. He chops apples. The sound of the knife crunching through the apple and tinging on the metal table meshes in the woman's ears with the metal clanging of the swing, back and forth.
Voices, far off in a distant, untamed memory, call out her name, "Martha!" "Martha!" "Where are you?" "Martha?"
The apple cutting quickens faster and faster and more intense with each chop. Suddenly a scream. She turns. Blood is everywhere. The man has cut off his hand and it is laying on the table still holding the apple.
"Fire & Brimstone"
by Andie Bottrell
EXT. A SCHOOLYARD - DAY
Weeds and tall, brown grass grow up and around the long abandoned playground as if ball-and-chaining them to the ground like prisoners of a forgotten war.
The surrounding town, that's almost entirely viewable from the top of the slide, is likewise empty of new growth and vitality of life.
A squeaking sound draws our attention to the fence where a chubby little girl licks her lips into a sinister smile before waddling over to the swing set.
SUPER: 1974
The little girl hums while she swings, pumping higher and higher and higher as the wood and chain creak and strain. Just as she reaches the height of her pumping one of the sides of the swings breaks, sending her crashing to the ground so instantaneously that there is neither time for scream or shock.
Black out.
INT. CABIN - DAY
A slightly chubby woman in her late 20's opens her eyes in a white sheeted bed. Light flows in through the windows and cracks in the cabin logs. An intensely gazed man of 50 with a strong white beard and wild grey eyes comes in from the wintery outdoors carrying firewood which he adds to the fire.
SUPER: 2000
MAN
It's negative 15 degrees if it's 20! She even climbs
into bed the same way as you did and you're 20 if
you're 5 still so she's still you and it's still, it's still
winter in Utah, ya know. Fuck cold fu- Fuck! Sorry.
The woman gets out of bed slowly and covers herself in a banket. She looks out the window longingly.
MAN
Hey! So, I went to town again and they're looking
for you, for me, for us, for our bodies. I think I'm
real, but you, you're just imagination. Here, Here.
Kiss me now. It's morning in Utah. Cold as fuck.
The woman stands still. The man kisses her on the neck tenderly and then runs back over to the kitchen area to prepare breakfast. He chops apples. The sound of the knife crunching through the apple and tinging on the metal table meshes in the woman's ears with the metal clanging of the swing, back and forth.
Voices, far off in a distant, untamed memory, call out her name, "Martha!" "Martha!" "Where are you?" "Martha?"
The apple cutting quickens faster and faster and more intense with each chop. Suddenly a scream. She turns. Blood is everywhere. The man has cut off his hand and it is laying on the table still holding the apple.
RSS Feed
