LOL SCREENWRITING: I HAS MADE A START
EXT. A PARK - EVENING
The trees are bare, and their branches shudder in the wind. A couple, a young man and a younger woman, makes their way along the gravel path: they huddle together against the cold. They are so intent on their small circle of warmth that they almost collide with MARGARET VAUGHN, 34, coming in the opposite direction.
WOMAN
Sorry.
MARGARET
Don't worry about it, I--
She stops. The woman smiles tentatively and turns away; her boyfriend is already tugging her forward.
MARGARET
Wait!
They turn back, moving together. They have linked arms.
MARGARET
Would you mind if I took your picture?
They look at each other.
WOMAN
[uncertainly] We don't have a camera.
MARGARET
No, I meant... [She pats the bulky case at her hip.]
WOMAN
Oh. Oh! Are you a photographer? Oh, that's lovely.
MAN
[showing interest, for the first time]
Do we get to keep the picture?
MARGARET
[with an apologetic smile]
No. But if you give me your address, I'll send you a copy.
The woman tilts her head at the man, questioningly. He stares at her, and then at Margaret.
MAN
Why not?
Margaret lifts the camera strap over her head. She unzips the case and pulls out the big, black camera: it looks alien in her skinny hands.
WOMAN
What is this for?
Panic flashes across Margaret's face, but the woman doesn't notice.
WOMAN (cont'd)
Art class?
MARGARET
[gratefully] Yeah.
She steps away from the couple, moving carefully backward. Gravel crunches under her bootheels.
MARGARET
Squeeze together a little more.
They squeeze obligingly, their bodies curving in to join at the shoulder. The light is very pale and stark.
MARGARET
Say cheese.
MAN AND WOMAN
Cheese!
She snaps three photos in rapid succession. On the last one, the flash whites out the scene. CUT TO:
EXT. A CITY STREET - EVENING
Leaves scuttle over the asphalt, sharply silhouetted in the blue gloom. The windows of the tall buildings are shuttered, except for one. A woman walks close to the curb: we pan in a little, and see that it's Margaret. She keeps her eyes on the sidewalk as she crosses over to the building with the lit, open window and climbs the front steps.
INT. FRONT HALLWAY - CONTINUOUS
She moves through the hallway to her apartment's door, number 115.
INT. FOYER - CONTINUOUS
The foyer is small, but it has a coat hooks on one side and framed pictures on the other. Margaret begins undoing the fastenings of her jacket. She is interrupted by a big dog of indeterminate breed, who races in from around the edge of the partition and jumps her.
Margaret gets down to her knees, scratching the dog's sides and back as it licks her chin. It whines low.
MARGARET
Hey. Hey, you.
She looks at the living room. The television is on: we can hear it vaguely, a laugh track going, and tinny music.
MARGARET
Wanna tell me how today went?
The dog huffs.
MARGARET
Yeah, yeah.
She stands, and gets her coat the rest of the way off, awkwardly. The dog drops to the floor and rolls over, begging for a bellyrub, but she hangs the jacket and walks past the dog. She's walking slower, now, than she was outside.
MARGARET
Will?
We see the photographs on the wall, over the top of her head. For the most part, they are of a man-- Will. The photographs are beautiful, well composed and clear. Will is a very good-looking man. Sometimes he appears with other people, but only in one of them is he with Margaret. In it her arm is wrapped loosely around his shoulders, a kind of possessive or protective gesture. Margaret's eyes flick to that one when she passes it, but she does not turn her head.
INT. LIVING ROOM - CONTINUOUS
There's no one here but her, and more photographs, arranged in clusters on the coffee table, the top of the television, the walls.
MARGARET
[under her breath]
Nice to have a warm welcome.
On the bright screen of the television, an audience bursts into applause. Margaret spins around and grabs the remote control off the sofa's arm. She turns it off.
The sudden silence is thick. Margaret puts the remote control down.
She glances at the kitchenette. There are unwashed dishes in the sink, but no sign of Will. She runs a hand through her windblown hair. Her face contorts, like she's bitten into something that tastes wholly unfamiliar.
She glances at the bathroom door. There's no light coming from under it, but she bangs on it anyway. No response. She opens it, leaning in, one hand braced against the doorframe, and then she comes slowly back into an upright position, and takes her hand away, and closes it.
Then she picks her way over the rug to the bedroom door.
INT. THE MASTER BEDROOM
The bedroom is almost as large as the living room and kitchenette combined, but it is largely unfurnished, aside from the bed, broad, central, and unmade. In the lamplight, the folds in the rumpled sheets throw long shadows.
MARGARET
Will?
A car zooms past, outside.
MARGARET
[softly]
This is fucked up.
The dog pads in, and leans up against her leg. She rubs her knuckles against its scalp, absently, and looks down at its upturned nose.
MARGARET
Who's a good boy, then.
The dog nuzzles her wrist.
MARGARET
Not your owner.
The dog whimpers. She continues rubbing, this time, and when it does the begging roll again, she sinks down beside it and puts her back into the scratching, dog hair rising in wisps from where her fingers rake its stomach.
The trees are bare, and their branches shudder in the wind. A couple, a young man and a younger woman, makes their way along the gravel path: they huddle together against the cold. They are so intent on their small circle of warmth that they almost collide with MARGARET VAUGHN, 34, coming in the opposite direction.
WOMAN
Sorry.
MARGARET
Don't worry about it, I--
She stops. The woman smiles tentatively and turns away; her boyfriend is already tugging her forward.
MARGARET
Wait!
They turn back, moving together. They have linked arms.
MARGARET
Would you mind if I took your picture?
They look at each other.
WOMAN
[uncertainly] We don't have a camera.
MARGARET
No, I meant... [She pats the bulky case at her hip.]
WOMAN
Oh. Oh! Are you a photographer? Oh, that's lovely.
MAN
[showing interest, for the first time]
Do we get to keep the picture?
MARGARET
[with an apologetic smile]
No. But if you give me your address, I'll send you a copy.
The woman tilts her head at the man, questioningly. He stares at her, and then at Margaret.
MAN
Why not?
Margaret lifts the camera strap over her head. She unzips the case and pulls out the big, black camera: it looks alien in her skinny hands.
WOMAN
What is this for?
Panic flashes across Margaret's face, but the woman doesn't notice.
WOMAN (cont'd)
Art class?
MARGARET
[gratefully] Yeah.
She steps away from the couple, moving carefully backward. Gravel crunches under her bootheels.
MARGARET
Squeeze together a little more.
They squeeze obligingly, their bodies curving in to join at the shoulder. The light is very pale and stark.
MARGARET
Say cheese.
MAN AND WOMAN
Cheese!
She snaps three photos in rapid succession. On the last one, the flash whites out the scene. CUT TO:
EXT. A CITY STREET - EVENING
Leaves scuttle over the asphalt, sharply silhouetted in the blue gloom. The windows of the tall buildings are shuttered, except for one. A woman walks close to the curb: we pan in a little, and see that it's Margaret. She keeps her eyes on the sidewalk as she crosses over to the building with the lit, open window and climbs the front steps.
INT. FRONT HALLWAY - CONTINUOUS
She moves through the hallway to her apartment's door, number 115.
INT. FOYER - CONTINUOUS
The foyer is small, but it has a coat hooks on one side and framed pictures on the other. Margaret begins undoing the fastenings of her jacket. She is interrupted by a big dog of indeterminate breed, who races in from around the edge of the partition and jumps her.
Margaret gets down to her knees, scratching the dog's sides and back as it licks her chin. It whines low.
MARGARET
Hey. Hey, you.
She looks at the living room. The television is on: we can hear it vaguely, a laugh track going, and tinny music.
MARGARET
Wanna tell me how today went?
The dog huffs.
MARGARET
Yeah, yeah.
She stands, and gets her coat the rest of the way off, awkwardly. The dog drops to the floor and rolls over, begging for a bellyrub, but she hangs the jacket and walks past the dog. She's walking slower, now, than she was outside.
MARGARET
Will?
We see the photographs on the wall, over the top of her head. For the most part, they are of a man-- Will. The photographs are beautiful, well composed and clear. Will is a very good-looking man. Sometimes he appears with other people, but only in one of them is he with Margaret. In it her arm is wrapped loosely around his shoulders, a kind of possessive or protective gesture. Margaret's eyes flick to that one when she passes it, but she does not turn her head.
INT. LIVING ROOM - CONTINUOUS
There's no one here but her, and more photographs, arranged in clusters on the coffee table, the top of the television, the walls.
MARGARET
[under her breath]
Nice to have a warm welcome.
On the bright screen of the television, an audience bursts into applause. Margaret spins around and grabs the remote control off the sofa's arm. She turns it off.
The sudden silence is thick. Margaret puts the remote control down.
She glances at the kitchenette. There are unwashed dishes in the sink, but no sign of Will. She runs a hand through her windblown hair. Her face contorts, like she's bitten into something that tastes wholly unfamiliar.
She glances at the bathroom door. There's no light coming from under it, but she bangs on it anyway. No response. She opens it, leaning in, one hand braced against the doorframe, and then she comes slowly back into an upright position, and takes her hand away, and closes it.
Then she picks her way over the rug to the bedroom door.
INT. THE MASTER BEDROOM
The bedroom is almost as large as the living room and kitchenette combined, but it is largely unfurnished, aside from the bed, broad, central, and unmade. In the lamplight, the folds in the rumpled sheets throw long shadows.
MARGARET
Will?
A car zooms past, outside.
MARGARET
[softly]
This is fucked up.
The dog pads in, and leans up against her leg. She rubs her knuckles against its scalp, absently, and looks down at its upturned nose.
MARGARET
Who's a good boy, then.
The dog nuzzles her wrist.
MARGARET
Not your owner.
The dog whimpers. She continues rubbing, this time, and when it does the begging roll again, she sinks down beside it and puts her back into the scratching, dog hair rising in wisps from where her fingers rake its stomach.