pigeonfactory

[pigeonfactory]

Criminal Commitment

So, a couple things about this, it's a screenplay scene I originally wrote for an 11th grade drama class about a year ago. (hence the reason for the images rather than plain text haha, I'm not re typing all that) It ended up getting picked as one of the scripts for one of my school's arts celebrations, and I ended up getting to act it out on a stage. Since then, I've gotten pretty consistent positive feedback with people wanting me to write more of it, hence why I even considered posting it.

If I recall it's set in the 1950's, and the mannerisms and personalities of the characters were heavily saturated because I only had 5 pages to introduce them and their whole shtick so, keep that in mind, I guess. It's also my first ever attempt at writing a screenplay.

Anyway, enough rambling. Here it is! __________________________________________

[pigeonfactory]

𝓓𝓮𝓪𝓭 𝓸𝓯 𝓝𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽

Blah. I really need to post on here. So let’s start with an old short thing I did a while back. Kind of bleh.

Cold.

Why am I so.. cold?

I wake up alone, laying in sheets of snow so cold it blisters my skin. I wear no jacket, no jeans. Simply a pair of shorts and a t-shirt that reads “The Beatles”. Converse sneakers run in dirt, snow and blood. Where am I?

Everything I see is dark, dark, and darker still. Thick snow runs alongside a river. Chunks of ice swim in deep blue as fog dances over top. I almost think I can see light beyond it. A bright white light. The other direction is less friendly. Towering trees which look like they might reach out and grab me, shading the forest in a pitch black hue. Twisty and statuesque, I would hate to be a lumberjack. The shadows are uninviting. I hear the whispers of things no living person should be able to. And yet… I feel the urge to wander into it grow. Something is pulling me in, is it the trees?

So, I walk. No, not into the trees, not yet. Just along the river. I have no clue what I’m doing all the way out here, and I have no idea who I am. What I do know is that I am inappropriately dressed for the cold, and I like The Beatles. I’m not sure how far that’s going to get me. But as I continue to walk, I realize something. Something strange. I’m no longer cold. Every step I take makes me feel warmer. Despite the location and state of dress. After a few more steps it is unbearably warm. But I don’t have any extra clothing to abandon. So I keep walking.

I cannot tell how long I’ve been walking for now. Maybe it’s hours, or maybe it’s days. Weeks? My brain becomes hazy, and I stumble as I walk. I reach into my brain, desperately grappling on to any and all memories I can resurface. I can remember a few things. I remember… my 17th birthday, my favorite jacket I had ruined at a party, a bracelet I always wore. Except for now, apparently, whenever now is. I grip the wrist that holds the memory of the jewelry, the left one, and continue to walk.

Now, I end up somewhere I don’t recognize. It feels familiar but I can’t recognize it amidst the snow. I feel angry. What is it I can’t recognize? It’s a house. A small bungalow with Christmas decorations in the front yard. It’s along a row of other houses, but this is the one I am drawn to. Warm light seeps out of the windows and into the night sky, And much like a moth, I approach.

Up the pretty stone pathway, past the lopsided snowman and up onto the rickety wood porch. I look inside. I see a family. A young boy in a red sweater, making gingerbread cookies with a kind blonde woman. A slightly older girl with her hair in braids, decorating a christmas tree with a man in a.. business suit? Cheerful laughter rings through my ears despite the walls, and I realize I recognize this family.

The little boy turns and looks out the window I stand in, and I wave, trying not to startle him. But my body is glass, and he sees right through me. He turns to the woman, and tugs on her dress.

“Mommy, I heard something outside.”

“It’s probably just the wind, buddy,” She coos lovingly, patting his head. “Nothing to be worried about.”

“But.. What about Amy? When is she coming back?”

“Don’t worry about her, sport,” The dad chimes in. “You know your sister can take care of herself. I’ll bet you she’s on her way back here right now.”

These words fill me with dread. I scream. Or rather, I try to. I bang on the window, I cry. But they can’t hear me and there’s no way for me to warn them…

That Amy is never coming back.