Category: Shorts

Scene 3
Length: 7 minutes
Location: Bathroom – slightly scummy and very small
Lighting: Harsh fluorescents
Initial Camera Shot: Above the bathtub
Sound: Water running.

Steam obstructs most of the shot. He lays nude in the tub, arms, feet and face covered in flour. Water is pouring in from the shower head and abruptly cuts off after 1 minute. He foot plops back into the water and his breathing is slow. Eyes are wide open and staring at the showerhead. He rolls over to his side, away from the camera, face 2/3s in the water. Crumples into the fetal position. Lumps of flour begin to open up in the water.

Camera focuses on his spine moving w/ his breathing.
Phone vibrates in the background.


Scene 2
Length: 7 minutes
Location: Apartment Room – very minimal and basic, bare walls
Lighting: Natural light from the windows, stage right
Initial Camera Shot: Wide view of his living room
Sound: The furnace hissing or coffee percolating

He walks around in blue briefs and a white undershirt. He pours flour across his dark hardwood floor. Moves it in piles and lines and sifts through it with his hands.

Close Up: His arms pushing the flour across the floor. Rubs it across his cheeks. It catches slightly on the tear streaks from earlier.
Wide shot catches him sitting, side/back profile on the floor of his apartment.
Aerial shot shows an abstract pattern across his floor.
A cat enters the camera shot and moves around him and the flour. Natural light changes to a deeper blue.

Scene 1
Length: 7 minutes
Location: Urban centre, downtown
Lighting: Heavy clouds at about mid-afternoon
Camera Shot: From the hood of a car, looking into the windshield of a ’94 sedan, navy blue. Man in late 20’s, early 30s driving behind the wheel.
Piano Instrumental: i.e. a 7 minute version of Yann Tiersen’s Le Matin

He is wearing a heavy tweed coat. Leaning close to his steering wheel, held with both hands at 10 and 2:00. His eyes and his body are alert to the traffic, but his mind is wandering elsewhere. About 3 minutes into the music, tears begin to fall. The next four minutes sees various suggestions of emotions across his face.

just lazy

Waking up takes hours. Nestling into my fort of pillows and feeling the warm linen threads catch on my toes. The sun catches all the whites of my room, inviting me to open my eyes. I smash my face, flat into my pillow, breathing in the stale oils. Last night’s intentions of breakfast and coordinated outfits dissipate with each snooze.

The curtains absorb the sunlight and sounds of the other women tinkering with their drawers and hair dryers. Seven and a half pounds of fluff prances around on my back, digging her nose into my armpits and crawling into the warm space between the sheets.

After rearranging my bed-head, I leave for work wearing summer on the bottom, Christmas on top. Lunch will be a half pound of guacamole. Maybe I’ll pick up chips over lunch break.

Once, my church had a special event for women. They flew in a fashion designer who held signups for a reality television style makeover at the end of her first talk. My sisters and cousins pushed me into the huge lineup that wrapped around the TV set. She asked me what my main struggle was:

“I’m 23, but I look like I’m 33.”

“That’s a new one.”

She ended up picking two ladies transported by time machines from decades past, and costumed them in hair dyes and contact lenses. Her message for the night:

“There’s no such thing as an ugly woman. Just a lazy one.”

Aw, shit.

pretty stones

The stone in her hand was cold.
I pried off her papery fingers to steal it from her.
The leaves shook a little – enough to stir the air around me.
I smelled dampness and earth, imagining worms and the warmth of decay.

Tucking the stone into my heart,
I ran from this earth.
Prancing into space,
Among the stars who admired my stone.

As the stone grew heavy,
I began to sink.
Away from the stars who were afraid.
Back to earth smaller now

My heart wrapped itself tighter around the piece of rock,
Muscling and flexing.
The pain in my chest pulsated to my fingers
To my toes, gathering in my joints.

My nails couldn’t find the stone
Deep in my heart, hidden.
Frantic, I clawed away at the cage around it
Ripping my heart out in the end.

wishing well

The well burned in my dreams
Fire erupting from its depths
The surrounding ponds gurgled in joy
Squealing and screaming with anticipation

Like Moses’ bush
The stones remain cool under fire.
I walked past the ponds, which celebrated
Their shrieks increasing

Found the door to enter the well
Lowering myself in the bucket
Easing myself down
The pulley sticking

Now past the reach of the firelight
I feel the crying walls with my fingers
Until I reach a hole
A tunnel that asks me to crawl through

Collapsing my shoulders
I wriggle my way through to the end
Swallowing the dust and roots
Until I reach the door.

another night’s sleep

Her throat was sore and hoarse. Nothing sounded the way she needed it to. Breaks and unplanned pauses destroyed her delivery. She pressed her hands against her cords, seemingly choking herself. Just warming her strings. Coaxing them to work for her.

Her frustration evident in her breathing. And she’s deciding whether to let it pass, or let the thrill overtake her – the mirror, her audience.

She decides to entertain, and coughs loudly while slapping the sink with her hands. Choking herself again while watching her eyes widen in the mirror.

She suppresses a smile and screams, pushing her voice against the restrictions and pain. Reaching a point of hysteria, she tastes blood and decides that her drama and play are over.

She quietly spits into the sink. Washes down the taste of iron and brushes her teeth. Getting ready for another night’s sleep.


The moon hangs low and yellow, in its early age of candle light. She sits in the dark corner of her yard, hidden by her house. Wrapped tightly in a huge bundle of blanket, puffing smoke into the air. Her eyes sting, but her hands finally relax. She feels alone with the moon. Warm in her cocoon of blanket and night.

Watch her eyes as they blank, then focus as they follow you drive past. Then blank, then shrink as they sting from her cigar.

She closes her eyes to rest them, as the night sets into her. She opens them to find the moon has swung up high and shines white. Entering the stage of incandescence and florescence. She blows smoke to shade herself from the brightness, howling softly in protest.