by Autumn Tarleton
DRIFTED ASUNDER is registered with the WGAe.
A BLACK SCREEN.
The sound of trees rustling in the wind.
(a little drunk)
There’s this rumbling I’ve got about you. About you being there.
(a little drunk too)
I dunno. I just keep feeling like you’re going under. And then something bad happens.
What bad happens?
EXT. RURAL FLORIDA MOBILE HOME - FRONT PORCH - DUSK
PAUL, a greying man in his mid-50s, sits on a lawn chair next to his daughter, APRIL, a pretty brunette in her early 30s. Paul’s hands push the air away from him and towards the ground slowly. He keeps hold of his beer in one hand and repeats the action over and over.
You’re going under. You’re going under something. And it’s all down.
You mean the subway? Or a basement?
It’s just something underneath it all.
April sits cross-legged in her lawn chair with a beer in her hand. She’s tan, tired, and her eyes are blood-shot.
You gotta ground yourself.
How do you mean?
Paul reaches over and hovers both of his hands over April’s head, then her shoulders, and around her arms -- never touching her. Cicadas chirp in the distance.
She closes her eyes and takes an enormous breath in. We hear her breathing continue as we fade to black.
INT. BROOKLYN YOGA STUDIO - MORNING
We continue to hear deep breathing that sounds like waves in the ocean as we see April from above, laying on wooden floorboards. She is covered up to her chin in a traditional Mexican yoga blanket and her eyes are closed.
YOGA INSTRUCTOR (O.S.)
On your next inhale, fill up the belly first... then the ribs... then the upper chest.
April’s blanket inflates as she follows the instructions.
YOGA INSTRUCTOR (O.S.) (CONT’D)
Now on your exhale, let’s do lion’s breath.
April’s face explodes into a frightening look: eyes staring up, mouth as wide as it can get, tongue protruding out. She emits a terrifying moan as she forcibly exhales out all of the air in her lungs.
TITLE OVER IMAGE: DRIFTED ASUNDER
INT. BROOKLYN APARTMENT - KITCHEN - MORNING
April’s back is to us. She’s in her pajamas. Her neck is cricked to hold her phone as her two hands wrangle a navel orange. Chunks of the bright orange skin come off and fall down into a trash can below. In the window’s crevices behind her mounds of snow have accumulated.
Yeah, I’m available. When do they need me there?
Yep. No worries, I’ll be there in a bit. Thanks Janice.
April swings around, closing the trash lid with her foot.
EXT. BROOKLYN MUSEUM - DAY
April hurries across the sidewalk in front of the museum’s expansive facade carrying several large bags. She is engulfed by the large museum hovering over her; she’s wearing a huge winter coat.
EXT. BROOKLYN STREETS - DAY
April walks down neighborhood streets looking for her car. She stops suddenly with a vacant look and turns back. She crosses the road to a different side street; she’s forgotten where she has parked.
EXT. BROOKLYN STREETS - CONTINUOUS
April walks down the sidewalk, picking up her pace. She slows down in front of her beat up 90s Volvo. She throws one of the canvas bags into the back and collapses into the driver’s seat.
INT. APRIL’S CAR - CONTINUOUS
She reaches over to grab something out of the glove compartment but stops when she notices an orange parking ticket on her windshield.
April sits perfectly still, burning a hole through the ticket with her eyes.
April exits the car, leans over the hood and rips the ticket out from underneath the windshield wiper.
She gets back in, slams the door, and starts the engine.
Writer's excerpt courtesy NYWIFT (NYWIFT.ORG)