David and Francine are in the kitchen. It is a nice suburban looking kitchen. They are young. The sun is bright through the windows and the colors are just lovely. David is reading the newspaper drinking a beverage. Francine takes something in Tupperware out of the refrigerator, she opens it, looks at it, walks over to the microwave and puts it in. She turns around. Looking at him. Leaning against the counters. She is wearing a dress.
Francine: You know, I’m pretty sure I do hate you... I don’t know. Yeah. I think probably I do.
David: Glances at her over the paper. Well.
Francine: Remaining still and calm. Standing. Looking at him. Really David. I want to kill you. Whenever you’re asleep... I just-- I literally want to end your life right there. Like... I... I don’t know.
David: Drops the paper to the table. What the fuck. That’s fucking sick Francine.
Francine: I just thought I would tell you, you know, so you could like... I don’t know.
David: Fuck. Are you serious right now?
Francine: You don’t have to be so coarse David.
David: Well what the fuck am I supposed to say Francine?
Francine: I really don’t know.
David: Why don’t you just fucking leave then. My God.
Francine: This is my home too David, I don’t think I should have to leave it just because of you.
David: Because of me? Me? Well I fucking shouldn’t have to live here in goddamned fear of my life.
Francine: David. Please.
David: Up. Upset. Fuck you Francine. Seriously what the fuck?
Francine: Can’t we just talk about this, please. Let’s just talk.
David: Talk? Maybe we should have-- have fucking talked when you were only thinking about... about... Fuck! Francine! Fuck!
Francine: You’re telling me you don’t understand. Even a little bit. At all?
David: No! No!No!No!No!No! Fuck! Francine!
Francine: I will not be talked to like that.
David: You-- what? What!
Francine: Settle down David, for heaven’s sake, you’re behaving like a child.
David: Puts his hand through the window. He must have cut himself because there is an awful lot of blood. Oh God. Oh my God. Oh God. Oh Lord. Oh God. Francine, I broke the window Francine. I--I broke the window with my hand and I think I cut my wrist oh my God. Francine my wrist is bleeding a fucking lot. Francine.
Francine takes out a pack of cigarettes. She draws one out lights it with a match, inhales deeply, exhales, tilts her head, frowns.
1 comment:
This is very interesting and comical. However, I doubt your emotional investment in the idea. The idea behind the writing is the most important part of the whole endeavor. The idea compels the writing, and the writing strives toward the idea. Writing seeks to express the incommunicable and transcendent, to make clear an insightful and profound idea, lucidly illustrate philosophical complexities, capture an ineffable feeling, and unveil a deeper truth.
You write like a screenwriter, with an acute sense of comedic timing - very difficult to elicit purely in writing - and an illustrious ability to command action, to vividly depict a scene and enliven it.
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