A screenplay written with the BFI
EXT. SCOTTISH HIGHLAND – DAY
The day is still and light mellow.
A serious of shots: the bare feet of a girl, stumbling; the heavy boots of a man; the girl falls, her white dress stained and hair wild; the old man’s (ALECK) face, rolling wrinkles.
ALECK finds the fallen girl. He scoops her into his arms. He carries her across the land. A solitary cottage comes into view.
He struggles to open the door with the girl in his arms. Heavy breath as he pushes through with his shoulder into a small corridor.
Carries her through to a dark sitting room. The mud off his boots drops to the floor.
He lowers her onto a sofa. Pulls her dress back down so it covers her knees and retrieves a red tartan blanket. Her feet are dirty and grazed.
Through the kitchen window see him walk back out across the land pushing a wheelbarrow.
GIRL wakes and rises from the sofa. She surveys the room: picking up objects and running her finger across surfaces and fabrics.
Continue reading “Comfort of Wild Birds”
Infinity is a long time.
Well it’s time upon time added to time divided by time.
A lot of minutes ticking over in the infinite.
And you just float: fingers and toes, seconds and hours.
My dad used to talk about it. Those numbers that never end, how long it takes to cycle to the moon. It always made me feel small when he spoke about space: all that blackness with nothing containing it.
Anyway, I don’t think about time much these days.
But sometimes it catches you
the thought of it all.
Hardly had the gust of wind passed and she was back. The butt end etching the boy’s eyes, his nose, caught – momentarily – on his collar. He watched his mother’s lips: their smudge of lipstick, how they squish to the side then spit. He’d seen people kissing in the park behind the swings. He couldn’t ever imagine these doing that. Her hair static while her head swung back and forth. She uses the iron and a dish cloth to straighten it, the activity smells like sour toast. Another gust came, and she returned to heaving up ash ends. The boy wondered how long this would go on for: the screaming, the coughing. He was digging, digging to Australia. And his spoon was getting stuck on something when she appeared above him. He felt he was close. His secret broke a smile.
There is something so about you. When your fabric slips to reveal skin. When you, you, there is something so that I cannot word. It’s not love. I’ve felt that before, that’s light on water, that’s a dazzle. This, this is a fascination but. To touch that skin. I have never felt this. What your energy does to my space I have never felt. Maddening. I miss breaths, I miss words to think of you. You wore silk and it slipped and I near cried.
It stood out for it wings.
Constructed of matchbox ends, bottle tops and newspaper headlines.
It had taken three springs to learn how to fly.
But now it could,
carried by the waste.
The train sighs, bored of stations and conductors, bored of tickets and tracks. And then the train goes.
The child’s bones creak with the whispers of mothers.
The feathers fell from the wings
The body hit the earth and the body promised to never let it go
She cried and something heard her
Then something forget
I did it because I ran out of coffee and the flowers were too blue.
But why d’you do it. Why?
Give m’ a light. And a kiss.
You could be in the fucking ground and you ain’t gunna tel me why.
Do you think it’s romantic?
Do you love me?
Yeah I fucking love you.
The man who throws stones at crows.
There is love.
Plants, roots, leaves,
and a brightness.
You gave me something
Rain, soil, brightness.
In this earth there is something: passing,