Like Stumbling Into The Wrong Movie Theatre, Watching For A Minute, Then Remembering You Were On Your Way To The Can In The First Place

The Cyberspace Open is an online screenwriting competition held, on average, 1-2 times a year. How it works is a prompt is released on a Friday night and then participants have the weekend to write a scene based around it. Then, a panel of Judgy McJudgersons provide each scene a number ranking (out of 100)and feedback. Those who qualify move onto Round 2 and another prompt. This last weekend marked the 3rd time I've entered. A friend of mine, who is an aspiring screenwriter, turned me onto it and it's been a lot of fun. I've never made it out of the first round, but I've been happy with the scores I received on my previous scenes - 90, 84 and 87, I think. I know I said I'd only done it two times before, but my first scene was accidentally scored twice by two different judges. Really makes you think about the subjectivity of it all. Anyways, what follows is the latest Round One Scene Prompt and my take on it. Like the title of this post suggests, think of it like you missed the first 45 minutes and, even though its super absorbing, you have to be somewhere else entirely, so you only get a taste.

Your PROTAGONIST and his or her LOVE INTEREST are at odds. One of the protagonist’s schemes has gone terribly awry, and the love interest has had it. Write a scene in which they have it out – but in an unconventional way. Their words seem measured and reasonable; but the subtext says another thing entirely. You may use additional characters other than the ones specified.

THE DRINKING GAME
by Noah Roundey

INT. VIP TABLE - PATOLLI AND PLAY COCKTAIL LOUNGE - NIGHT

BASRA strikes a wooden match-stick and lights the end of a cigar. She is attractive, stylish and young. Maybe a little too young for this venue. Her small frame and pixie hair style do little to add any years, but a wicked confidence and serpentine poise almost makes up for it - almost. She kicks back, crosses her legs and gently puffs on the cigar. A glass of scotch sits in front of her. She is celebrating.

Smiling, she idly surveys the crowd. She pauses when she spots a man walking towards her. Mid to late 30’s and classically tall, dark and handsome, he doesn’t exactly blend in - especially because he’s sporting three day old beard growth, his face is stained with dirt and he’s wearing what appears to be the singed remains of a once fine Italian suit. This is BOSTON.

Disappointment flickers across Basra’s face. She extinguishes the cigar in the ashtray and dumps the scotch down her throat. She opens her purse and removes a small revolver. As Boston approaches she keeps it on him from underneath the table.

BOSTON pulls out a chair and sits down. Clearly, he doesn’t consider her a threat.

BOSTON
The twenty-two fits you better than
the Gran Fuego.

BASRA
Hi, teach. So happy you could make
it. I was getting worried. Car
trouble?

BOSTON
No trouble at all. Now don’t stop
on my account. Pardon me.

Boston interrupts a passing waiter. On his tray rests a single bottle of scotch.

BOSTON (CONT’D)
Oh, perfect. A bottle is just what
the little one needs.

Basra briefly glares at Boston before effortlessly shifting
into a smile.

BASRA
Tremendous idea, darling.
(TO THE WAITER)
I would love the Balvenie.

WAITER
Of course. This one is for another
table, but I’ll...

BOSTON
Here’s double for it.

Boston drops a wad of cash on the waiter’s tray. It’s hardly
a decision at all. The waiter puts the scotch down on the
table and leaves the way he came.

BOSTON (CONT’D)
Balvenie 24. Not as old as I’d
like, but 1987 was a hell of a
year, don’t you agree? Never-
mind.

Boston pours the scotch into Basra’s glass, filling it all the way to the top. It overflows a little.

BOSTON (CONT’D)
Go on, sweetheart. Bottoms up.

A long moment passes between them. Finally, she puts her gun back into her purse and picks up the glass. She'll play it his way.

BASRA
(Toasting)
Dou Di Zhu.

In a small series of large, punctuated gulps she tosses all
of the contents of the glass into her gullet.

BOSTON
You know that’s when he was taken
out. Dou. In 87, I mean. Here,
let me get that for you.

Boston pours her another glass. Once again it’s to the brim.

BASRA
Thank you. Yes, I know. Red Nines
and Danish betrayed him.

Basra picks up the glass.

BASRA (CONT’D)
This one’s for Danish. Goodbye,
Danish. That was 87’, also.

She drinks it all down. She maintains. Boston pours her another.

BOSTON
That’s right, but what was the
means of execution? For them both?

BASRA
Poison. Red Nines' specialty.

Basra raises her glass and drinks again. Boston pours in
turn.

BOSTON
Do you know who we drink to this time?

BASRA
Red Nines.

BOSTON
Because what happened next?

Basra tips it back. She is green. She may be sick. The moment passes and she collects herself. Boston has already filled the next drink.

BASRA
She was also assassinated. But
that was later, in 89’. This
scotch wouldn’t know anything about
that.

BOSTON
How did she die?

BASRA
Decapitation. Dou’s specialty.

Basra drinks it all down. She's slouched and wobbly. It's hard to tell if she doesn't know or doesn't care.

BOSTON
And what does that tell you?

BASRA
Dou had fans.

BOSTON
Dou Di Zhu didn’t know the company
he kept. Danish didn’t understand
that assassins can be trusted to
act like assassins. Red Nines
assumed the buried needn’t be
worried on. In all cases they were
ignorant of their place in the
world, of consequences.

He reaches for the bottle.

BASRA
(Laughing)
No, that wasn’t it.

Boston stops and looks at her.

BASRA (CONT’D)
It was because none of them could
see they’d already been gotten
to, long before they were killed.

Boston sits back and lets this sink in.

Basra picks up the bottle. This time she pours the glass to a reasonable measure. She pushes it across the table.

Boston smiles, picks it up and takes a long sip.

Rockmaninov

I was five years old and on a walk around the block with my sister when I found treasure in the grass. Baby blue amidst the green, it looked like a giant Robin's egg, smooth and perfect. Only, when I picked it up, it was heavy. Hard and impenetrable, like a rock. In my tiny fist I carried it home where it was decided that it was, surely, a rock. But a most peculiar rock...

I found a place for it in my room, on my dresser, amongst two dozen other trophies of childhood. Over the years, that collection of souvenirs, tinker-toys, and actual trophies were syphoned off and replaced many times over. All except for one.

If we were friends you saw it. I showed it off to my best friend when I was nine, and to my girlfriend when I was nineteen. I brought it to Kindergarten show-and-tell. I fascinated my sixth grade science teacher with it. His best guess? Over thousands of years, an ocean licked it smooth and painted it blue.

Children are explorers and archaeologists. They find enchanted objects and bring them home to covet or share. Usually, the light at the center fades, the extraordinary becomes the ordinary, the old is replaced with the new. I'm lucky in that I have something that never lost that magic. Twenty-five years later it's still mysterious to me.

Until recently, I honestly hadn't thought about it in a long time. It was out of sight and out of mind, but I knew it was in this briefcase I have, among a few other items I store there. I've always made absolutely certain not to lose it, as though from the moment I first picked it up I acquired some kind of sacred duty. I am the Rock Bearer. I am the Keeper of the Stone.

It's time to take it out and play again. Below is a test image for a photo study I'm planning to do.