Hunter: First Draft Exerpt

November 2, 2009 - Leave a Response

Scene 3 – Just who are you, Hunter?

EXT. THE CABIN – EVENING

Adam chops wood. He has his earbuds in and sings along with the music. Stopping occasionally to wipe the snot from his nose. His breath crystallizes in the air.

The car is parked in front of the cabin.

INT. THE CABIN – EVENING

April is cutting up vegetables for dinner. Hunter is playing with the fire in the stove. The dull “thock” of the axe can be heard outside. Occasionally ADAM’s singing can be heard as well.

APRIL

So where are you from, Hunter?

HUNTER

Away. This little beach town in Massachusetts.

APRIL

Does this little beach town have a name?

Hunter chuckles.

APRIL (cont’d)

You know, Adam says that, when he first met you, you had nothing but a green army duffel filled with clothes, some books and a few cans of soup. I’ve always thought that was a bit intriguing.

HUNTER

Yeah?

April turns to him.

APRIL

Just who are you Hunter?

HUNTER

What?

APRIL

You know. Who are you? What do you do? Where are you from? What are your roots? I’ve known you for what? Three years? Yet I don’t really know you that much. So… Who are you?

HUNTER

I am…

Hunter pauses.

APRIL

I’m sorry. You don’t have to. I don’t want to be pushy. I just like Adam a lot and you’re one of his really good friends. You know?

HUNTER

Yeah.

APRIL

He’s nice.

HUNTER
Adam? Yeah. He’s a great guy. I’m glad I found him.

APRIL

You think I’m a good girlfriend?

HUNTER
Yeah. You’re great together.

APRIL

Okay. Good.

Silence. Hunter pokes at the fire. Adam’s singing can be heard.

APRIL (cont’d)

Oh god. Sometimes I swear he’s retarded.

HUNTER

Hah. Yeah.

Hunter stares into the fire. It crackles and glows.

APRIL

You should meet my friend Rachel. She’s really sweet. You’d probably like each other.

BLACKOUT.

 

Scene 4, The voice in the darkness.

INT. THE CABIN – MIDNIGHT

Moonlight streams through the window. Hunter’s eyes open. The bed is trembling slightly.

In the background the sounds of Adam and April having sex can be heard. Discrete but not discrete enough.

Hunter closes his eyes again. April climaxes, a bit louder than she intends to. Hunter waits this out with his eyes squeezed shut and plugging his ears.

Silence.

Hunter opens his eyes. The sounds of sex start up again.

Hunter sighs and rolls out of bed.

EXT. WOODS OUTSIDE THE CABIN – MIDNIGHT

A single bulb from the cabin illuminates the area around Hunter. Hunter’s breath is a white ghost and his footsteps crunch on the frosted snow.

Hunter pulls out his cell phone from his pocket and flips it open. It fails to light up.

HUNTER

Crap.

Hunter puts the cell phone back in his pocket and looks off into the silence of the woods.

EXT. FOREST CLEARING – MIDNIGHT

Hunter trudges through the knee-deep snow and comes to a clearing in the woods. The light from the cabin porch is barely visible.

The sky overhead is immense and filled with stars. The real sky of Northern Maine, free of any artificial light.

Hunter stands in silence.

The trees are stark and tranquil.

The stars are infinite.

Hunter sighs and then shivers, he turns around and starts to trace his footsteps back.

As he is about to enter the tree line again a presence surrounds him. The sound of heavy belabored breathing envelops him, perhaps with a heartbeat, with no particular source. Hunter tries to push it away but it has surrounded him. Hunter throws his arms up and twists.

He stumbles backwards and falls losing his balance. He cries out.

Silence. The presence is gone.

Hunter sits alone on the edge of the trees. The stars retain their seats.

Scene 5, The party

EXT. OUTSIDE THE CABIN – DAY

Adam stands knee deep in the snow holding a baseball bat. He readies the bat and looks towards Keith who stands on the pitchers mound. Hunter and a few others are in the modified outfield.

ADAM

HEY POULIN. LET’S DO THIS.

Poulin lobs a whiffle ball. Adam cracks it and sends it flying into the trees. A girl runs for it.

OLIVIA

I’ve got it! I’ve got it!

Adam picks up a beer and jumps through the snow, trying to run as fast as he can. As he’s running he swigs from his beer. The rest of the people scramble.

HUNTER

Pass it here! Pass it here!

POULIN

Olivia! Pass it here!

Olivia passes the ball to Poulin.

Adam touches second base and runs for third. He throws the bottle back and downs the last of it. Just as he’s doing so Poulin dives into the picture, clobbering Adam to the ground and sending the beer bottle flying.

POULIN

Out!

DAVID

Ow. Fuck.

Forcefield

October 30, 2009 - Leave a Response

When in doubt, throw a forcefield up.

Finished The Unbearable Lightness of Being while eating poutine at Rosie’s and playing some darts with myself. Wanted to read it in one sitting like I did with Hrabal’s I Served the King of England, but alas it was not to be so. God I love the Czech’s, or at least the Czech author’s that I’ve found so far. Kafka, Kundera, Hrabal, the Vaclav Havel biography that I picked up in St. Augustine, all of them have been extremely exciting and refreshing in their approach to storytelling. The kind of books that make you feel stronger after you read them; make you feel that you’ve lived more.

Prague, right? I had said before that I wanted to travel to Prague.

In a transitional phase right now, though this one certainly feels different than previous ones. With things at home in Georgia growing worrisome, the absence of a specific direction in life and a long hiatus before I’m involved in another theater/film project; I have a distinct assortment of possibilities things to get to once I manage to wrest myself out of this malaise. I feel like my life is this foreign city which I am just visiting for the first time and I am stuck inside my hotel room, recovering from jet-lag and stupefied at any other idea than running outside to grab some groceries.

The cold settles in as well. Paint keeps running in this weather.

Kate asked me for advice on drawing while making stickers one night at the Eagle’s Nest; struggling, the only thing I could really think to say was: ‘When in doubt, throw up a forcefield.’ And the saying proves true for other things. I need to spend time with myself. Staying away from parties, strangers. Perhaps it’s all a question of sleep, or not eating right.

It rains. This puts a kibosh on my plans for the evening. Time for reading then.

And you thought it was dead…

October 27, 2009 - Leave a Response

Reading Milan Kundera’s The Unbearable Lightness of Being. Returned from DC last Wednesday from an audition that I feel I did well on but didn’t pan out in my favor. In the shower, washing off three days of traveling filth I was struck by a new idea and about five days later I’m halfway through the first draft of a new script. A screenplay. The working title is Hunter, it’s a continuation of the Transition of Minor Skies story that I started with Jeff so long ago. Early stages but it feels good to be wrestling with something. If it goes well there could be a new film in the works come spring.

For those of you who didn’t see Transition, here’s a little look at what I’m talking about:

The First Real Week of Summer

August 7, 2009 - Leave a Response

“‘The eyes of an unsuccessful rapist…’”

I was pressed down into the sand with Elle lying on my back, her head over my shoulder and reading quips—all sexual—from a book I was working through. Her head cast a big shadow over the pages and her skin was cold and salty from swimming. I could not tell if she was reading along or not but I was fond of the book and continued flipping pages despite the series of distractions. She kissed my neck gently two times and then once at the top of my ear.

“They’re watching us,” she said eyeing two older women father down on the beach.

“Probably a lot more interesting than what they’re reading.”

“Probably, yes. They’ve been watching us since I climbed on top of you.” She ended this with another kiss to the ear and this time her teeth lingered a bit.

“You’re awful friendly today.”

“Am I not usually friendly?”

“You are. You just seem to be making a particular effort today.”

“Mmm… I’m just a friendly person, I guess.” He shoulder picked up a covering of sand as she rolled back over to her towel. I turned my head to look at her.
“Plus I want to have sex.”

She wore large dark sunglasses that covered most of her face, dark brown, the color of the bottles we had brought in the bag. Through them you could barely tell she was looking up at the sky and the few fluffy clouds that passed overhead. She had a far away distant look; the kind of look people only get in their eyes when they assume that no one can see them.

“You’re very beautiful,” I said. It was not a lie.

“Thanks.”

“We’ll leave early.”

“Not to early. I like it here.”

“I need to get back in town before it gets to late.”

“Town can wait.” She looked at me and raised her glasses, shielding her eyes with an outstretched sun. “We’ll go back a half hour early.”

“That’s fine with me,” I said and let the conversation run out. She pulled her sunglasses back down and looked back up at the sky and got that distant look in her eyes once more before closing them. I watched her for a few moments and a cloud passed in the reflection of those glasses. I picked my book back up and began reading again. The silence was nice. I enjoyed that I didn’t feel I had to entertain.

“When is your next show?” she asked without opening her eyes.

“October.”

“I’ll be gone by then.”

“Yes.”

“Why Hemmingway all the sudden? What happened to that other writer you were reading? The Turkish one.”

“I got side-tracked. Besides it’s good beach reading. It’s light, compact.”

“What was he doing with those two girls?” Her eyes opened again. She picked some sand from her stomach and flung it off.

“Nothing. Flirting mostly I guess in the way that you flirt with two young pretty girls.”

“He had sex with them though…”

“No. Not that he wrote down anyway.”

“Oh.”

“He may have. But it’s Pascine that he is writing about—having sex with them.”

“Oh, I get it now.”

“Either way he’s married in this book and the book was published by the wife he had at the time, so there may have been editing. I think Hemmingway was more of a gentleman than that though.”

“A gentleman?” Elle rolled onto her stomach. Her lightly freckled shoulder still had a slight covering of multicolored sand. The little flecks of feldspar, mica and quartz looked like a small fresco and clung decoratively to her.

“Well one would hope that if he did sleep with them that he wouldn’t go and brag about in his writings,” I said and brushed a little of the fresco off her arm. “But it’s always possible.”

“Do you think a man would go and do that?”

“It might be something to preserve. There’s always some strange part that loves those animal truths.”

“Hmm…” Elle pursed her lips and looked at me.

“It’s the monkey genes,” it was my best offering.

“So you’re saying maybe women are a little bit more evolved than men?”

“Or just that men have the most fun when they de-evolve themselves.”

There was a silence and Elle seemed to mull something over in her head. Not know if I had said the wrong thing I paused too and watched her. She pulled a reed out from the nearby sand and rolled it over once before flinging it off to the wind. A seagull, thinking the reed was food, lighted nearby and strolled up to it. I kissed Elle lightly on the shoulder and my lips picked up some of the sand. I placed my head up to hers and she cocked hers slightly to the side to rest it against mine before settling into a comfortable position to nap.

“I like the sun,” she offered. Then, after a pause: “I love Ocean Park, too.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s too bad I’m going to miss your show.”

“Yeah.”

I moved the brown piece of paper I was using as a bookmark forward and put the book down. Elle lay in the sun and seemed to be at a relative peace with herself. It was the first real week of summer in Maine and also the first week in August. In October she would leave for the west coast and I did not think that I would see her again. There was some mute fear that came with knowing that we could not do this forever. She was pretty and I had allowed myself to get quite infatuated with her. In the end the future was unavoidable and Elle was not a woman to negotiate with over her freedom. Perhaps because of all this I had developed a perverse sense of frankness.

“I’m going to go to Istanbul,” I said.

“Really? When?” Elle brought her head back up.

“April, maybe. Or May.”

“For how long?”

“It depends on what I can afford. David will be there too and his wife.”

“How do you know that?”

“I was talking with them the other night about it and it came up. I was planning to go to Istanbul around that time anyways.” A good portion of the last sentence was a lie, but it was enough to set it in stone right now. I wanted to go and might as well set a date.

“Well that should be cool. Istanbul was a fun city,” Elle had already taken a year off to travel through Europe and we had talked about it before.

“I hope it still is,” I said.

Elle reached out her hand and I took it. She squeezed my hand slightly and I squeezed back. Casually she let the back of her fingertips caress my arm before she placed her hand back by her side. Her face was silent, sealed in the patient sereneness of someone basking in the first real week of sun. Not knowing what else to do I folded my arms up as a pillow and settled in for a nap beside her.

“Hemmingway not able to keep you focused?” she laughed to herself absently.

I laughed and closed my eyes. There was a lot to do, I would have to start learning lines for the show in October which was to begin rehearsal shortly and would have to see about getting food stamps to avoid having to scrape for rent at the end of each month. All of those things could be saved for later though. This day was to be given to the beach and the sun and to whomever I chose to read for my enjoyment. I extended my arm out and touched elbows with Elle. Her skin was no longer chilly; all the seawater had evaporated. I fantasized about the taste of salt on her and the slight smell of lotion. Another seagull landed and the two talked silently to each other as they patrolled. The waves continued to roll in and in the silence a wind picked up and dusted us with a few small grains of sand.

I picked my head up and kissed Elle above the tie on the back of her turquoise bathing suit, licked the salt on my lips and made two slower kisses ascending her spine. Her skin was warm now and hot on my lips. She rolled over slightly, her lips were cooler than mine and tasted faintly of the olives we had brought. Her glasses were on top of her head and when she opened her eyes I had almost forgotten how blue they were. I know of few people who have possessed eyes as vibrant as those.

One of the seagulls ventured closer and Elle shifted her gaze and raised her arms to shoo it. The bird responded to the letter of the gesture and took two very small steps back and continued to watch. We both looked out at the rest of the beach that stretched from the relative peace and emptiness of our area to the mob up towards Old Orchard. The Ferris wheel by the pier looked miniature as it turned slowly in the sun and a wave sounded briefly like the rush of voices in that far off crowd.

“That seagull is on to us,” said Elle.

“His friend is too,” I noted pointing at the other one farther off. I could not see the other ladies that had shared the beach with us that had been so interested in Elle and I before. Which was for the better. I slid my hand onto Elle’s back.

“No one around us. Want to give the seagulls a good show?”

She laughed and pushed me over onto my back. The sun was bright and sharp. I held up a hand to avert it and gazed a little at the clouds overhead. I was happy and in that moment became aware of my happiness. I smiled and for a few seconds tried to amuse myself by deciding what shapes the clouds were taking. I truly thought about nothing until Elle asked what time it was.

“Time to stay a little longer,” I said. The clouds I decided were not looking anything more than little sheep.

“Weren’t you the one that said you needed to be back in town?”

“I did. But it doesn’t matter. Do you still want to have sex?”

“Umm… yes,” Elle encircled my hand with hers.

I took her hand and squeezed her fingers lightly. “Good,” I said. “But let’s wait a little longer. Summer’s gone soon. We should enjoy it while it lasts.”

Brown Eyes, Plaid Shirt

August 7, 2009 - Leave a Response

Elizabeth Allen Carter
28 Heidacker, Hamburg Germany
08645-30

Mike fingered the crease of the envelope he held in his hands as he walked between the clapboard houses that lined the hill. His boots echoed faintly, bouncing off the brick of the sidewalk and the empty concrete porches that surrounded him. The night air was humid and he was sure the walk would do him some good. The streetlights gave the white of the envelope an ochre glow as he flipped the envelope over in his hands to check the address again.

There were two mailboxes in the neighborhood where Mike lived in the city by the sea, one at the top of the hill, close to his house, and one towards the bottom. Mike had already been to the top of the hill but had wanted the pickup time for the first mailbox to be earlier so he had decided to make the walk down into town.

The letter was to a girl he had seen a number of times and who had recently left for Germany. He was very good at keeping ambiguous about the situation at hand whenever he wrote to her: Keeping busy and the days are passing at the same speed. Doing well if not a little lonesome. He wrote about secret things between the two of them, made dry jokes, quoted things from Chekhov or Neruda, all things she would know and appreciate, very carefully constructed. When he got the urge to write them each letter would take the better part of the night and the desk he wrote upon would be staked with books and dictionaries. They had not treated each other well but were quite sure that they had loved each other fiercely and were convinced that at least that was something to hold on to. In writing it was so much easier to be convinced of that.

Down the hill Mike passed a familiar house with lights on in the third floor. The blinds were pulled but he imagined he could see a crack of light coming from a bedroom. The apartment belonged to another girl he had seen more recently. Mike hadn’t been too interested and hadn’t dated the girl for long. He ended the relationship poorly and probably hurt her a great deal. Though they lived in the same neighborhood he very rarely saw her and when he did he couldn’t bring himself to talk to her. She was a nice girl, quiet, with pretty friends and a good collection of books but Mike’s head and heart had been elsewhere. The relationship had seemed like it took place in a matter of seconds.

Perhaps it was all pretension, Mike thought as he kept walking. Elizabeth had been volatile, sexual, ambitious. There was no question that there were other men. She was a grown, if not mature, woman liked to drink and was mostly beautiful so there was no question about that. She said that she had gained weight since moving to Germany but men were not typically that picky. The thought of that gave Mike a quiet pang of jealousy. There may have been other men while he was with her though he never had the courage to ask.

Soon he was at the intersection at the bottom of the hill and could see the street the second mailbox was on up ahead. A small group of girls stood on the corner sharing a cigarette. They were in front of a little coffee shop that served alcohol in the evenings. Mike turned the letter inwards and obscured it with his arm. They had their arms crossed idly. One leaned up against a wall, a bare knee and thigh thrust out from a pair of cut-off shorts. A few of the girls glanced at him as he walked by. One of them was short and quite pretty, with brown eyes and long brown hair that spilled over her shoulder and down the front of the plaid button up she wore. She stood back from the main part of the group but was listening quite intently. There was an earnestness in her face that caught him for a second and as she looked towards him and their eyes connected briefly. Quickly Mike turned his gaze back down towards the sidewalk to let them continue their conversation. Uninterrupted, they continued to talk. One of them kept on about wanting to get back out into “the scene” to meet people and the others agreed. The night seemed lighter. The eagerness of young, drunk and single twenty-somethings cleared Mike’s mind.

He thought of stopping. Maybe one of them had seen the envelope and it had filled their minds with the same wondering as their conversation had filled his. It wasn’t often that people wrote letters to Germany and there was something romantic about it. The letter might be a great way to start conversation. He thought of the girl with brown eyes and the plaid shirt. Pictured her head on his shoulder, her eyes closed, and a sense of quiet contentment almost childlike.

Mike followed his imagination a little further and wondered if they would last. She would love him in that earnest way and he would learn to do the same. They would have an apartment together. The kitchen and bedroom would be decorated with all the interesting things girls like her acquired and Mike would ad some things of his own for balance. They would marry, maybe, or at least be engaged. He would protect her, comfort her and she in turn would give him something strive to be better for. He could be satisfied or at the least, happy. He wondered what her name was.

The mailbox was up ahead on the opposite side of the street. Across the side of it someone had written SPUTNIK in dripping red letters. Mike felt the thickness of the letter in his hand. He looked at the address. There was no harm in writing the letter, or even in sending it. It was simply an action. The letter while well constructed held little weight in his heart he assured himself. Elizabeth and him had their game and it was fun to continue it. She would send a postcard back and Mike would read it before filing it away in the box that he kept all his letters in. He liked her postcards, even if he could sense the distance in them. Occasionally Elizabeth would mention drop the name of someone new that she had seen or hung out with. Never providing enough context to keep Mike reassured that nothing had happened and though she wouldn’t admit it Mike was sure that this was her main intention whenever one of those names would work their way into a postcard. Perhaps if things worked out between him and the brunette back at the coffee shop he could write her about it and out of her jealousy he would elicit a bigger response. Though he had been inconstant to their epistolary relationship he had rarely mentioned it. Before she had left Elizabeth had indulged in a fling with a bartender and made the whole ordeal extremely public. At the time they hadn’t been dating but like all their ordeals it had left Mike with a sharp edge in his heart.
A door opened and emptied the thoughts in Mikes head. A dog and his master stepped onto the sidewalk and jogged towards the waterfront. Watching them disappear into the night Mike consigned the letter to history and let the metal lip of the mailbox creak shut. It’s good game anyways, he said to himself, and good practice too. Elizabeth might appreciate it and he would get another postcard or he may hear nothing. Either way he would become very good at writing letters for the day when he’d truly need it. Almost as a second thought Mike checked the pick-up time for this mailbox. It was five hours after the first one.

He walked back up the street towards home. The girls were no longer in front of the coffee shop but he imagined they might have just gone back inside. He wondered if he had enough money for a drink. If he didn’t he could probably afford to put it on a card. He needed entertainment and a little adventure. He had to work in the morning but decided it would be worth it. The bar would be warm and the lights would be turned down low and he had courage enough to ask the pretty brunette what her name was. If things worked out, the letter he wrote to Elizabeth would be good enough to be the last.

The coffee-shop bar was fairly empty inside. Mike ordered a beer and paid for it in cash. The group of girls were nowhere in sight. They had moved on to some other bar or party or had simply gone home. Mike stared out through the iron-barred window and onto the street. He hadn’t seen the girl with brown eyes before and figured it was unlikely that he would see her again. It had been foolish anyways to create such an elaborate fantasy over someone he didn’t even know the name of. He had walked by when he should have been more in the moment. He tried to picture her face again but was only able to focus on the spill of hair over her shirt and the pattern of the plaid. It had been blue with black, yellow and white stitching and her hair had curled lightly at the tip like the tail of a fox. There was the eagerness to that he thought he saw in her face but now he was unsure of that as well. Mike sat and thought about this for a long time.

At the bottom of the mailbox atop a pile of other mail the envelope sat. In it was a very long handwritten letter forcibly written in a neater than usual scrawl. At the bottom of it Mike had written that he had thoughts of leaving his home and traveling out to Europe to visit. It was more than he typically wrote. Mike wondered about its sincerity. Germany seemed distant. He was sure that whatever idea he had in his head about Elizabeth it had been constructed out of desire and loneliness. He also knew that she would say yes. Though she might not fully mean it, the game would go on. In the next month another distant postcard would arrive and she’d ask him to come. Mike didn’t know if he’d make it out there. He didn’t even know if he wanted to make it out there. There would be other girls and better nights than this one. Somewhere out of a dream he would awake and this would all be solved. Someone or something would make a move and everything would finally change.

Questions About a Knife

July 21, 2009 - One Response

Say I have a knife that once did not belong to me. I have taken it, sharpened it and have found it very useful. I have used it to cut my bread, meat and cheese, to cut cloth, to write my name and to whittle shavings from a branch in order to start fires. With this knife I have significantly improved my life and am loathe to part with it.

If I was to find out that my knife was used to kill someone by its previous owner, would it be wrong of me to keep it?

Less Serious Business

July 16, 2009 - Leave a Response

Potential! is back up. This may slow down for a while. Reading more Pamuk and I’ve got a Hrabal novel coming in the mail. When I get to writing more I’ll keep posting.

A Good Day

June 26, 2009 - Leave a Response

burntmeadow

Burnt Meadow Mountain, Brownfield ME.