I am currently working on writing the script for my short film. I decided to go for my apocalypse idea and build upon that story. In my pitch, I didn't have a clear cut story for my film but I have now developed that into a short story. Because I find it much easier to write in prose rather than in a script format, I wrote the beginning of the story as a piece of prose to get my brain into it's creative gear. Once I had written the beginning and transferred this into a screenplay, it was much easier for me to continue the story in the script format.
My film tells the story of Dylan, a young adult male in a post-apocalyptic world, living a simple life in an old, abandoned warehouse with only his mother and dog left for company. One day, when returning from scavenging, Dylan's dog sniffs out a box. This box contains letters, photographs and a journal belonging to a woman who died of the virus that killed so many in the apocalypse. He discovers things about her and her life story and how she had to be separated from her family. He then leaves his mother to return the box to the family it comes from.
The only problem I will have is putting all this into five minutes. But I'm working on it...
Below is my short story:
Hot and harsh light of the sun cast long shadows across the
earth, across a broken and scarred landscape. The shadows of long left crops
lay the scarred concrete of a long road. Heat shimmered in the air as a figure
moved steadily onwards, his stride strong and determined like a man with
purpose.
He was a man who had stared death in the eye and lived to
tell the tale.
The landscape was the same as far as the eye could see,
desolate and harsh. Inhospitable yet once home to many. The hazy figure was not
alone, beside him came the shape of a lumbering hound, moving steadily with a
loll to his gait.
The male moved with an assurance to his stride, like he was
accustomed to survival. It was as if he had been here many years, his actions
the same day in day out. In his grasp he held a large bag, full of scavenged
items… the necessities of survival. Memories flickered through his weary mind,
all of days long passed.
The male only stopped when a soft whimper echoed off hot concrete;
turning his head he looked at his loyal companion to find him nuzzling a small
box. Moving warily he crouched to lift it. His hand shook as he reached for the
clasp, lifting it softly he opened the small lid to reveal memories. The
letters and belongings of a person long dead he supposed, he would never know
who but what he did know is that this was the first sign of the civilization
that once dominated the world that survived, raw and untouched. His fingers
stretched out to touch the worn and dry paper, gently brushing over it all leaving
a tingling sensation upon his grizzled and hardened flesh.
The only sounds to be heard were the soft pants of the
hound, his own deep breathing and the harsh whistle of a dry wind which whipped
across his skin, harsh and hot.
The dingy interior felt cold in comparison to the harsh
world outside, it’s corrugated iron walls orange with rust and debris spread
across the hard dirt floor. The soft blue glow of gas fed flames flickered as a
feminine figure in a large, billowing skirt and loose T-shirt tended to a pot.
Dumping the bag he coughed softly to make his presence known and smiled in
return as the woman, in her middle years fixed him with a bright smile and
spoke softly.
“You took your time! I’m glad you’re back.” His eyes met
with hers and he nodded - the box still in his hands. The hound bounded forwards to be met with
open arms by the woman who in those few minutes took on a new youthfulness as
she fussed the large dog. When she set eyes on the bag, it’s bulk showing signs
of being full, she smiled again and whispered.
“Thank you, let’s hope we can make use of this and keep it…”
then she moved and her arms encircled him, he returned the gesture with one arm
before stepping back to sit in the dark corner beside his sleeping bag and look
through the box, carefully studying every inch of each sheet of paper. His
fingers brushing over text as he strained to read the words, scrawled across
the dry paper. His eyes strained to read, a task he had not performed in many
months.
His hands moved across the front of a journal, maybe a vain
attempt to be remembered. He began to read, finding within the pages the legacy
of a community and a family. The legacy of the unknown victim who once
possessed the box, beneath the journal rested a simple watch. He lifted it and
unclasped the small steel case, his eyes wandering over the simple design.
Marvelling at the engineering of days gone by, frozen on midnight making him
think perhaps this human’s fate came in the dark of night. His eyes continued
to wander as he found an inscription, reading it aloud.
“The past is a ghost, the future a dream and all we ever
have is now.” He gently brushed his
thumb over the inscription muttering.
“Who were you…? What secrets have you left in your
absence…?” then he placed the watch aside, furtively glancing over his shoulder
to check what the middle aged woman was doing before he picked up the journal
and began reading softly to himself. His eyes flickering across the pages of a
history, a life that ended before its tale could be finished it seemed.
As he read he found hints and clues as to unfinished
business, this person had a family in hiding they never managed to reach as the
world descended into chaos… maybe if he could find them. .. He continued to
read, searching through the hints and clues. It seemed they had walked the very
same road, in the very same direction for many days as he and his companion,
searching. Hoping. So there were other humans… The person wrote of being
hounded and pursued; bandits giving many weeks chase. How their community
needed the supplies he carried. How their child would soon starve if they did
not get the supplies there in time. He
began to recognize the hand writing and outlook, he was fairly confident it was
written by a woman.
The woman was protective over her family, of her husband who
bore marks of protecting her and saving their child’s life and then he
understood what he needed to do, he needed to protect his own charge by hiding
her with supplies before finding this community. Joining them to aid in their
protection, the book also spoke of a rich and thriving town being built, not
like those of old but new… fortified against the bandits. He needed to take his
mother there, let her find someone to settle with and he needed to aid in their
protection. To finish her legacy.
