WINTER WORKINGS OF MELGUND
A vast, cavernous hall. The air is cold enough to see your breath. Pale winter light filters through massive, arching windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air.
Outside, the world is buried in snow. Piled high, crusted over, a uniform silver-grey under a flat, white sky.
The WIND pushes against the glass, a low, mournful SIGH. The old building CREAKS in response.
In a far corner, MARK (8), bundled in a winter coat, sits on a hard blue plastic chair. He’s small in the big room. He hugs his knees to his chest, his bright red mitts a splash of colour in the muted space.
He is alone.
Except for them.
On a long, scuffed folding table sit DOT and BYTE. They look like two oversized smartphones, thick and smooth and black. A single BLUE light pulses on Dot’s surface. A GREEN one on Byte’s. A faint, high-frequency HUM vibrates from them, a sound you feel in your teeth.
Mark watches Dot’s light. It swells, then dims. A slow, steady heartbeat.
The bots’ screens flicker to life. Text scrolls, too fast to read. A flat, synthesized voice emerges from Byte, devoid of all inflection.
Mark idly picks at a loose red thread on his mitt.
Dot’s screen fills with a rapid-fire montage of blurry images. A red and white flag. The indistinct shape of kids running. A bright orange firework exploding in a dark sky.
Mark’s eyes go distant.
Blinding summer sun. A red POPSICLE melts, dripping sticky cherry juice down Mark’s small arm. The scratchy fabric of a red t-shirt.
Mark blinks, the memory fading. He can almost taste the cherry.
Byte makes a soft PING. Its screen displays a series of complex, interlocking charts and graphs.
Mark gently kicks his boot against the chair leg. Tap. Tap. The sound is swallowed by the silence. He squints at Byte's screen. It looks like a messy game board.
Dot’s voice chimes in again. Its screen now shows stalls at an outdoor market.
A close shot of steam rising from a paper coffee cup. The warm, orange glow of a small fire pit. A small glass jar of BLUEBERRY JAM, a handwritten label on its lid.
Mark’s stomach rumbles, a small, lonely sound. He traces the wolf-head pattern on the toe of his boot with a mittened finger.
The big words wash over him. He looks from the impassive bots to the wolf on his boot, as if sharing his confusion.
Dot’s screen shows a brightly coloured bar chart. The bars climb higher and higher.
"Oral history." Mark looks up. He knows those words.
The warm, kind face of an OLD MAN, his eyes crinkling as he smiles, telling a story.
Mark’s expression softens. He gets it. They’re saving Grandpa’s stories. So they don’t get lost.
The blue light on Dot stops pulsing. It glows, a solid, unwavering blue. The text on its screen slows, becoming readable.
Byte’s green light goes solid, too.
Mark’s eyes widen. Youth. That’s him. Senior. That’s Grandpa. He looks around the vast, empty hall, and for a second, he imagines it full. Full of music. Full of paint and people. Full of noise.
A shiver runs down his spine, not from the cold. It’s a strange, full feeling. A nervous jiggle in his chest.
A final, soft CLICK issues from both bots simultaneously.
Their lights dim, returning to their slow, rhythmic pulsing. Their screens go dark. They are silent. Waiting.
The only sounds are the sigh of the wind and the creak of the old building.
Mark slides off his chair. He stands in the middle of the floor, a small boy in a big space. He shuffles his feet. The sound of his boots on the linoleum is small, but it echoes.
He looks at the two sleeping, pulsing lights on the table. He doesn’t know what to think. Only that the winter is long, and something new is coming.
FADE OUT.
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