A Script for The Root in the Concrete

by Jamie F. Bell

INT. LIVING ROOM - DAY

A vast, sterile room. Polished concrete floors and walls of sheer glass. The furniture is brutalist, expensive, uncomfortable. The only warmth comes from the violent green of the GARDEN outside, where spring is exploding.

SOUND of absolute, oppressive silence

In the center of the floor, an IMPOSSIBILITY.

A ROOT. Thick as an arm, gnarled, the color of wet soil. It has erupted through the concrete slab without a speck of dust, the grey floor sealed perfectly around its bark. It seems to PULSE with a slow, silent rhythm.

DEVEN (late 20s), hollow-eyed, sits on a beige linen sofa. He stares at the root. Utterly still. His eyelids are sandpaper when he blinks. His limbs feel heavy, filled with lead.

Stacks of flat-packed cardboard boxes sit in a corner, accusatory.

He watches the root.

It TWITCHES. A tiny, muscular flinch. A corresponding THUD in Deven’s chest. He squeezes his eyes shut.

When he opens them, the root is thicker. A pale green SHOOT is curling from its side.

SOUND of a key turning sharply in the front door lock

Deven doesn’t move. The sound is a physical blow. Keys jingle. The scuff of boots. A rapid, staccato walk approaches.

BEA (30s), a whirlwind of kinetic energy, marches into the room. She carries two coffees and a grease-stained pastry bag. She smells of cold rain and exhaust fumes.

She glances at the boxes, then at Deven. Her eyes slide right over the root.

> Deven? You in here? God, it’s freezing. Why is the heating off?

> (sees his stillness)

> You haven't... Si, you haven't done anything.

She sets the coffees on the low table, stepping OVER the root to get to him. Her boot passes through it as if it were smoke.

<center>DEVEN</center>

> (voice rusty)

> I... I was going to. Just... woke up late.

> It's noon. The movers are coming tomorrow. Tuesday. Movers. Tuesday.

<center>DEVEN</center>

> I know. I just...

> (he looks at the root)

> Do you see that?

Bea follows his gaze. She squints at the floor around the root.

> See what? The floor? Yeah, it’s filthy. We need to mop before the inspection. God, did you spill something? It looks like mud.

<center>DEVEN</center>

> It's a root, Bea. It's a tree root coming out of the floor.

She lets out a sharp, brittle laugh.

> Very funny. Metaphorical roots. We're uprooting you, I get it. Very poetic. Here, drink this.

She shoves a paper cup into his hand. It’s scalding hot. The pain is grounding.

> I'm not doing this for you, Deven. I can't. I have the shift at the hospital at four, and mum is blowing up my phone about the auction items, and I just... I can't pack your socks for you.

<center>DEVEN</center>

> (a whisper)

> I'm not asking you to. I'm stuck, Bea. I can't... I don't know how to start.

Bea sighs, a slow deflation. She sits next to him. The sofa dips.

> It's just boxes, Si. You put the thing in the box. You tape the box. You move the box. It’s not physics. It’s just... motion.

<center>DEVEN</center>

> It feels like physics. It feels like gravity is different in here.

> (looking around)

> It's the house. This place. Grandad loved it, but it’s... it’s a vacuum. It sucks the air out of you. That’s why we’re selling. So you can go somewhere with, I don't know, wallpaper. Curtains. Oxygen.

Deven looks back at the root. A small, white FLOWER pushes its way out of the green shoot.

SOUND: A wet, distinct *POP* as the petals unfold.

Only Deven hears it.

<center>DEVEN</center>

> I think the house is trying to keep me.

Bea stands, brushing crumbs from her jeans.

> The house is a pile of glass and overpriced concrete. Come on. Kitchen. We start with the cutlery. Small things. You can do small things.

She walks toward the kitchen. Her boot passes through the thickest part of the root again. Deven sees the bark SHIVER where she made contact.

She disappears around the corner. Her footsteps echo.

Deven doesn’t follow. He leans forward. A drop of coffee spills from his cup, hitting the concrete floor. It doesn’t splash. It’s absorbed instantly.

The flower on the root is fully open. Its petals are jagged, papery, the color of ASH.

A smell hits him. Rich, sweet cherry pipe tobacco. Grandad’s smell.

Deven’s chest tightens.

SOUND: From the kitchen, the CLATTER of silverware.

> Deven! I'm starting! If you don't come help, I'm throwing all the forks in the bin!

He tries to stand. Pushes his hands on his knees. His knuckles are white. His legs don’t respond.

He stares at the root. The ash-flower vibrates. A wisp of actual SMOKE curls up from its center.

<center>DEVEN</center>

> (to himself, a whimper)

> I can't. I can't do it.

The light in the room seems to dim, though the sky outside is still bright blue.

SOUND: A low GRINDING of stone on stone.

The root grows another inch, sliding across the floor. Heading for him. It’s only a few feet away.

Deven stares at it. The choice. Stay here. Let it take him. Or move.

He yells. A raw, cracking sound.

<center>DEVEN</center>

> Bea!

The clattering from the kitchen stops.

> Yeah?

<center>DEVEN</center>

> Don't... don't throw the forks away.

> Then get your arse in here!

The root is inches from his foot. He can feel a feverish HEAT radiating from it.

He takes a breath. The air tastes of wet dirt and old smoke.

He doesn’t try to stand. He SLIDES off the sofa.

He hits the concrete floor with a hard THUD. Pain shoots through his hip. Real. Good.

He lies there, cheek pressed to the cold floor. Eye-to-eye with the root. Up close, the bark is a deep, bruised purple. Veins pulse just beneath the surface.

<center>DEVEN</center>

> (whispering to the root)

> You're not real. You're just... fear.

The smoke from the flower wafts into his face. He coughs.

He reaches out a trembling hand. Stretches his fingers toward the ash-flower.

His fingertip brushes a petal.

It CRUMBLES to dust. Beneath it, a sharp THORN pricks his finger.

A single, bright red bead of BLOOD wells up.

The sharp sting clears the static in his head. For one second. It’s enough.

He pushes himself up. His arms shake with the effort. He gets his knees under him. He’s on all fours, panting.

Bea appears in the doorway to the kitchen, holding a bundle of spoons. She sees him on the floor.

<center>DEVEN</center>

> (croaking)

> I'm up. I'm... up.

Bea’s expression softens. A tiny, sad smile.

> Okay. You're up. That's... that's good, Si. That's a start.

> (a beat)

> I found the silver polish. It's dried out, but we can spit on it.

She turns back to the kitchen.

Deven stays on his hands and knees. He looks at the root. It hasn't vanished. The thorn, coated in his blood, remains. The root has stopped growing, but it hasn't retreated. It’s a scar.

He forces one leg forward. Then the other. He pushes himself to his feet.

He sways, dizzy, but stays vertical.

He looks down at the root. It pulses, slow and steady. A sleeping animal.

He steps over it.

He walks toward the kitchen. A clumsy, wooden gait. He is moving forward.

Behind him, the root settles. A second flower, tight and pale, begins to bud.

About This Script

This script is part of the Unfinished Tales and Random Short Stories project, a creative research initiative by The Arts Incubator Winnipeg and the Art Borups Corners collectives. Each script outlines a potential cinematic or episodic adaptation of its corresponding chapter. The project was made possible with funding and support from the Ontario Arts Council Multi and Inter-Arts Projects program and the Government of Ontario.

These scripts serve as a bridge between the literary fragment and the screen, exploring how the story's core themes, characters, and atmosphere could be translated into a visual medium.