A Script for Salt-Stained Scores

by Eva Suluk

EXT. BEACH - LATE AFTERNOON

A vast, desolate stretch of sand under a bruised purple-grey sky. The NORTH SEA churns, a cold, angry grey. The wind is relentless.

SOUND of waves crashing, a constant, oppressive roar.

The beach is littered with the ghosts of consumption: sun-bleached plastic bottles, tangled fishing nets, bottle caps like metallic shells.

LENA (20s), sharp and frustrated, walks with a jerky stride. She wears a thin, worn jacket. SAM (20s), cynical and weary, walks beside her, hands buried in the pockets of a faded hoodie.

> ...and then Mrs. Gable, right? She actually suggested we solve the coastal erosion problem by, get this, teaching seagulls to carry sand back to the dunes. With little backpacks. She said it with a straight face, Sam. Like it was a stroke of genius.

Lena stops. A laugh catches in her throat, a choked, bitter sound. She digs the heel of her sneaker into the wet sand, watching foam creep and recede.

Sam doesn't laugh. He hunches his shoulders against the wind, staring at a dark smear of a TANKER on the horizon.

> She has to, Lena. Her SIS is already in the red. You saw the bulletin last week. Her son’s, too.

He kicks a piece of bleached driftwood. A spray of fine grit lands on Lena’s cheek. She doesn't wipe it away.

> Yeah, but *seagulls*? With *backpacks*? It’s a show, Sam. They want us to come up with stupid stuff so the Ministry of Perpetual Progress looks good. You know it is.

She starts walking again, scanning the sand. Her eyes land on a half-buried plastic bottle.

Sam catches up, his voice low, almost lost to the wind.

> You can’t talk like that. Not out here.

He glances over his shoulder, a nervous tic. The beach is empty. Just them and the waves. Still, the glance.

> Who’s gonna hear us? The crabs?

Her voice cracks on the last word. She knows he's right.

> (quietly)

> What’s your latest score, anyway?

A gust of wind whips sand into their faces. Lena squints, tasting salt and grit.

> Mine dipped after the municipal infrastructure audit. I, uh... I questioned the projected efficiency metrics for the new bio-luminescent paving slabs. How they'd perform with consistent exposure to brine.

She kicks at a thick, rubbery piece of seaweed.

> And?

> And my score dropped twelve points. Said I exhibited ‘sub-optimal collaborative ideation.’ Twelve points, Sam. For asking a question about a paving slab.

She shakes her head, pulling wind-whipped hair from her face with clumsy, cold fingers.

> (CONT'D)

> It’s insane. If everything we do is just to game their stupid system, then what are we even doing here?

Sam stops. He bends down, picks up a perfectly smooth, grey skipping stone. He tosses it. It skips twice on an incoming wave, then vanishes.

> The point is to survive. You think you’re smart for seeing the holes in their plan? They *want* you to see the holes. They want you to feel like you’re smarter than them. That’s how they trap you. They make you think you’re resisting, when you’re actually just giving them more data points.

Lena stares at him. His eyes are hard, opaque, reflecting the bruised sky. A cold dread clenches in her stomach.

> No, that’s... that’s ridiculous. It’s just bureaucratic incompetence.

Her voice trembles. She wants it to be simple.

> Is it? Everyone’s so busy trying to optimize their contributions that no one’s actually *doing* anything meaningful. Everyone’s just performing.

He gestures vaguely at the trash-strewn beach, the vast ocean, the hazy outline of the city down the coast.

> (CONT'D)

> Look around, Lena. The trash isn’t getting cleaned up. The water’s still full of microplastics. But our ‘Societal Impact Scores’ are all meticulously tallied. And that’s what matters.

A dull ache throbs behind Lena’s eyes. She pushes her fingers into her temples.

> So what do we do? Just play along? Become good little cogs in their stupid, pointless machine?

> What else is there? You think they’d let you opt out? What happened to the ‘unengaged elements’? They’re gone, Lena. All of them. And no one even asks where.

The wind picks up, colder now. Lena shivers, pulling her jacket tighter. The sun, a weak, pale orange disc, sinks into the clouds. The ocean surface turns a deep, bruised indigo.

> (a whisper)

> I just... I can’t live like this.

> Can you not? Because you are. We both are. You posted that ‘thoughtful inquiry’ about the paving slabs, didn't you? You participated. That’s what they want.

A large wave surges up the beach, closer than expected. Lena gasps, jumping back. Her sneakers sink into the soft sand.

Sam doesn't flinch. He lets the cold water wash over his shoes. He stares at the grey expanse.

> (CONT'D)

> My dad. He’s been working on that 'Automated Algae Filtration Project' for six months. For the harbor clean-up.

Lena nods. Everyone knows about it.

> (CONT'D)

> (a whisper)

> He told me it’s a failure. The algae, it’s not compatible with the salinity. It just dies. Clogs the filters. Makes the water worse. He’s tried telling them, submitting reports, actual data... They just tell him he’s ‘lacking optimal solution-oriented perspective.’ They keep funding it. They keep reporting ‘significant progress.’ And he keeps collecting his data, knowing it’s all for nothing.

Sam finally turns to her. In his eyes, a profound, bottomless exhaustion. It chills Lena to the bone.

> So, what happens when they finally realize it’s all a lie? When the sea levels keep rising, and the water’s still toxic? What then?

Sam shrugs. A small, dismissive gesture that speaks volumes.

> They won’t. They’ll just move the goalposts. Announce a new initiative. Blame our ‘sub-optimal engagement.’ They’ll find a way to make it our fault, Lena. It’s always our fault.

He picks up another stone, smaller this time, and spins it between his fingers. The air grows colder, carrying a faint, acrid smell from the distant city, like burning plastic.

> (raw, torn)

> I just don’t know how much more I can take.

Sam stops spinning the stone. He holds it in his palm, then closes his fingers around it. A tight, white-knuckled grip.

> You take it. Because you have to. Because the alternative... isn’t an option. Not for us. Not for anyone who wants to stay visible.

He squeezes the stone harder.

> (CONT'D)

> (a near whisper)

> And maybe... if we play the game well enough... maybe we can find a way to change it. From the inside.

The wind howls. The waves crash. The words hang between them, hollow.

Suddenly, Sam opens his hand.

CLOSE ON SAM'S PALM. The smooth, grey stone is split cleanly in half. Two sharp, jagged fragments rest on his raw, red skin. He crushed it.

Lena stares at the broken stone, then at his hand, then back at the churning ocean.

> (small, lost)

> What was that for?

Sam closes his hand again, clenching the sharp fragments. His face is unreadable in the deepening gloom.

He turns and starts walking back the way they came, towards the distant, glittering lights of the city.

Lena is left standing alone.

CLOSE ON LENA'S FACE. She looks down at her own empty hands, then back up at Sam's retreating figure. The bitter tang of salt and metallic dust coats her tongue.

The roar of the ocean is the only answer.

FADE TO BLACK.

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.