A Ten-Pin Invocation
At a bowling alley where the lanes are ley lines and a perfect strike can alter fate, a league night becomes a deadly serious magical duel.
INT. STARLIGHT LANES - NIGHT
SOUND of a distant, rolling THUNDER that is actually a bowling ball striking pins, followed by the mechanical WHIR and CLATTER of a pinsetter.
The air is thick with the smell of lane oil, stale beer, and ozone. Neon signs for "COSMIC BOWL" and "PABST BLUE RIBBON" cast a dim, colorful glow over rows of worn-out vinyl chairs.
This place is old. It HUMS with a strange energy, a vibration felt deep in the floorboards.
On LANE 12, RONA (30s), intense and focused, watches the scoreboard. The cheap digital numbers tell a bad story. She's down 30 pins. It's the tenth frame.
Across from her, DENNY (30s), smug and slick, polishes his bowling ball. It's a gaudy, pearlescent thing, swirling with oily, unnatural colors. A charmed object.
He radiates a smug confidence. He’s already rolled one strike in the final frame. One more, and the match is his.
Rona walks to the ball return. Her hand hovers over her own ball—a simple, scuffed black urethane. No tricks.
Denny approaches, his charmed ball tucked under his arm.
DENNY
> Tough night, Rona. Lane 12 can be tricky. It's got a mind of its own.
Rona picks up her ball. The surface is cool, familiar.
RONA
> It's an honest lane. It rewards a clean game. It doesn't care for... outside influence.
Denny's smirk widens. He glances at the dusty plastic trophy behind the counter, then back at her, his eyes glinting.
DENNY
> Sometimes you need a little help to get where you need to go. It's not about the journey, it's about the result. The charter.
He says the last word low, possessive.
RONA
> The journey is all that matters. You bring something ugly in here, you leave something ugly behind.
She looks pointedly at his shimmering ball.
RONA
> (CONT'D)
> And this place has a long memory.
Denny just chuckles and walks back to his lane, ready for his final roll.
He takes his position. His approach is smooth, practiced, flawless. He releases the ball.
IN SLOW-MOTION: The pearlescent ball glides down the polished wood. It spins, the unnatural colors churning.
At the last possible second, it makes a SHARP, IMPOSSIBLE HOOK, defying physics as it slams directly into the pocket.
SOUND of PINS EXPLODING. A perfect strike.
The scoreboard flashes a big "X". The match is over.
Denny throws his arms up in victory, a triumphant shout lost in the CRASH of the pins.
But Rona watches the pit.
CLOSE ON THE PINS - RONA'S POV
For a split-second, a single frame of reality, the pins don't just fall. They DISSOLVE. They turn to fine, grey dust, a corrosive magic eating them from within before the glamour of the charm reasserts itself and they clatter into the pit as solid wood.
BACK TO RONA
Her expression shifts. The disappointment of the loss vanishes, replaced by a cold, pure RAGE. This isn't just cheating. It's desecration.
The pinsetter sweeps away the debris and lowers a fresh set of ten pins.
It's Rona's turn. The match is over, but the game isn't.
She steps onto the approach for Lane 12. She takes a deep breath.
She doesn't look at the pins. She looks *through* them, her gaze fixed on the point on the wall behind them where all the lines of the building seem to converge. The vanishing point.
She begins her approach. Her movements are fluid, economical. A perfect, practiced ritual. She is no longer just a bowler. She is a pendulum, a conduit for the alley itself.
She channels everything—her frustration, her anger, her deep, abiding love for this loud, tacky, magical place—into the simple black ball held in her hand.
She releases it.
It's a perfect roll.
The scuffed black ball spins true, hitting its mark on the boards. It begins a slow, graceful hook towards the pocket. A thing of pure, righteous intent.
Denny has stopped celebrating. He watches the ball's inexorable path, his smug confidence melting away, replaced by a flicker of genuine concern.
The ball is a foot from the headpin. A strike is inevitable.
But the impending impact promises something far more powerful than just points on a scoreboard.
The air in the alley grows still, waiting.
CLOSE ON the black ball, an instant before it strikes.
SOUND of a distant, rolling THUNDER that is actually a bowling ball striking pins, followed by the mechanical WHIR and CLATTER of a pinsetter.
The air is thick with the smell of lane oil, stale beer, and ozone. Neon signs for "COSMIC BOWL" and "PABST BLUE RIBBON" cast a dim, colorful glow over rows of worn-out vinyl chairs.
This place is old. It HUMS with a strange energy, a vibration felt deep in the floorboards.
On LANE 12, RONA (30s), intense and focused, watches the scoreboard. The cheap digital numbers tell a bad story. She's down 30 pins. It's the tenth frame.
Across from her, DENNY (30s), smug and slick, polishes his bowling ball. It's a gaudy, pearlescent thing, swirling with oily, unnatural colors. A charmed object.
He radiates a smug confidence. He’s already rolled one strike in the final frame. One more, and the match is his.
Rona walks to the ball return. Her hand hovers over her own ball—a simple, scuffed black urethane. No tricks.
Denny approaches, his charmed ball tucked under his arm.
DENNY
> Tough night, Rona. Lane 12 can be tricky. It's got a mind of its own.
Rona picks up her ball. The surface is cool, familiar.
RONA
> It's an honest lane. It rewards a clean game. It doesn't care for... outside influence.
Denny's smirk widens. He glances at the dusty plastic trophy behind the counter, then back at her, his eyes glinting.
DENNY
> Sometimes you need a little help to get where you need to go. It's not about the journey, it's about the result. The charter.
He says the last word low, possessive.
RONA
> The journey is all that matters. You bring something ugly in here, you leave something ugly behind.
She looks pointedly at his shimmering ball.
RONA
> (CONT'D)
> And this place has a long memory.
Denny just chuckles and walks back to his lane, ready for his final roll.
He takes his position. His approach is smooth, practiced, flawless. He releases the ball.
IN SLOW-MOTION: The pearlescent ball glides down the polished wood. It spins, the unnatural colors churning.
At the last possible second, it makes a SHARP, IMPOSSIBLE HOOK, defying physics as it slams directly into the pocket.
SOUND of PINS EXPLODING. A perfect strike.
The scoreboard flashes a big "X". The match is over.
Denny throws his arms up in victory, a triumphant shout lost in the CRASH of the pins.
But Rona watches the pit.
CLOSE ON THE PINS - RONA'S POV
For a split-second, a single frame of reality, the pins don't just fall. They DISSOLVE. They turn to fine, grey dust, a corrosive magic eating them from within before the glamour of the charm reasserts itself and they clatter into the pit as solid wood.
BACK TO RONA
Her expression shifts. The disappointment of the loss vanishes, replaced by a cold, pure RAGE. This isn't just cheating. It's desecration.
The pinsetter sweeps away the debris and lowers a fresh set of ten pins.
It's Rona's turn. The match is over, but the game isn't.
She steps onto the approach for Lane 12. She takes a deep breath.
She doesn't look at the pins. She looks *through* them, her gaze fixed on the point on the wall behind them where all the lines of the building seem to converge. The vanishing point.
She begins her approach. Her movements are fluid, economical. A perfect, practiced ritual. She is no longer just a bowler. She is a pendulum, a conduit for the alley itself.
She channels everything—her frustration, her anger, her deep, abiding love for this loud, tacky, magical place—into the simple black ball held in her hand.
She releases it.
It's a perfect roll.
The scuffed black ball spins true, hitting its mark on the boards. It begins a slow, graceful hook towards the pocket. A thing of pure, righteous intent.
Denny has stopped celebrating. He watches the ball's inexorable path, his smug confidence melting away, replaced by a flicker of genuine concern.
The ball is a foot from the headpin. A strike is inevitable.
But the impending impact promises something far more powerful than just points on a scoreboard.
The air in the alley grows still, waiting.
CLOSE ON the black ball, an instant before it strikes.