A Script for Stains

by Art Borups Corners

INT. IRONWOOD COMMUNITY CENTRE BASEMENT - NIGHT

SOUND of an old heater rattling violently, producing no heat

The room is a cold, cinderblock box under the harsh glare of fluorescent tubes. The air smells of floor wax and stale coffee.

JEFF (24), earnest and chapped from the cold, is on his knees, wrestling a frozen roll of DUCT TAPE. He tries to tape a power bar to the curling linoleum floor. The tape makes a zipper-like RIPPING sound.

Across the room, SAM (24), sharp-witted, Anishinaabe, is perched on a folding table. She wears a neon orange, unraveling toque and massive Sorel boots. She nibbles on a Timbit.

> That is objectively the ugliest thing I have ever seen, and I’ve seen my dad try to parallel park a dually after three whiskeys.

Jeff doesn’t look up.

> It’s texture.

He gives up on the tape, finally looking at Sam. He sits back on his heels, wiping his hands on his jeans.

Sam gestures with her Timbit at a sculpture in the center of the room: a chaotic assembly of RUSTY SAW BLADES welded to a wooden pallet.

> It’s a pile of rusty saw blades glued to a pallet, Jeff. It looks like a tetanus shot waiting to happen. Is the title ‘Lockjaw’? Please tell me the title is ‘Lockjaw’.

> (defensive)

> The title is ‘Industry in Decline’. And it’s commentary. On... extraction. And stuff.

Sam snorts, a loud, echoing sound. She hops off the table, her boots THUDDING on the floor. She marches over to the sculpture and pokes a jagged blade with a gloved finger.

> It’s commentary on how you need to stop raiding the dump for materials.

> (her voice softens)

> You cold? You look purple.

Jeff shivers, trying to hide it.

> I’m fine. I’m acclimating. It’s a northern skill.

> It’s hypothermia, Jeff. You’re shivering so hard you’re vibrating. It’s making me anxious.

Jeff ignores this, looking at the bare walls and crooked easels.

> We need to finish the lighting. If we don't get the spots aimed right, Mrs. Gable is going to hang her watercolors in the dark again, and she’ll blame me.

Sam laughs, a sharp, bright sound. She pulls a tangled mess of extension cords from her oversized parka.

> Mrs. Gable told me my photography was ‘aggressive’. I took a picture of the paper mill at sunset. Apparently, smokestacks aren’t ‘nice’.

> Did you tell her the mill pays for the road she drives her Buick on?

> I told her the sulfur smell is the scent of money. She didn’t think that was funny.

Sam climbs a rickety stepladder to adjust a track light. She moves with a surprising grace. Her tongue pokes out in concentration.

Jeff watches her, untangling a cord. He rubs his tired eyes.

> (from the ladder)

> Hey.

> Yeah?

> Why do we do this?

> Do what? Lighting?

> This.

> (gestures around the room)

> Pretend we’re real artists. Stay here. Freeze. Why didn’t you go to Toronto? Or Vancouver?

> (the standard lie)

> Money. Rent is insane down south. I’d be living in a closet.

> You live in your parent’s basement, Jeff. That is literally a subterranean closet.

> (muttering)

> It has a separate entrance.

Sam climbs down, skipping the last step. She crouches in front of him, balancing on the balls of her feet. She’s close. He can smell coffee and pine resin on her.

> I stayed because I’m scared.

> (beat)

> I went to Winnipeg for a month, remember? First year uni? I hated it. It wasn’t the noise. It was the sky. The buildings cut it up into little squares. I felt like I was choking. But here... god, Jeff. Sometimes I feel like I’m screaming underwater.

Jeff looks at his own hands. Chapped, red, paint under the nails.

> (quietly)

> I stayed because of the light.

> The light?

> Yeah. You know how it gets in January? Around four o’clock? When the sun hits the snow on the ridge, and everything turns that weird, bruised purple color? And the shadows get really long and blue? You don’t get that light anywhere else. It’s... it’s lonely light. I like painting it.

Sam stares at him.

> (whispering)

> Blue hour. Photographers call it blue hour. But here, it lasts like fifteen minutes.

> Yeah. But it’s a good fifteen minutes.

A small, crooked smile plays on her lips.

> You’re a sap, Jeff. A giant, freezing sap.

The moment hangs in the air. Sam breaks it, standing abruptly.

> I’m hungry. I need grease. I need nitrates. Let’s go to Stan’s.

> Stan’s is closed. It’s midnight.

> The truck stop then. Come on. My treat. I sold a print to the dentist last week. I’m rich.

She heads for the door. Jeff looks at the tangled cords, then at her. He gets up and follows.

EXT. COMMUNITY CENTRE PARKING LOT - NIGHT

SOUND of a VICIOUS WIND whipping across the lot

The metal door slams shut behind them. The cold is a physical blow. The night is clear, stars sharp and cruel.

Snow CRUNCHES loudly under their boots. Jeff’s truck, an ancient, rusted Silverado, sits miserably under a streetlight.

> (yelling over the wind)

> Shotgun!

> You don’t have to call shotgun, Sam. You’re the only passenger.

> It’s the principle of the thing!

INT. JEFF'S TRUCK - CONTINUOUS

Jeff climbs in. The vinyl seat is rock-hard with cold. He turns the key.

The engine GROANS, a slow, agonizing *whir-whir-whir*. It struggles, then CATCHES with a ROAR.

Sam slams her door.

> Heater. Now. Full blast.

> It needs a minute. It blows cold air first.

He puts the truck in gear. The tires SPIN on the ice before catching. They fishtail out of the lot.

> I hate this truck. I hate winter. I hate everything.

> You love it. You’d miss the suffering.

> I would not. I would thrive in Arizona. I would be a lizard. I would sun myself on a rock.

> You’d melt. You’re built for parkas.

They drive through the sleeping town. They pass the PAPER MILL, a sprawling complex lit up like a dystopian city, steam billowing into the night sky. The smell of sulfur fills the cab.

> Look at that. It’s beautiful, in a horrific way.

> That’s your aesthetic, isn’t it? Horrific beauty.

> It’s honest. Better than painting barns.

She leans her head against the cold window. The green light from the dashboard illuminates her face. She looks tired.

> Do you think we’re wasting our time?

Sam traces a pattern on the frosted glass.

> Probably. But what else are we gonna do? Get jobs at the bank? I’d rather freeze in a basement with you.

Jeff’s heart stutters. He grips the wheel.

> (thickly)

> Yeah. Me too.

INT. TRUCK STOP DINER - LATER

SOUND of low chatter, clinking cutlery, the sizzle of a flat-top grill

A beacon of neon in the darkness. The diner is bright, warm, and smells of bacon and sanitizer.

Jeff and Sam slide into a booth with cracked red vinyl repaired with duct tape.

BARB, a waitress who looks like she’s been here since the dawn of time, drops two menus on the table.

> Coffee?

> Please. Intravenously, if possible.

Barb pours two mugs and walks away. Sam wraps her hands around the warm ceramic, closing her eyes.

> Heat. Blessed heat.

Jeff watches her. He notices the smudge of ink on her thumb.

> So. The showcase. If nobody buys anything, what’s the plan?

> Bonfire?

> I’m serious. My rent is due. If I don’t sell that series of abandoned gas stations, I might have to move back in with my mom. And if I do that, I will commit a felony within a week.

> I like your sludge.

She looks at him over the rim of her mug.

> You’re such a weirdo.

> I’m serious. You have a good eye. You see the stuff everyone else ignores. Like that shot you took of the old arena? With the kid tying his skates in the dark? That broke my heart.

Sam looks away, out the window.

> (muttering)

> Thanks.

> (changing the subject)

> I was thinking about your sculpture. The saw blades.

> Please don’t.

> No, really. It’s not... terrible. It’s angry. I like that it’s angry. People here are so polite, you know? But underneath, everyone is kinda pissed off. Your sculpture feels like that. Like a polite scream.

Jeff stares at her. She gets it. She actually gets it.

> A polite scream. I might change the title.

> ‘Polite Scream’. I like it. Better than ‘Industry in Decline’.

They eat their fries and gravy. The diner hums around them.

> I don’t want to go back to the hall.

> Me neither.

> Let’s go to the lookout. See if the aurora is out.

> Sam, it’s thirty below on the ridge.

> We’ll stay in the truck. Please? I need to cleanse my palate. I need some cosmic lights.

Jeff sighs. He can’t say no to her.

EXT. LOOKOUT POINT - LATER

The truck bounces up a rutted access road. At the top, Jeff kills the engine and the lights.

The darkness is absolute. Then, the stars appear. Millions of them.

Below, the town of Ironwood is a small grid of orange lights.

SOUND of the wind, distant and low; the truck’s engine TICKING as it cools

> No lights.

> Give it a minute.

They sit in the heavy silence.

> (softly)

> I’m glad you came back.

> Yeah?

> Yeah. It would suck being the only failure in town.

> (a brittle laugh)

> I mean it. If you weren’t here... I think I would have left. And I would have been miserable somewhere else. At least here, I’m miserable with someone who knows which diner has the best gravy.

Jeff turns in his seat to face her silhouette.

> I’m not miserable, Sam.

> Liar.

> Okay, I’m frustrated. I’m cold. I’m broke. But... not when we’re doing this. You make it bearable.

The air in the cab feels charged.

> (her voice drops)

> Jeff.

> Yeah?

She turns to him. He can’t see her eyes, but he feels them.

> Do you ever think about... us?

> All the time.

> Good. Because I was starting to think I was hallucinating this whole vibe.

She leans across the center console, an awkward maneuver. Her cold hand finds his. She squeezes it, hard.

> And if you don’t kiss me right now, I’m going to punch you in the shoulder. Hard.

Jeff lets out a nervous, breathless laugh.

> We can’t have that.

He leans in. It’s clumsy. Their toques bump. His cold nose presses against her cheek. Their lips meet.

It’s warm. Terrifyingly warm. Coffee and chapstick. Her hand grips the collar of his jacket, pulling him closer.

And in that instant—

A flash of GREEN LIGHT explodes across the sky.

They break apart, gasping.

Through the windshield, a massive ribbon of green fire dances silently across the stars. The AURORA BOREALIS. It bathes the truck’s hood in an eerie, spectral glow.

> (breathless)

> I told you.

Jeff isn’t looking at the sky. He’s looking at her face, washed in the green light. She looks otherworldly.

She turns, catching him staring.

> (serious)

> Jeff. If we stay... if we do this... we have to really do it. We have to force them to see us.

> I know.

> Okay.

She leans back, her hand finding his again. They watch the lights.

> We should probably go back.

> Five more minutes. Let Mrs. Gable wait.

After a while, the hope in the cab feels solid, real. Jeff reaches for the key.

> Ready?

> Ready.

He turns the key.

*CLICK.*

A dead, hollow sound. Nothing else.

He tries again.

*CLICK.*

The silence that follows is absolute. Terrifying.

> (tight)

> Jeff?

> It’s fine. It’s just... cold.

He tries a third time.

*CLICK.*

The dashboard lights flicker and die. The hum of the heater fan spins down into a chilling silence.

The aurora fades, plunging them into total darkness.

CLOSE ON their faces, illuminated only by starlight. The vast, beautiful wilderness is now a lethal threat.

> (a whisper)

> Tell me you have jumper cables.

> I do. In the garage. Next to the space heater.

They stare at each other. The hope is gone. Replaced by stark, silent terror.

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.