A Script for The Blue Plastic Bag

by Eva Suluk

EXT. SNOWY ROAD - LATE AFTERNOON

A vast, flat whiteness. The sky is a bruised purple-grey.

SOUND of a constant, heavy WIND. Not a howl, but a physical pressure.

LEON (11), bundled in a worn coat and scratchy scarf, leans into the wind. He’s small for his age, face pinched with cold. His eyelashes are crusted with ice; each blink is a conscious effort.

In his thickly-mittened left hand, he clutches a BLUE PLASTIC BAG. It strains against the wind, slippery.

Five steps ahead, SAM (12), a black shape in a puffy jacket, plows forward, head down. A beetle fighting a current.

> (shouting over the wind)

> Hurry up.

Leon adjusts his grip on the bag.

> (muffled by his scarf)

> I'm coming.

EXT. PINE STREET - CONTINUOUS

They turn a corner. The world shifts to a sick, buzzing orange under the few streetlights already on. The town feels closed, houses like dark boxes buried in snow. Thin white lines of smoke rise from chimneys and vanish.

SOUND of boots making a dry, STYROFOAM SQUEAK on the packed snow.

> My dad says it’s gonna hit minus forty tonight. With the windchill.

Leon doesn't answer. He switches the blue bag to his other hand, wincing as he flexes his aching fingers.

They pass a derelict HARDWARE STORE. The windows are boarded with greyed plywood. On one board, a spray-painted smiley face has peeled and cracked over the years, now resembling a skull.

Leon slows, studying it. The way the black paint flakes away, showing the wood grain beneath.

Sam stops, walking backward a few steps to join him.

> Don't look at that. It's ugly.

> I know. That's why I'm looking.

Sam snorts, a puff of white steam jetting from his nose.

> You're weird. It's just junk. This whole place is junk.

> It's texture.

> It's trash.

> (kicks a chunk of ice)

> My uncle says they're gonna tear it down in the spring. Build a parking lot for the rink.

> They should leave it. Or paint it. Like a mural.

Sam stops dead. His stiff coat forces him to turn his whole body to face Leon. He stares as if Leon just grew wings.

> A mural? In this town? Who's gonna paint it? You?

> (looks at his boots)

> Maybe. I could.

> With what? Paint freezes. And if you paint it in the summer, the bugs stick to it. Then the winter comes and peels it off anyway.

Leon says nothing. He knows Sam is right. The wind gusts, slapping his back.

> I drew something today.

Sam starts walking again.

> Yeah? What? Another robot?

> No. A wolf. But... not a regular wolf. It's got... geometry. Like, lines and triangles.

> (a sharp laugh)

> Geometry? Like math homework?

> No. Like... shapes. It looks cool. Mr. Henderson said it was good.

> Henderson is leaving.

Leon stops. The cold instantly seeps into his legs.

> What?

> (casually)

> My mom heard it at the store. He's moving back to Toronto. Says he can't take the dark. Messes with his head.

A hollow look on Leon's face. He clutches the bag tighter.

> He didn't say anything.

> Why would he? Adults don't tell us stuff. They just pack up and go.

They walk in silence, the only sound the SCRITCH-SCRITCH of their nylon snow pants.

> Everyone goes if they can. Or they stay and get weird. Like Old Man Miller. You want to end up like Miller? Collecting pop cans and yelling at the snowplow?

> (defensive)

> He carves birds. I saw them.

> They're ugly birds. That's what happens. You try to be... artistic here, and you just go crazy. The cold freezes your brain.

A flash of anger in Leon's eyes.

> It's not about the cold. It's about... seeing things.

> Seeing what?

> (waves a mitten at the street)

> Snow? Ice? Dead trucks? There's nothing to see, Leon. It's just white and grey.

> There's blue.

> (points)

> Look. The shadow from that pole isn't black. It's blue. Dark blue. And the sky is pink right at the bottom. And the snow on that roof is... almost yellow because of the streetlight.

Sam squints at the shadow. He considers it for a long beat. He shakes his head.

> It's a shadow, Leon. It's just dark. You're making stuff up.

> (shouting, frustrated)

> I'm not! I'm drawing it! That's what the book is for!

> (muttering, walking faster)

> Drawing shadows. That's useful. That'll get you a job at the mill. 'Hey boss, I can draw a blue shadow.'

Leon runs to catch up, careful not to drop the bag.

> You don't get it.

> I get it fine. You want to be special. But nobody is special here. We're just cold.

EXT. RAVINE BRIDGE - MOMENTS LATER

They step onto a metal grate bridge spanning a deep, frozen ravine. The railings are coated in thick, fuzzy hoarfrost.

SOUND of their footsteps ringing out. CLANG. CLANG.

The wind is a physical force here, rushing down the creek bed. It hits them sideways.

Leon staggers. His boot slips on the icy metal.

He throws his arms out for balance.

The blue plastic bag slips from his mitten.

> No!

The wind catches the bag. It inflates like a balloon and shoots sideways, skittering across the grate toward the railing.

Leon lunges, sliding on his stomach. His mitten brushes the slick plastic—

But the wind punts it through a gap in the railing.

Leon scrambles to his knees, peering over the edge.

LEON'S POV - The blue bag dances down into the ravine, a single spot of color in the white. It snags on a branch, flaps, then tears free, tumbling to rest on the frozen creek below.

> It's gone. Leave it, Leon. It's too deep down there.

Leon doesn't hesitate. He swings a leg over the railing. The frozen metal burns through his snow pants.

> (panic in his voice)

> Leon, don't be stupid! The snow is deep! You don't know if the ice is thick!

> (shouting back)

> It's minus thirty! The ice is thick!

He drops.

EXT. RAVINE - CONTINUOUS

Leon lands in powder that comes up to his waist. He sinks. The cold rushes into his boots.

He starts wading through the snow, a slow, exhausting struggle. He keeps his eyes locked on the blue bag, now stuck against a dead log on the ice.

> (from the bridge)

> Leon! My dad is gonna kill you! He's gonna kill me for letting you!

Leon ignores him, sweating inside his coat. His breath comes in ragged gasps.

He reaches the edge of the creek. The ice is black and polished, swept clean by the wind. He steps onto it carefully. It holds. Solid as rock.

He shuffles-runs to the log and grabs the bag. It's torn.

He looks inside. The sketchbook is there. He pulls it out. The cardboard cover is dark and wet with melted snow. He wipes it with his mitten.

He opens it. The pages are stiff. He flips to his drawing: a WOLF, rendered in sharp, geometric lines and triangles of black marker. It stares back, fierce and uncaring.

It's safe.

Leon shoves the book under his jacket, against his sweater, and zips up. He looks up at the bridge. Sam is a small, dark silhouette.

> You got it?

> (voice cracking)

> Yeah!

> You're an idiot! Now you gotta climb back up!

Leon looks at the steep, churned-up slope. Down here, out of the wind, it's eerily quiet. The silence presses in.

He starts to climb.

It's a desperate scramble. He claws at the snow with his hands, his gloves soaking through. He kicks his toes into the bank to make footholds. His fingers burn, then go numb.

EXT. RAVINE BRIDGE - CONTINUOUS

Ten minutes later, a hand appears over the railing. Sam grabs Leon's hood and hauls him the rest of the way.

Leon collapses onto the metal grate, panting, white spots dancing in his vision.

> (panting too)

> You are so stupid. You're actually broken in the head.

> (wheezing)

> I got it.

> Let me see.

Leon sits up. He unzips his jacket and pulls out the sketchbook. The cover is warped and bent. Pathetic.

Sam stares at the book, then at Leon's face, red and splotched with the white beginnings of frostbite on his cheeks.

> It's bent.

> (stroking the cover)

> It's fine. It dries flat.

Sam shakes his head. He looks angry, sad, old.

> You went down there for that. For a bent book.

> It's my work.

The words hang in the cold air. Leon realizes they're true.

> (repeats the words, disgusted)

> "Your work."

> (spits; it freezes)

> Come on. If we stop moving, we freeze. My toes are gone.

EXT. SUBDIVISION STREET - LATER

They walk again, Leon shaking as the adrenaline fades. His feet are blocks of ice in his wet boots.

> You going to tell your mom?

> No. She'll say I'm careless.

> You are careless. You care about the wrong stuff.

> Maybe.

> Not maybe. For sure. You care about drawings and shadows. You need to care about... I don't know. Real stuff. Batteries. Wood. Tires.

> Those are boring.

> (snaps)

> They keep you alive. Drawings don't keep you alive.

Leon thinks of the wolf. He didn't feel the cold when he was drawing it. He didn't feel the town.

> (to himself, a whisper)

> They keep me alive.

EXT. SAM'S HOUSE - CONTINUOUS

They reach Sam's driveway. An orange extension cord runs from the house to the grille of his dad's truck.

SOUND of the low, electric HUM of an engine block heater.

> See you tomorrow.

He trudges up his driveway without looking back.

> Yeah. See you.

Leon walks the last two blocks alone. The wind howls through hydro wires. The sky is now a flat, dead black.

EXT. LEON'S HOUSE - MOMENTS LATER

He stands on his dark porch. The front light is out.

SOUND from inside: the muffled drone of a TV NEWS REPORT.

He doesn't go in. He pulls the sketchbook from his jacket. In the darkness, he can only feel its warped shape. It feels like a slab of ice.

He looks out at the street. The wind blows a fine spray of snow across the asphalt like smoke. Like ghosts.

He puts the book back inside his jacket, zipping it to his chin. He feels the cold paper pressing against his heart. A secret hardness.

He puts his bare hand on the metal doorknob. It bites into his palm.

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.