The Stuttering Clock
A routine bus wait turns into an unexpected observation as a familiar figure’s strange behaviour hints at a deeper, personal struggle, all against the backdrop of an annoyingly erratic schedule.
TITLE: THE STUTTERING CLOCK
[SCENE START]
**EXT. CITY BUS STOP - LATE AFTERNOON**
A concrete and plexiglass bus shelter on a quiet city street. The light is soft, beginning to fade.
SOUND of distant, droning city traffic.
THE NARRATOR (40s), observant and neat, sits on the bench, watching.
A few feet away stands MRS. GABLE (70s). She wears a wide-brimmed hat decorated with faded, artificial marigolds. She clutches a floral handbag, her knuckles white. She radiates a nervous energy, her gaze darting between the empty road and the shelter's digital clock.
CLOSE ON - THE DIGITAL CLOCK
The red LED numbers are frozen: **20 PAST**. A faint flicker, but no change.
BACK TO SCENE
Mrs. Gable shifts her weight. The marigolds on her hat seem to vibrate with her tension.
NARRATOR
> Are you quite alright, Mrs. Gable?
Mrs. Gable jumps, startled. A small, sharp intake of breath.
MRS. GABLE
> Oh! Good heavens, dear. Didn't see you there.
> (a forced, brittle laugh)
> Just… these schedules. Aren't they a beast?
NARRATOR
> They certainly have a mind of their own. Running a bit behind, I gather.
MRS. GABLE
> (scoffs)
> Behind? It’s not just behind, dear, it’s… inconsistent. One day it’s early, the next it’s late. How’s a body supposed to plan?
LIAM (20s), headphones clamped over his ears, ambles up to the shelter. He gives a non-committal nod to the others and settles on the far end of the bench, immediately burying his nose in a thick textbook. He is in his own world.
The Narrator studies Mrs. Gable, her usual regal patience replaced by a raw-nerved agitation.
NARRATOR
> Is there a particular reason you're so concerned about the time today?
Mrs. Gable’s eyes snap to the Narrator. For a flash, naked panic shows in their placid blue depths.
MRS. GABLE
> My… my geraniums. They need watering. And a certain… visitor… is due. Can't have them thinking I'm not a prompt hostess, can I?
She fusses with the clasp on her handbag. The "geraniums" excuse hangs in the air, flimsy and transparent.
NARRATOR
> I'm sure they won't mind a few minutes' delay.
The words feel hollow. Mrs. Gable’s anxiety is palpable, infectious. The Narrator glances down the empty street, now feeling a phantom pressure themselves.
In the distance, a low groan.
SOUND of a heavy diesel engine approaching.
The Number Seven bus rounds the corner, its brakes SQUEALING a familiar lament. It pulls up to the stop.
The digital clock above them blinks once, then goes completely dark.
The bus doors fold open with a PNEUMATIC SIGH.
A young BUS DRIVER (30s) with blue streaks in her hair looks out, expectant.
Liam, roused from his studies, packs his book into a backpack and ambles aboard without a second look.
Mrs. Gable doesn't move. She is frozen, a statue of indecision.
BUS DRIVER
> Madam? Boarding?
Mrs. Gable takes one hesitant step forward, then stops. Her eyes flicker to the Narrator, a desperate, silent plea.
NARRATOR
> (softly)
> Go on, Mrs. Gable. Your geraniums await.
A tiny, almost imperceptible shake of her head.
MRS. GABLE
> (whispering)
> I can't. Not yet.
The Bus Driver lets out a theatrical puff of air.
BUS DRIVER
> Last call, madam.
Silence. Mrs. Gable just stands there. The marigolds on her hat seem to droop.
The Bus Driver shrugs, hits a button. The doors HISS shut.
With a final, weary SIGH of its air brakes, the Number Seven pulls away from the curb, leaving Mrs. Gable and the Narrator alone on the pavement.
The Narrator stares after the receding bus, then looks at Mrs. Gable.
NARRATOR
> My word. Was that truly for the geraniums?
Mrs. Gable watches the bus until it disappears. Her face is unreadable. The silence is thick, heavy.
MRS. GABLE
> (voice barely a whisper)
> Sometimes… the anticipation is the only part that feels real.
She turns. A faint, ghost-like smile touches her lips.
Without another word, she walks away from the bus stop—not towards her home, but in the opposite direction, towards a park where old oak trees cast long shadows in the fading light.
The Narrator watches her go, stunned. They are left alone at the silent bus stop.
They glance up at the blank, dead clock. Then down the empty road. Their own bus is due any minute.
But they make no move to check. They just sit, the familiar routine of their own life suddenly feeling hollow, strange, and utterly irrelevant.
**FADE OUT.**
[SCENE END]
[SCENE START]
**EXT. CITY BUS STOP - LATE AFTERNOON**
A concrete and plexiglass bus shelter on a quiet city street. The light is soft, beginning to fade.
SOUND of distant, droning city traffic.
THE NARRATOR (40s), observant and neat, sits on the bench, watching.
A few feet away stands MRS. GABLE (70s). She wears a wide-brimmed hat decorated with faded, artificial marigolds. She clutches a floral handbag, her knuckles white. She radiates a nervous energy, her gaze darting between the empty road and the shelter's digital clock.
CLOSE ON - THE DIGITAL CLOCK
The red LED numbers are frozen: **20 PAST**. A faint flicker, but no change.
BACK TO SCENE
Mrs. Gable shifts her weight. The marigolds on her hat seem to vibrate with her tension.
NARRATOR
> Are you quite alright, Mrs. Gable?
Mrs. Gable jumps, startled. A small, sharp intake of breath.
MRS. GABLE
> Oh! Good heavens, dear. Didn't see you there.
> (a forced, brittle laugh)
> Just… these schedules. Aren't they a beast?
NARRATOR
> They certainly have a mind of their own. Running a bit behind, I gather.
MRS. GABLE
> (scoffs)
> Behind? It’s not just behind, dear, it’s… inconsistent. One day it’s early, the next it’s late. How’s a body supposed to plan?
LIAM (20s), headphones clamped over his ears, ambles up to the shelter. He gives a non-committal nod to the others and settles on the far end of the bench, immediately burying his nose in a thick textbook. He is in his own world.
The Narrator studies Mrs. Gable, her usual regal patience replaced by a raw-nerved agitation.
NARRATOR
> Is there a particular reason you're so concerned about the time today?
Mrs. Gable’s eyes snap to the Narrator. For a flash, naked panic shows in their placid blue depths.
MRS. GABLE
> My… my geraniums. They need watering. And a certain… visitor… is due. Can't have them thinking I'm not a prompt hostess, can I?
She fusses with the clasp on her handbag. The "geraniums" excuse hangs in the air, flimsy and transparent.
NARRATOR
> I'm sure they won't mind a few minutes' delay.
The words feel hollow. Mrs. Gable’s anxiety is palpable, infectious. The Narrator glances down the empty street, now feeling a phantom pressure themselves.
In the distance, a low groan.
SOUND of a heavy diesel engine approaching.
The Number Seven bus rounds the corner, its brakes SQUEALING a familiar lament. It pulls up to the stop.
The digital clock above them blinks once, then goes completely dark.
The bus doors fold open with a PNEUMATIC SIGH.
A young BUS DRIVER (30s) with blue streaks in her hair looks out, expectant.
Liam, roused from his studies, packs his book into a backpack and ambles aboard without a second look.
Mrs. Gable doesn't move. She is frozen, a statue of indecision.
BUS DRIVER
> Madam? Boarding?
Mrs. Gable takes one hesitant step forward, then stops. Her eyes flicker to the Narrator, a desperate, silent plea.
NARRATOR
> (softly)
> Go on, Mrs. Gable. Your geraniums await.
A tiny, almost imperceptible shake of her head.
MRS. GABLE
> (whispering)
> I can't. Not yet.
The Bus Driver lets out a theatrical puff of air.
BUS DRIVER
> Last call, madam.
Silence. Mrs. Gable just stands there. The marigolds on her hat seem to droop.
The Bus Driver shrugs, hits a button. The doors HISS shut.
With a final, weary SIGH of its air brakes, the Number Seven pulls away from the curb, leaving Mrs. Gable and the Narrator alone on the pavement.
The Narrator stares after the receding bus, then looks at Mrs. Gable.
NARRATOR
> My word. Was that truly for the geraniums?
Mrs. Gable watches the bus until it disappears. Her face is unreadable. The silence is thick, heavy.
MRS. GABLE
> (voice barely a whisper)
> Sometimes… the anticipation is the only part that feels real.
She turns. A faint, ghost-like smile touches her lips.
Without another word, she walks away from the bus stop—not towards her home, but in the opposite direction, towards a park where old oak trees cast long shadows in the fading light.
The Narrator watches her go, stunned. They are left alone at the silent bus stop.
They glance up at the blank, dead clock. Then down the empty road. Their own bus is due any minute.
But they make no move to check. They just sit, the familiar routine of their own life suddenly feeling hollow, strange, and utterly irrelevant.
**FADE OUT.**
[SCENE END]