The Petal and the Resonant Frequency
A retired botanist's unidentifiable plant finally begins to bloom, thanks to the strange melody played by her musician friend. But the crystalline dust it releases is not of this world, and it's starting to remake the coffee shop in its own image.
INT. BRISTOL COFFEE SHOP - DAY
A warm, lived-in space. Sunlight streams through the front window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. The gentle hiss and grind of an espresso machine provides a constant backdrop.
LINDA (40s), the pragmatic owner, waters a PLANT on the counter. It’s unnaturally perfect. The leaves are a deep, waxy green, perpetually dewy. The soil is always vaguely damp. It’s less a plant and more a sculpture of one. She waters it out of habit, not hope. She senses it isn’t calm; it’s waiting.
The bell over the door CHIMES.
TERRY (60s), tall and thin with a shock of white hair, slides into his usual booth. He places a small, heavy-looking black case on the table. He watches Linda.
TERRY
> Any movement from your roommate?
Linda finishes with the plant, wiping her hands on her apron. She brings a cup of tea over to his table.
LINDA
> It glared at me this morning when I dusted its leaves. Or maybe I imagined it.
TERRY
> It’s not glaring. It’s listening.
He unlatches the case. Inside, nestled in foam, is a complex oscillator with various dials and a small, high-frequency speaker.
TERRY
>(CONT'D)
> I’ve been analysing the recordings. There’s a resonance. A faint harmonic vibration from the stem when the espresso machine hits a certain pitch. I think I’ve isolated it.
LINDA
> Terry, it’s a plant, not a radio receiver. You’re going to give it tinnitus.
TERRY
> Humour me. I’ve synthesized the waveform. Amplified it. Just for a minute.
His eyes are alight with a reckless, infectious curiosity. Linda hesitates, then sighs. Her own unease with the plant gets the better of her.
LINDA
> Fine. But if it sheds all its leaves in protest, you’re sweeping them up.
Terry grins, a man vindicated. He aims the small speaker at the plant and flicks a switch on the oscillator.
SOUND: The ambient noise of the cafe falls away. There is no audible sound from the device, but the air THICKENS, charged with an ultra-high frequency. A low VIBRATION that Linda feels in her teeth.
CLOSE ON THE PLANT.
At the apex of the central stem, a tightly-closed bud, a feature Linda had long dismissed as permanent, begins to TREMBLE.
Slowly, petal by petal, it unfurls.
The petals are not green. They are a deep, impossible black that seems to drink the light around them. Shards of obsidian moving with the fluid grace of living tissue.
LINDA
>(whispering)
> Terry... turn it off.
TERRY
> No, look!
As the flower opens fully, it releases a cloud of shimmering dust. Not yellow pollen, but a fine, silvery powder that catches the light like crushed diamonds. It drifts, ignoring the air currents from the heating vent, and settles in a fine layer on the dark surfaces of the nearby tables.
The bell over the door CHIMES again.
JOHN (50s), a methodical, academic type, enters, brushing off his coat.
JOHN
> Price of parking is criminal. What’s that smell?
>(sniffing)
> Smells like ozone. And... hot metal.
His eyes fall on the impossible black flower.
JOHN
>(CONT'D)
> My word, Linda. What is that?
LINDA
> I have absolutely no idea.
But John is no longer looking at the flower. His scientific eye is drawn to the shimmering dust on the tables. He walks to one, leans down. He gently scrapes a small amount onto his fingertip, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger.
JOHN
> Extraordinary.
He pulls a small jeweller's loupe from his pocket and examines his fingertip. His expression shifts from curiosity to utter bafflement.
JOHN
>(CONT'D)
> The crystalline structure is perfect. Isotropic. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s not quartz, not mica...
>(looks up, eyes wide)
> Linda, where did you say this plant came from?
LINDA
>(voice faint)
> An Antarctic ice core sample.
A beat of stunned silence. John breathes the words.
JOHN
> Of course. It’s not terrestrial.
As he speaks, the dust on the table begins to MOVE.
The tiny crystals flow like liquid metal, coalescing into geometric patterns. Hexagons, spirals, complex lattices spread across the wood.
Terry quickly flicks the switch on his oscillator. The high-frequency hum in the air vanishes.
But the dust keeps moving.
TERRY
> It’s reacting to something. But my machine is off.
JOHN
>(voice filled with awe)
> It’s not reacting. It’s building.
He’s right. The dust rises from the tables, lifting into the air in shimmering veils. It flows towards the centre of the room, a silent, glittering vortex.
The three of them stand frozen, watching.
The crystalline cloud begins to resolve, to take on a new form in the air above the central table.
It becomes a perfect, silent, shimmering replica of the coffee shop itself. A doll's house made of alien dust, floating in the air.
ANGLE ON THE REPLICA.
We see a tiny, perfect model of the plant in the corner. And three minuscule, glittering figures standing on the floor, staring up in wonder.
A warm, lived-in space. Sunlight streams through the front window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. The gentle hiss and grind of an espresso machine provides a constant backdrop.
LINDA (40s), the pragmatic owner, waters a PLANT on the counter. It’s unnaturally perfect. The leaves are a deep, waxy green, perpetually dewy. The soil is always vaguely damp. It’s less a plant and more a sculpture of one. She waters it out of habit, not hope. She senses it isn’t calm; it’s waiting.
The bell over the door CHIMES.
TERRY (60s), tall and thin with a shock of white hair, slides into his usual booth. He places a small, heavy-looking black case on the table. He watches Linda.
TERRY
> Any movement from your roommate?
Linda finishes with the plant, wiping her hands on her apron. She brings a cup of tea over to his table.
LINDA
> It glared at me this morning when I dusted its leaves. Or maybe I imagined it.
TERRY
> It’s not glaring. It’s listening.
He unlatches the case. Inside, nestled in foam, is a complex oscillator with various dials and a small, high-frequency speaker.
TERRY
>(CONT'D)
> I’ve been analysing the recordings. There’s a resonance. A faint harmonic vibration from the stem when the espresso machine hits a certain pitch. I think I’ve isolated it.
LINDA
> Terry, it’s a plant, not a radio receiver. You’re going to give it tinnitus.
TERRY
> Humour me. I’ve synthesized the waveform. Amplified it. Just for a minute.
His eyes are alight with a reckless, infectious curiosity. Linda hesitates, then sighs. Her own unease with the plant gets the better of her.
LINDA
> Fine. But if it sheds all its leaves in protest, you’re sweeping them up.
Terry grins, a man vindicated. He aims the small speaker at the plant and flicks a switch on the oscillator.
SOUND: The ambient noise of the cafe falls away. There is no audible sound from the device, but the air THICKENS, charged with an ultra-high frequency. A low VIBRATION that Linda feels in her teeth.
CLOSE ON THE PLANT.
At the apex of the central stem, a tightly-closed bud, a feature Linda had long dismissed as permanent, begins to TREMBLE.
Slowly, petal by petal, it unfurls.
The petals are not green. They are a deep, impossible black that seems to drink the light around them. Shards of obsidian moving with the fluid grace of living tissue.
LINDA
>(whispering)
> Terry... turn it off.
TERRY
> No, look!
As the flower opens fully, it releases a cloud of shimmering dust. Not yellow pollen, but a fine, silvery powder that catches the light like crushed diamonds. It drifts, ignoring the air currents from the heating vent, and settles in a fine layer on the dark surfaces of the nearby tables.
The bell over the door CHIMES again.
JOHN (50s), a methodical, academic type, enters, brushing off his coat.
JOHN
> Price of parking is criminal. What’s that smell?
>(sniffing)
> Smells like ozone. And... hot metal.
His eyes fall on the impossible black flower.
JOHN
>(CONT'D)
> My word, Linda. What is that?
LINDA
> I have absolutely no idea.
But John is no longer looking at the flower. His scientific eye is drawn to the shimmering dust on the tables. He walks to one, leans down. He gently scrapes a small amount onto his fingertip, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger.
JOHN
> Extraordinary.
He pulls a small jeweller's loupe from his pocket and examines his fingertip. His expression shifts from curiosity to utter bafflement.
JOHN
>(CONT'D)
> The crystalline structure is perfect. Isotropic. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s not quartz, not mica...
>(looks up, eyes wide)
> Linda, where did you say this plant came from?
LINDA
>(voice faint)
> An Antarctic ice core sample.
A beat of stunned silence. John breathes the words.
JOHN
> Of course. It’s not terrestrial.
As he speaks, the dust on the table begins to MOVE.
The tiny crystals flow like liquid metal, coalescing into geometric patterns. Hexagons, spirals, complex lattices spread across the wood.
Terry quickly flicks the switch on his oscillator. The high-frequency hum in the air vanishes.
But the dust keeps moving.
TERRY
> It’s reacting to something. But my machine is off.
JOHN
>(voice filled with awe)
> It’s not reacting. It’s building.
He’s right. The dust rises from the tables, lifting into the air in shimmering veils. It flows towards the centre of the room, a silent, glittering vortex.
The three of them stand frozen, watching.
The crystalline cloud begins to resolve, to take on a new form in the air above the central table.
It becomes a perfect, silent, shimmering replica of the coffee shop itself. A doll's house made of alien dust, floating in the air.
ANGLE ON THE REPLICA.
We see a tiny, perfect model of the plant in the corner. And three minuscule, glittering figures standing on the floor, staring up in wonder.