A Script for Petty Geysers of Grief

by Jamie F. Bell

EXT. PARK - LATE AFTERNOON

An early autumn chill. The air is unnaturally still. Leaves hang suspended, shivering, some drifting slowly UPWARDS against gravity.

The ground beneath the feet of ALEX (20s), cynical and weary, seems to BREATHE. A faint, unsettling tremor.

Alex shoves clammy hands into the pockets of a thin jacket, surveying the quiet chaos. The air smells of damp moss and wet pennies.

A few feet away, a park bench is no longer a bench. It's a sluggish PUDDLE of dark, viscous liquid, smelling of old varnish. Alex stares at it, then at the gnarled root they just tripped over. A scraped knee bleeds through their jeans.

Alex takes a hesitant step on the gravel path. The crunch is the only normal sound. Ahead, the asphalt SHIMMERS like a cheap hologram. A section pulses with a sickly green internal light, making nearby weeds glow.

> (muttering to themself)

> Seriously? This again? Can’t a person just… exist?

A single green acorn drops from an upward-floating leaf and THUMPS Alex on the head. They flinch, annoyed.

The park is deserted. No dog walkers, no squirrels. Just an eerie quiet.

In the distance, near a twisted swingset, two figures materialize through the shimmering air.

One, THE GRUDGE, is tall, lean, made of sharp angles and brittle shadows. A constant, silent cascade of SOOT seems to fall from its form.

The other, THE MUDDLE, is shorter, squat, a shifting mass of luminous greens and browns, like compacted moss. It radiates a faint, cloying sweetness.

They face each other, twenty feet apart. The air between them VIBRATES with a grinding, oppressive discord.

The Grudge contracts, pulling inward. In response, the ground around it CRACKS, fissures spiderwebbing out.

The Muddle expands, puffing up. The leaves on a nearby oak instantly DESATURATE, draining of color, crumbling to grey dust.

Alex’s jaw tightens. They glance back. The path behind them is now a swirling vortex of liquefied bench and floating pebbles. Trapped.

A thorny bush shrivels and EXPLODES into a flurry of petrified rosehips that scatter like ball bearings. Alex flinches, shielding their face.

> (under their breath)

> Great. Just… great.

The Grudge’s long, skeletal fingers twitch. The Muddle wobbles, a formless mass of indignation.

A burst of greenish-yellow light erupts from The Muddle. A nearby tree branch instantly TWISTS into a grotesque helix, bark peeling away.

The Grudge ripples. A section of the bruised sky above TEARS OPEN, revealing a glimpse of grinding, silent clockwork gears before stitching itself back together, leaving a jagged seam. The air fills with the scent of burning copper and overripe fruit.

Alex’s stomach RUMBLES, a ridiculously mundane sound. They stare at the two entities, a look of desperate exasperation on their face. They have to get through them.

> (yelling, voice thin)

> Hey!

The sound echoes, useless. The entities don’t react. Alex takes a deep breath, heart pounding.

> (louder)

> HEY! You two! Whatever this is… you need to stop it!

The Muddle vibrates. A patch of grass at its base turns instantly into a faded, two-dimensional PHOTOGRAPH of a picnic blanket.

The Grudge twitches. A sharp gust of wind tears through, making no physical impact but creating a SOUND like a thousand tiny, grieving sighs. Alex shivers.

> (forcing a calm, reasonable tone)

> Look. This is… affecting things. My way home. The trees. The structural integrity of reality, probably. Can we just… talk about this?

The Muddle emits a low, melodic HUM, like a sustained groan. The cracks around The Grudge deepen.

> What’s… what’s the problem? Why are you doing this?

The Grudge responds. A dry, brittle SOUND scrapes the air, like dead leaves on concrete. It’s not a word, but a feeling: COMPLAINT.

Alex winces, rubbing their temples as a dull ache blooms behind their eyes.

> Complaint? About what?

The Muddle rumbles, a low, guttural sound of shifting earth.

Alex flinches again, clutching their head as an image flashes through their mind.

INSERT - A SMALL, INTRICATELY CARVED BIRD FEEDER. IT IS PAINTED A CHEERFUL, OBNOXIOUS YELLOW.

The image vanishes. Alex stares, dumbfounded.

> A… bird feeder?

> (a humorless laugh escapes)

> You’re destroying the park, potentially the world, over a *bird feeder*?

The Grudge shudders. A wisp of smoke smelling of burnt toast curls from its form, followed by a dry, scornful RASP.

The Muddle retorts with a ripple of green energy. The image flashes in Alex’s mind again.

INSERT - THE YELLOW BIRD FEEDER, NOW WITH A VISIBLE CRACK RUNNING DOWN ITS SIDE.

Alex’s eyes dart between the two silent, feuding entities. It clicks.

> Okay. Okay. Who… broke the bird feeder?

The Muddle immediately SWELLS. The cracks around The Grudge expand into miniature canyons. The Grudge SHRINKS, becoming denser, darker. The trees nearby bleed more color, becoming charcoal sketches.

> Alright. This isn’t helping. We need a solution. A compromise.

The Grudge lets out a brittle sound like fingernails on a chalkboard. The Muddle wobbles with a disgruntled HUM.

> (taking a deep breath)

> Here’s the deal. One of you thinks the other broke it. The other thinks it’s not their fault. Yes?

> (a slight lessening of pressure in the air)

> So, here’s what we do. We replace the bird feeder.

The Muddle emits a surprised, higher-pitched hum. The Grudge remains a silhouette of cosmic disapproval.

> But...

> (pointing at The Muddle)

> ...you will admit that perhaps, just *perhaps*, your presence might have contributed to a certain… ambient level of, shall we say, *clumsiness* in the immediate vicinity of said bird feeder.

The Muddle shrinks a fraction. The photograph-grass flickers.

> (turning to The Grudge)

> And you will acknowledge that your particular disposition tends to amplify minor grievances into, well, *reality-tearing events*. Which isn’t ideal for the long-term health of small, wooden bird feeders. And you will also agree to a shared maintenance schedule for the *new* bird feeder.

Silence. Heavy, cold, oppressive.

Then, slowly, agonizingly, the cracks in the ground begin to retract, knitting back together with a soft GRINDING sound. The upward-drifting leaves pause, then settle back towards the ground. The shimmering path solidifies, its sickly green glow muted but still present.

The Grudge emits a final, dry, reluctant CLICK.

The Muddle pulses one last time, a dull, resigned THRUM.

The destructive energy ceases, replaced by a low, static HUM, like an old fluorescent light. The entities remain, a dense shadow and a lump of mossy irritation, their argument dormant.

The park is scarred. Twisted trees, desaturated leaves, patches of photograph-grass. Alex stands in the humming quiet, relief warring with a new, colder dread.

They look at the now-stable, but still glowing, path home. They have intervened. They have fixed it. A terrible realization dawns on their face. This isn't over. This is a job description.

> (to themself, a whisper of pure dread)

> I have to find a new bird feeder.

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.