The First Unfurling
Michael and Tommy navigate the familiar, yet newly charged, landscape of their ranch, each movement a hesitant step towards rediscovering levity amidst lingering trauma. A simple task of mending fences becomes an intricate dance of unspoken feelings and fragile hope.
Title: The First Unfurling
[SCENE START]
**EXT. RANCH CORRAL - DAWN**
A vast, quiet expanse. The only sounds are the rhythmic SQUEAK-SQUEAK of a distant windmill and the low BUZZ of early spring insects.
MICHAEL (30s-40s), shoulders tight with a permanent ache, crosses the packed earth. His boots make dull THUDS that the landscape swallows whole.
He moves with a grim, contained intensity. His calloused hands find a coil of new wire leaning against the weathered barn.
CLOSE ON HIS FINGERTIPS
The metal is cool, slick. A chill that has nothing to do with the morning air.
Tommy (30s-40s) approaches, his steps lighter. Michael doesn't look up. He keeps his gaze fixed on the coil, unraveling a length with practiced, aggressive movements. The wire gives a sharp, metallic HUM as it unspools.
Michael’s jaw is a hard ridge of muscle.
TOMMY
> Morning.
It's not a question. Just an acknowledgement. Tommy carries heavy fencing pliers and a bag of staples. He drops them near Michael. The soft CLATTER sounds too loud in the quiet.
Michael just GRUNTS. He pulls another length of wire, knuckles white.
The sun crests a far ridge, painting the sky in pale lavender and rose that quickly fades into a stark, clear blue. Objectively beautiful. To Michael, it's just a picture.
Tommy kneels. He picks up a piece of old, rusted barbed wire, turning it over in his gloved hands. His moss-green eyes flicker to Michael, then away. He doesn't press.
MICHAEL
> (Rough, unused)
> Milepost Six.
He still doesn't look at Tommy. His focus is on the task. The concrete.
TOMMY
> Right. The east side. Had a few deer get through last week.
Tommy stands. The unspoken hangs between them, thick as the mist in the hollows. They walk.
**EXT. FENCE LINE - LATER**
Their long shadows stretch out before them, shrinking as the sun climbs. The air warms, carrying the sweet, sharp scent of sagebrush.
They reach the fence near the sixth milepost. It's worse than remembered. Sagging strands, leaning posts rotten at the base.
A patch of wild roses—sharp thorns, delicate white blossoms—has grown through the wire, twisting it into a stubborn, living knot.
TOMMY
> She’s seen better days, this one.
Michael grunts. He throws down his coil of wire and yanks at the rose bush. A thorn snags his glove, then pierces through the leather. A sharp prick of pain.
MICHAEL
> (Under his breath)
> Son of a bitch.
He pulls his hand back, shaking it. Tommy watches, then pulls a smaller, precise pair of cutters from his bag. He doesn't offer them. He just waits.
Michael grabs his larger pliers and attacks the rose stems. The big tool is clumsy. He SNAPS a stem, but the wire remains caught, tighter than before. He pulls. Harder.
The wire SPRINGS back—
—WHAP! It slaps him sharply across the cheek.
He flinches, a raw, involuntary jerk. A faint burning line marks his skin.
Tommy lets out a quiet HUFF of air. He walks over, kneels beside Michael. Without a word, he takes the smaller cutters.
SNIP. SNIP.
The wire comes loose with a faint *PING*.
Michael stares at the freed wire. His face feels hot. Stupid. It's so stupid. But the frustration is a raw, familiar thing.
Tommy, still kneeling, glances at Michael's cheek.
TOMMY
> Got you a good one.
Michael rubs the faint, raised line on his face. He looks at the pliers in his hand, at the roses, at himself.
A sound escapes him. A short, sharp BARK of laughter. It's rusty, unused. Alien in his own throat.
It surprises him.
It surprises Tommy, who pauses, his eyes a little wide.
The laugh is choked, ragged. But it's real. It ends as quickly as it began, but its echo hangs in the air. A warmth, faint but present, spreads in Michael's chest.
Tommy's lips twitch into the barest hint of a smile. He meets Michael's gaze for a fleeting moment—a shared recognition. Then he looks back at the fence, snipping another thorny branch.
**EXT. FENCE LINE - GULLY - LATER**
They work in a silent rhythm. Michael pulls the wire taut. Tommy nails it in.
SOUND of the HAMMER against staples—a steady THWACK... THWACK...
They replace a rotten post, the shared effort a familiar weight. Sweat beads on Michael's forehead. It's a good ache now, from honest work. Each tightened wire is a tiny victory against chaos.
They round a bend, following the fence down into a shallow gully.
And they stop dead.
THEIR POV
A thirty-foot section of fence is GONE. Not just broken. Obliterated.
Posts are splintered like matchsticks. The earth is churned up, scarred with deep, wide tracks. Not deer. Something driven. Deliberate. Malicious.
The faint smell of burnt wood and ash hangs in the air, mixed with an acrid, metallic scent. Old pennies and rain. It crawls under the skin.
CLOSE ON MICHAEL
The familiar cold dread blooms in his stomach. His hands tremble.
The air feels thin.
SOUND DESIGN: The ambient sounds of the ranch FADE AWAY, replaced by a low ROARING in his ears. A frantic PULSE thuds against his temples.
His vision narrows. The bright wildflowers blur into an indistinct wash. The world shifts beneath his feet.
Tommy comes up beside him, his easy rhythm gone. His shoulders are rigid.
TOMMY
> (Strained)
> This... this isn’t right. Not at all.
He kicks at a broken post. A shower of splinters. His face is a hard, grim mask. He looks at Michael, his eyes dark with a question that needs no words.
Michael feels stripped bare by that gaze. He swallows, his throat desert-dry. He wants to run.
He can't move. Rooted to the spot, staring at the raw, open wound on the land. Proof that the past isn't past.
The silence stretches, heavy, suffocating. The earlier moment of shared laughter feels like a fragile, forgotten dream.
This is more than a broken fence. This is a message.
And Michael knows, with a certainty that chills him to his core, the message is for them.
[SCENE END]
[SCENE START]
**EXT. RANCH CORRAL - DAWN**
A vast, quiet expanse. The only sounds are the rhythmic SQUEAK-SQUEAK of a distant windmill and the low BUZZ of early spring insects.
MICHAEL (30s-40s), shoulders tight with a permanent ache, crosses the packed earth. His boots make dull THUDS that the landscape swallows whole.
He moves with a grim, contained intensity. His calloused hands find a coil of new wire leaning against the weathered barn.
CLOSE ON HIS FINGERTIPS
The metal is cool, slick. A chill that has nothing to do with the morning air.
Tommy (30s-40s) approaches, his steps lighter. Michael doesn't look up. He keeps his gaze fixed on the coil, unraveling a length with practiced, aggressive movements. The wire gives a sharp, metallic HUM as it unspools.
Michael’s jaw is a hard ridge of muscle.
TOMMY
> Morning.
It's not a question. Just an acknowledgement. Tommy carries heavy fencing pliers and a bag of staples. He drops them near Michael. The soft CLATTER sounds too loud in the quiet.
Michael just GRUNTS. He pulls another length of wire, knuckles white.
The sun crests a far ridge, painting the sky in pale lavender and rose that quickly fades into a stark, clear blue. Objectively beautiful. To Michael, it's just a picture.
Tommy kneels. He picks up a piece of old, rusted barbed wire, turning it over in his gloved hands. His moss-green eyes flicker to Michael, then away. He doesn't press.
MICHAEL
> (Rough, unused)
> Milepost Six.
He still doesn't look at Tommy. His focus is on the task. The concrete.
TOMMY
> Right. The east side. Had a few deer get through last week.
Tommy stands. The unspoken hangs between them, thick as the mist in the hollows. They walk.
**EXT. FENCE LINE - LATER**
Their long shadows stretch out before them, shrinking as the sun climbs. The air warms, carrying the sweet, sharp scent of sagebrush.
They reach the fence near the sixth milepost. It's worse than remembered. Sagging strands, leaning posts rotten at the base.
A patch of wild roses—sharp thorns, delicate white blossoms—has grown through the wire, twisting it into a stubborn, living knot.
TOMMY
> She’s seen better days, this one.
Michael grunts. He throws down his coil of wire and yanks at the rose bush. A thorn snags his glove, then pierces through the leather. A sharp prick of pain.
MICHAEL
> (Under his breath)
> Son of a bitch.
He pulls his hand back, shaking it. Tommy watches, then pulls a smaller, precise pair of cutters from his bag. He doesn't offer them. He just waits.
Michael grabs his larger pliers and attacks the rose stems. The big tool is clumsy. He SNAPS a stem, but the wire remains caught, tighter than before. He pulls. Harder.
The wire SPRINGS back—
—WHAP! It slaps him sharply across the cheek.
He flinches, a raw, involuntary jerk. A faint burning line marks his skin.
Tommy lets out a quiet HUFF of air. He walks over, kneels beside Michael. Without a word, he takes the smaller cutters.
SNIP. SNIP.
The wire comes loose with a faint *PING*.
Michael stares at the freed wire. His face feels hot. Stupid. It's so stupid. But the frustration is a raw, familiar thing.
Tommy, still kneeling, glances at Michael's cheek.
TOMMY
> Got you a good one.
Michael rubs the faint, raised line on his face. He looks at the pliers in his hand, at the roses, at himself.
A sound escapes him. A short, sharp BARK of laughter. It's rusty, unused. Alien in his own throat.
It surprises him.
It surprises Tommy, who pauses, his eyes a little wide.
The laugh is choked, ragged. But it's real. It ends as quickly as it began, but its echo hangs in the air. A warmth, faint but present, spreads in Michael's chest.
Tommy's lips twitch into the barest hint of a smile. He meets Michael's gaze for a fleeting moment—a shared recognition. Then he looks back at the fence, snipping another thorny branch.
**EXT. FENCE LINE - GULLY - LATER**
They work in a silent rhythm. Michael pulls the wire taut. Tommy nails it in.
SOUND of the HAMMER against staples—a steady THWACK... THWACK...
They replace a rotten post, the shared effort a familiar weight. Sweat beads on Michael's forehead. It's a good ache now, from honest work. Each tightened wire is a tiny victory against chaos.
They round a bend, following the fence down into a shallow gully.
And they stop dead.
THEIR POV
A thirty-foot section of fence is GONE. Not just broken. Obliterated.
Posts are splintered like matchsticks. The earth is churned up, scarred with deep, wide tracks. Not deer. Something driven. Deliberate. Malicious.
The faint smell of burnt wood and ash hangs in the air, mixed with an acrid, metallic scent. Old pennies and rain. It crawls under the skin.
CLOSE ON MICHAEL
The familiar cold dread blooms in his stomach. His hands tremble.
The air feels thin.
SOUND DESIGN: The ambient sounds of the ranch FADE AWAY, replaced by a low ROARING in his ears. A frantic PULSE thuds against his temples.
His vision narrows. The bright wildflowers blur into an indistinct wash. The world shifts beneath his feet.
Tommy comes up beside him, his easy rhythm gone. His shoulders are rigid.
TOMMY
> (Strained)
> This... this isn’t right. Not at all.
He kicks at a broken post. A shower of splinters. His face is a hard, grim mask. He looks at Michael, his eyes dark with a question that needs no words.
Michael feels stripped bare by that gaze. He swallows, his throat desert-dry. He wants to run.
He can't move. Rooted to the spot, staring at the raw, open wound on the land. Proof that the past isn't past.
The silence stretches, heavy, suffocating. The earlier moment of shared laughter feels like a fragile, forgotten dream.
This is more than a broken fence. This is a message.
And Michael knows, with a certainty that chills him to his core, the message is for them.
[SCENE END]