Act 1, Scene 1

He just bought a new battery for his computer. He hasn’t purged out the text from his mind in a long time. It has been months and the battery was the excuse. It now seemed a requirement to sit on the leather couch with the big pillows, feet propped up on the dark wood table next to his Guinness, and a fire going in the fireplace (no Dura-flame here, no sir, just matches and a single sheet of newsprint). It is a new house after the divorce. A new space. A new couch. New pillows. Everything was newish at least to him. So, having to be tethered to a wall outlet just didn’t work in his mind. It didn’t feel right.

The battery was now installed so no more excuses, right?

He sits somewhat uncomfortably though. The table is a bit too high to rest his feet causing him to recline too much to type. He hadn’t tested that out when he bought it. He should have. But, it doesn’t matter now. Even though the words aren’t there he’s going to push forward anyway. He looks outside for inspiration.

It is the end of winter but not quite spring yet. It wants to rain. The sky is drab. He’s dressed for the weather in old jeans and big, bulky socks. The standard black t-shirt under a smart, black/grey ribbed sweeter. His black glasses perched a bit crooked on his nose. The hair is unkempt (maybe disheveled is a better word). It is coifed that way on purpose because he’s been told it is sexy and he believes it. Not that there is anybody around to see his freaky hair anyway. He has an evening to himself. He enjoys being alone in this way.

He types. He types anything because he needs to hear the sound of the keyboard. Progress. The clicks represent progress.

Her eyes gaze out along the long line of trees. A small wisp of smoke floats out above the tall branches from a fire pit down near her village. She sits on a jutting grey outcropping of rock and isn’t afraid of the steep drop below. She swings her legs playfully with a bit of a grip to the edge of the rock. Her clothes are loose and thick, but her mood is light and upbeat. In the distance there is the sound of dogs barking playfully. And she counts large birds flying together pointed toward some destination in a graceful ‘V’.

“Hold it. Loose and scratchy?” she turns to say. “Oh, come on. You may have put me in the dark ages, but don’t make me wear ‘loose and scratchy’. “

I typed thick, not scratch. And you practically wore burlap then, right? I’ll have to research those types of details later. I need to get the basic story and plot down first. Seriously, no more interruptions like this one. Screenplays are hard enough.

“Well. This just isn’t starting out well. I think you need to make me or you or whomever I am swordfight or something.”

You’re a girl. I’m a man. You are not me. You are Karin. Eventually you become a queen.

“Yeah, right! You need to start this script out with action. You even said, and I quote, ‘This is a female queen in the mold of Braveheart’. I might need some blue face paint.”

Karin looks over her left shoulder to see her attacker approach with two, thick branches trimmed of twigs and ready for battle. She smiles. She thinks she can beat her friend this time. Her bare feet slap against the rock as she jolts up.

“What, no boots or shoes of some sort?”

I like your feet. Do you think they’d wear toe rings back in 12th Century? I need to look that up.

“Oh, give me a break. I’ll go barefoot, but don’t you think it would be sexier if was wearing something other than burlap. I think some light, wispy thing that could show brief glimpses of the swell of my breasts would garner my movie a better response. Plus, it would distract my future love interest here.”

Karin catches the smooth branch playfully thrown her way. She flips it around and points it at her friend who sneers and wipes his cheek with his wrist. Her stance shows a practiced swordsman. Her smile reveals a game she loves to play.

She stops. “You know, you aren’t writing this in the correct format. Do you need to get some better software for this endeavor? And by the way, who do you have playing me? Please tell me I’m not going to be played by your Jennifer Love Hewitt fascination.”

You don’t have that choice.

“I’ll quit. I’ll just hand my stupid phallic-sword metaphor back to my buddy here, walk back home and leave you here with no hero-girl. You, your ADD, and your fragmented sentences will be stuck.”

I now understand what Charlie Brown meant by ‘Good Grief’. I should make you run from a bunch of rabid dogs or something.

“You don’t scare me…. Okay. Okay… okay! I’m sorry. You’re cute with that tousled hair.”

Tousled. That’s the word.

“Good. Want to start again? Put me in something sexy though, okay!?”

The battery light in the upper right corner flashes red. The laptop needs to be plugged back into the wall. Hour and a half. Poof! He sighs deeply.

Not tonight. He checks his watch and surmises he is nearing another beer.

“Wait…! Maybe I should be skinny dipping in the creek over th…. ”

He closes the lid on the laptop with a click. He slides it off his lap and hides it with one of the other pillows. With the remote he flips on the big screen to discover it was last on ESPN2. That was over a week ago.

Oooh! Basketball! Yippee!

Nice fire, though.