184. Threads - Leslie

• FADE IN:


• EXT. BUSY CITY STREET - NIGHT


• Sidewalks packed with night-owls seem to pulse with the flow of human traffic and the street glows with the city's mechanical bloodflow.


• STORYTELLER
• Threads. We're all bound by threads.


• A HOMELESS MAN studies a ball of yarn suspiciously.


• STORYTELLER
• I think we've been tearing it apart for years, like some insane person tearing out his veins.


• A young CLUB-HOPPER kicks the ball of string from the man's hands and it rolls out onto the street.


• CLUB-HOPPER
• Go fetch!


• She and her friends walk away laughing.


• STORYTELLER
• We are bound to each other and yet have this primal need to destroy this tapestry and weave our on. Replacing a master-weaving with the scribbles of a child drawing in the dark.


• The ball of yarn rolls into the center of the street and comes to rest at the sandaled feet of a WOMAN IN A RAGGED DRESS.


• She stoops to pick the ball of yarn up.


• She is illuminated by the red of rear lights and the glare of headlights.


• She continues walking down the middle of the road, a lone human figure in this parade of machines.


• STORYTELLER
• Our threads are wearing thin. We cut away so many strands, not understanding that they are part of us. Some sanity please? Otherwise we'll tear away at ourselves, pulling apart our skin as we keep mumbling that we're fixing things. We need help.


• The woman sees the homeless man and holds her hand out to him, offering the return of the yarn.


• She weaves through the racing cars, unafraid, and reaches the sidewalk.


• The man looks at her for a long moment, then pulls a small gun from his coat and fires a single bullet into her head.


• She falls.


• Traffic and pedestrians don't even pause.


• The man picks up the ball of yarn and it falls apart in his hand.


• STORYTELLER
• Ironic, isn't it?


• FADE TO BLACK.