Screenwriting : Monday Write Challenge 2! by John Mezes

Title: Manhattan Stalemate

INT. STUDIO APARTMENT – UPPER MANHATTAN – EVENING

Mya, 25, an actress, sits across from her husband, Jax, 35, a screenwriter.

Mya

Mya listlessly swirls a lone strand of spaghetti around her fork, eyes glazed, watching it spin.

Jax

Jax hunches at the far end of the table. His gaze is locked on Mya, eyebrows knitting deep, anxious furrows into his forehead. He clenches and unclenches his fists, knuckles cracking in the silence. Finally, he takes a long, deliberate breath—something brittle shatters in the hush.

Mya

Mya drops her fork, snorts a small, defiant breath through her nose, and reaches for a white napkin already smeared berry-red from her lipstick. Dabs the corners of her mouth, then tosses the napkin onto her plate with finality.

Jax

The envelope skids—careens—crashing into Mya’s wine glass, sending a cascade of burgundy onto her ivory blouse.

Still, no screaming. No words. Just the oppressive noise of silence, echoing between them.

MYA

Jaw clenched, Mya stands. The scrape of her chair against the floor is deliberate, grating—a sound like nails on a chalkboard. She seems to drink in the discomfort, fueling her resolve.

Jax

Jax grabs his ears, muttering under his breath—God damnit—but she’s unfazed.

MYA

She smooths her skirt, her expression shifting—cold, almost feral. With slow precision, she twists the diamond band from her finger, peeling away bits of skin. She hurls the ring at Jax—a calculated missile. He jerks away just in time.

Jax

Jax shoves his chair back, hands gripping the table, rattling the old oak until drops of blood trickle from his fingers and stain the grain.

MYA

Mya snatches up the envelope. She disappears into the bedroom, reemerging moments later with a suitcase wedged under her arm and a card pinched between her fingers. She rolls her eyes at the sight of Jax, still glued to the shuddering table, a faint, mocking smile tugging at her lips.

JAX

He finally let’s go; the table capsizes and crashes. Jax staggers around its overturned bulk, striding toward her in impatient steps.

MYA

Mya flings the card at his face and, without another look, heads for the door.

JAX

Jax starts to count down—ten, nine, eight—but loses the thread before seven. Rage and regret blur together. In a flash, he grabs the shattered stem of her wine glass and hurls it at the closing door. But Mya is already gone.

He curses under his breath and stoops to pick up the card, hands trembling. On the card, in her elegant scrawl:

You thought you would bury me with the other skeletons. Playtime is over. Check and mate.

Jax’s gaze crawls over the apartment. The walls seem to darken, closing in. Photographs of them together twist in their frames. His own eyes in the glossy prints swirl, hollowing out, becoming coal-black, ravenous orbs.

I got an idea right away when I read your post, John Mezes. Here’s my scene:

INT./EXT. APARTMENT - DAY

Neat apartment. Usually. KELLEY and BEN – a 20-something dysfunctional, toxic couple – stomp through the place, glaring and boxing up everything.

No words. Just things getting shoved into boxes, bumping into one another on purpose, furniture moving, kicking things in their way, and sharp glances at each other.

They finish and head out, each holding a small box. Ben leaves first. He slams the door in her face. Kelley snatches open the door and flings her box at him. It hits his head. Hard.

He swings around and faces her, raging. He stomps over, fist balled up. She balls up her fist.

Kiss. Hot, wet kiss.

How about this?

A short Uhaul is pulling away with a Woman in her thirties throwing her boyfriends left behind items as he pulls away. We can see the smile on his face from his rearview mirror. As Neighbours turn on lights and come outside as this woman drops to her knees crying.

HONK! HONK! His arm with his tumb up as he drives away...

A dude reads a front page headline about a woman whose husband said he went to buy cigarettes and never came back. His wife farts in front of the TV, so he draws a circle around the article. Leaves it behind and gestures that he's out of cigarettes. Grabs his wallet, jacket and car keys. She screams "you won't smoke them in here then" when the door closes.

It's late morning, about time to go to work. Girl is in bed, unwilling to get up. Then she sees the necklace he bought her on her nightstand, and that's what finally gets her out of bed. She grabs it, thinks about throwing it in his face when she sees him at work, her reputation be damned. Instead, she throws it in the trash and gets ready.

Okay, I'll try it. (Disclaimer: this is the only second scene I've ever tried to write!)

INT. BRENDA AND MARK’S HOUSE – DAY

Brenda dabs tears from her puffy, reddened eyes. She rips clothing from hangers on her side of the closet. Tosses it all onto an unmade bed. Empties three drawers of clothes and undergarments on top of the pile.

Mark passes by the open bedroom door and watches the pile grow for a moment. Unfazed. Continues down the hall to the living room and sinks into the sofa.

Hastily, Brenda stuffs each piece of clothing into two roller bags. Just manages to get every last item crammed in. Kneels on each bag to zip shut.

Brenda rolls her bags to the front door. She turns and glares at Mark, who is mindlessly watching some sports game he doesn't care about. He gazes at Brenda, emotionless. She removes a key from her key chain and pointedly drops the key on the floor. CLINK.

She clumsily trips out the door with the bags. The door SLAMS shut behind her.