Bloodletting - Screenplay & Novel Excerpts

Ideally, before viewing this post, you've already read my interview with William D. Prystauk (if not, be sure to read it right away for his insightful remarks about adapting, inspirations, his writing process and more.) The interview gives background about Bloodletting, his original feature screenplay that he turned into a novel. Below is an excerpt from the screenplay, followed by the same scene in the novel. It's interesting to see how the novel's prose is expanded and developed compared to the concise, to-the-point screenplay narrative/description.

Bloodletting - Screenplay Excerpt

Page 26

by William D. Prystauk

Please note: Any screenplay format that looks a bit "off" (such as how the dialogue is centered) is due to the limitations of blog format, not William's original script. 

EXT. CHURCH OF THE TRANSFIGURATION - DAWN
 

Denny and Erin, a little unkempt, climb the front steps of the church. Denny tries one of the large doors.

DENNY BOWIE
I know they're locked and...

The door opens. Denny stops Erin while YAWNING. Slowly, they step inside.
 

INT. CHURCH OF THE TRANSFIGURATION - CONTINUING
 

Denny, keeping a watchful eye, walks ahead of Erin towards the pew with a shadowy life-sized Christ on his cross.
 

ERIN MARR
Churches look so unholy in the
dark.

Denny brings a finger to his lips. Erin peers at the cross.
 

ERIN MARR (CONT’D)
I can't see anything except...

Erin SCREAMS. Denny rolls his eyes. SIGHING, he moves closer to the pew and lights a candle.
 

DENNY BOWIE
So much for the element of
surprise.

He follows Erin's eyes to the crucifix.
 

STACY'S NAILED TO THE CROSS.
 

She wears her own barbed-wire crown of thorns and her right side sports a wound. Blood from her injuries cover the floor and the cross. Denny tries to get a closer look, but Erin clings to him for dear life.
 

DENNY BOWIE
It's the girl I met in the bar the
other night.

Denny turns and faces Erin.

DENNY BOWIE (CONT’D)
She told me to stay away from
Penny. Said she was evil.

Lights pop on. Denny and Erin turn and face the front doors.

Bloodletting - Novel Excerpt

Chapter 16 (Pages 107-111)

by William D. Prystauk

     In my heart, organized religion was the root of all evil and I had little tolerance for any temple and the many hypocrisies that accompanied it, but the Church of St. Francis Xavier was different. They truly gave a damn, and because they represented an entity as staunch and old world misogynistic as Roman Catholicism, I was surprised the Vatican hadn’t shut the place down long ago. Besides outreach programs for the poor and unemployed, this Jesuit apostolate devoted themselves to gay and lesbian Catholics caught in the crossfire of political rhetoric and selective biblical interpretation.

      At five on the dot, Erin and I, unkempt and drained, stood before the pale granite of the fairytale-like 1880’s church. With the gold statue of Saint Francis looking down upon us from the stone balcony of the second story, as if he’d stepped away from his alcove to bless Erin and me, we passed the black iron fencing, and climbed the stone steps up through the center of a trio of arches to the waiting door.
I silenced a yawn then gripped the handle. “I know it’s locked and ...”

    The wooden door opened with little effort.

    My raised hand stopped Erin from rushing in. Slowly, we stepped inside.

    Keeping a watchful eye, I moved far ahead of him. With the lights of the pre-dawn dancing through the mosaic glass in a kaleidoscope of color, I sensed the enormity of the parish. There were far too many recesses, columns and pews to hide behind, let alone the darkened mezzanine. Worse still, the Latin cross-shaped house of worship was under renovation, and filled my nose with lingering odors left from plaster and sealant, though I was more concerned about the additional places from equipment that allowed for more hidden surprises. Fearing an ambush, I moved forward anyway, trying to bury the sound of my heart so I could listen for any misstep from the caller who was most likely already here. Against my instincts, and with a shaky hand, I moved straight down the center towards the shadowy, life-sized figure of Christ on his cross, making sure the heels of my boots didn’t clunk or scrape along the uneven stone floor of the transept. The church and its ornate frescoes rose above me and whatever intimacy I felt outside its gates was now completely lost. I was alone in the shadows in a vast warehouse of stone and glass that would amplify the smallest of sounds.

    With my own tell-tale heart continuing to hamper my ears as I plodded along, guided only by those haphazard rays of light, I took pride in our silent approach, when, “Churches look so unholy in the dark” made its escape from Erin’s lips. I slammed a finger against my mouth, signaling him to shut the fuck up. But Erin just peered at the crucifix. “I can’t see anythang except ...”

    Erin’s scream rang throughout every corner of St. Francis Xavier’s. I rolled my eyes and sagged in defeat. Taking a small flashlight from my back pocket, I calmed my nerves and wondered if my ears were bleeding from the dancer’s shriek.

    “So much for the element of surprise,” I half-said aloud. 

     Following Erin’s horror to the crucifix, I thumbed the switch and the light found the spirit of his cry: a frail, willowy girl nailed to a cross.

     Erin’s fingers dug their way into me as he slammed his eyes shut and buried his face into the back of my olive drab. I kept my bearings. Listened first. No movement meant the killer was long gone. I tried to move forward, but Erin was steadfast. I shined the light onto the corpse and the hair gave her away.

     “It’s the girl I met in the bar the other night.” I turned towards Erin and he released his numbing grip though his eyes were still closed. “She told me to stay away from Penny. Said she was evil.” \

     Erin cried and the echo rang out. “Honey, let’s go. Please.” His voice alien and strange. He tugged at me in desperation, but I wasn’t going anywhere.

     Putting my arm around Erin’s waist, I spun him about to face the doors, leaving me to face the body, and brought him in close. I lifted his chin and told him to look at me. He did.

     “Go outside, have a cigarette and wait for me. Don’t call the cops.” I stopped my new lover from speaking with a calming kiss. “Go.”

    Erin sniffled, nodded and rushed outside with fast clicks from his heels to the safety of the sunlight.

    I moved forward with tentative steps towards the cross, careful enough not to get too close. I focused on the body: the Jesus girl wore her own barbed-wire crown of thorns, above a face in repose, and her right side had been cut open, mocking what the spear of destiny had done to the original rebel some two-thousand years before. Her pale, tortured body was covered in zigzag patterns of gashes and whip marks. Railroad spikes punctured her palms and ankles. Blood covered the floor as well as the handmade cross of rotting, damaged wood, set before the altar. Past the desecration shined the true, painted crucifix in the rotunda of the sanctuary, a riveting fresco in an arched frame below the church’s grand dome. It must’ve taken time to pose the girl, and the portrait behind her body was in all likelihood used as a guide.

     I shifted to the side, crouching low to let the light play along the base of its altar at the edges of the black pool. With the best angle for light and reflection, I found it: bootprints. Two sets. One very large and one much smaller. There was nothing more though my heart told me someone else had to be there, watching, orchestrating, gloating – the Mistress directing her minions.

     The Jesus girl had to have been alive for the final moments because her blood had cascaded from deep cuts in her armpits and covered most of the prints on the floor. No blood had been tracked beyond the confines of the altar, though its metallic odor cut through the smell of the drying plaster.
Shining the light on her face, I caught the trails from tears and the pale, downturned mouth as if she were at rest. And for some reason, in that hall of absolute peace, as I expected her eyes to open, I heard a drop splash onto the floor as if the church was crying for her.

     I wondered if she peered out the colored glass and begged for mercy. Then I remembered the giant crucifix that had hung around her neck and could hear her saying, “Why hast thou forsaken me?” in her final moment. Maybe Jesus was her one true love and this was her one chance to totally immerse herself into the spirit of his death to try and feel what he had felt. To completely appreciate her savior via a forced imitation of Christ with her in the starring role. I could see her bringing her captors, her torturers no satisfaction as she grew quiet and still while peering out of the stained glass. Yeah, she didn’t beg. She smiled because she was going home. Going home to her love. I just can’t imagine the hell she went through to get there.

     I looked at her one last time before getting back to work. I searched in vain for her silver crucifix but couldn’t find it and knew the necklace had become a trophy.  

     And as I got closer to the bootprints in an effort to better see the patterns, the lights popped on. I twisted around, snapping a wide-eyed gaze toward the front doors.

© William D. Prystauk

I Do, You Don't - Screenplay & Prose

As Lauren Barbato describes in her interview (be sure to read it here!), she often writes prose that further explores scenes from her screenplays. Here is a scene from Lauren's feature screenplay I Do, You Don't, followed by accompanying prose.

Excerpt from I Do, You Don't

Please note: Any screenplay format that looks slightly "off", such as the way the dialogue is centered, is due to limitations of the blog format, not Lauren's original script.

EXT. WATERFRONT PROMENADE - HOBOKEN, NJ - NIGHT

Through the POV of TWO SMALL CIRCULAR VIEWFINDERS we see the glittering Manhattan skyline. Stationary only for a moment, then swiveling slowly, left to right.

Elle presses her face against a TOURIST TELESCOPE on the edge of the brick pathway overlooking the Hudson River.

Mike approaches, stumbling a bit. Elle hears him, but swivels the telescope in the opposite direction.

He takes the other telescope only a few feet away, swivels it to face Elle. And through these two telescopes, they talk.

MIKE
So. Is there still a Sky?

Elle pulls the telescope up to the sky.

ELLE
Looks like it’s still there.

MIKE
Is there still a person named Sky?

ELLE
It’s not exactly at the top of the
list of baby names, but I’m sure
there’s a few out there.

Mike straightens, peering at Elle over the top of the telescope.

MIKE
How many questions is this going to
take?

ELLE
It’s 3 a.m.

Elle fully swivels the telescope to face Mike.

ELLE
Too late for questions.

Mike hops off the telescope stand, stumbles to the BENCH across the way.

MIKE
When I have kids--

ELLE
When?

MIKE
If I have kids, I’m going to name
them Sky, Moon, and Sun.

ELLE
Why not Earth, Wind, and Fire?

MIKE
I think those might be copyrighted.

Elle straightens, removing her eyes from the telescope.

ELLE
I heard about your parents.

MIKE
Your mom’s got a big mouth.

ELLE
You know how Catholics are. They
live for death.

MIKE
Of course. The more rosaries they
have to say, the better.

Elle jumps off the telescope stand. Graceful, even after a night of drinking.

ELLE
How’d they pass?

MIKE
It’s 3 a.m. Too late for questions.

A beat, as they gauge one another. It’s too quiet. Nothing but the waves rippling softly.

MIKE
I never thought I would be an
orphan.

ELLE
That’s not really something you
think about.

MIKE
But we probably should. Save us the
trouble now.

Elle turns to the railing, raising her heels to get a better look of the city that sits so plainly in front of her.

MIKE
You miss it?

Elle shrugs as she reaches into her purse, digs around.

MIKE
Of course you don’t. Why else can’t
we keep you out of Jersey for eight
years?

ELLE
You know what happens when I come
back to Jersey.
(lighting a cigarette)
I quit smoking and start believing
in God.

Mike laughs, nodding to the cigarette as Elle takes a seat beside him.

MIKE
That right?

ELLE
(smiling)
Oops.

MIKE
And that’s why I like you.

ELLE
Because I’m a hypocrite.

MIKE
Because unlike everything else, you
never change.

It’s too much — Elle needs to look away.

ELLE
So much for the city that never
sleeps.

MIKE
I haven’t been able to sleep in a
long, long time.

ELLE
Yeah. Me neither.

Mike lightly rests his head on Elle’s shoulder. They watch the gentle waves of the Hudson.

I Do, You Don't Prose - "Revisited"

   They walk along the brick promenade overlooking the Hudson, which glistens in the late-day sunlight. Barely a foot apart, the backs of their hands graze one another’s, a continual gesture that lends itself to be deliberate. She offers him a cigarette and he complies; he only smokes when she’s around, though he never could explain why that was.

   She motions to the railing and they pause, watching the life on the river’s placid waves as the George Washington Bridge stands guard over it all—it was more than a pause, really. They had this peculiar way with silence, letting it follow them like a peripheral member of their company. He did not feel the need to speak, for he felt there was nothing left to say. She, on the other hand, did not know where to begin.

   In the growing shadows of the day, they look ten years older than what they truly are. He has dark circles under his eyes and acquired a mid-section predestined for middleage men. She is thinner than he remembered, her hair hanging limply from her crown to just below her sharp shoulders, fraying at the ends. If he looked closely enough, he thought he could see her natural hair color peeking through.

   As he smokes, a glint of gold catches her eye for barely a moment before it’s gone with the ash accumulating on the tip of his cigarette—a moment, however fleeting, that she could not claim as an illusion.

   Across the river, Manhattan is winding down its day. Traffic builds on the GW’s neatly stacked decks, one car halting to a stop after the other, the persistent honking coming to a hover over the promenade. Their silence dissipates as quickly as it solidified, leaving the pair entrapped in the sounds of foreign conversations. It was always then, compressed and claustrophobic, that they felt obliged to add to the world’s ceaseless cacophony.

   How many people live in Manhattan? she asks, pressing her hips against the railing and rising on tip-toe to get a better view of the city that stood so plainly in front of her.

   “I think a million or so.”

   “There should be more for such a ‘dream city.’”

   “It’s not such a big island.”

   “But you think they would have expanded it by now. Maybe claim parts of Jersey.”

   “This isn’t L.A.”

   “No. Thank God it’s not.”

   She finishes the last of her cigarette, much more quickly than he, and flicks it over the railing. They watch as it’s swiftly enclosed by a wave. He makes it a point to flick his into a nearby metal tray.

   “You always litter like that?” he asks when he returns.

   “There’s no difference.”

   “One’s in an ash tray, the other’s in the sea.”

   “It all gets to the same place eventually.”

   It was that loosely-threaded philosophy by which she lived her life. As a young woman, she wandered, driving mapless along the coastline and interstates only to discover that she was tracing her haphazard paths. She experimented, using her body as an absorbent for substances, both pharmaceutical and street bought, before gradually returning to her sober state, her organs healed and skin refreshed as if she were still that flawless teenager. And after years of spreading her legs for questionable men, she now found herself standing beside the first man to ever press into her. She knew he always felt guilty about possessing that honor—it was a heavy guilt that hung like a veil overhead. As two excommunicated Catholics, religious expats, they knew this guilt well, although it did not make him any less questionable.

   “Do you miss the East Coast,” he asks.

   She scans the skyline, all the way from Uptown to Battery Park, and says, “Not as much as I should.”

   She was flying again tomorrow. He would be at work when her plane would be taking its place on the runway. At his desk, sipping his triple shot latte—nonfat, because he was upholding his New Year’s resolution to uphold New Year’s resolutions. He would be in the middle of a phone call, throwing around statements about mayors and advisors and constituents that would later be quoted in the Times. She would be ordering a gin and tonic, smiling politely at the stewardess (or steward, she makes a point to add) and his (or her, she insists) disapproving glare at her ordering alcohol so early in the day. There would be a book resting on her lap but she would not open it; ear buds tucked in her ears but she would not turn on the radio. She would not look out the window and, despite being in his inaugural office-with-a-view, neither would he.

   “The Times?” she asks.

   He slips his wallet out from his back pocket and removes a cluster of newsprint clippings held together with an orange rubber band. She carefully relinquishes the clippings from the band and begins to shuffle through them, one by one.

   “You’re like my grandmother,” she says, squinting to read the miniscule lettering on the yellowing paper. “She always kept newspaper clippings in her purse, everything from my mother’s engagement to my uncle’s obituary.” After a moment, she returns the clipping to her lap, nestling it between the others. She averts her eyes now when she speaks, focusing instead on the worn rubber band, wrapping it into figure eight’s around her pointer and middle fingers. “You sound very intelligent in some of these.”

   “You’re that surprised?”

   “I guess I never thought of you that way.”

   “Then how do you think of me?”

   The rubber band snaps, leaving a thin pink line on her palm. He moves to take her hand—her right and his left—and that glint of gold, that new addition to his being, teases her again. She places the loose clump of clippings into his open palm. They flutter freely and he lets them. 

   “It was so easy when you were gone,” she says.

   “I never went very far.”

   She stares at him now and he notices her eyes, what he always swore were a deep brown, spiked with green.

   “Would it have mattered if I stayed?”

   Five years his junior, she was his Lolita, standing in one strapless sandal beneath the neon glow of the aging marquee at the local cineplex. Laughing at midnight in the park beside the police station, she was his student, and then, when their playground trysts turned into multi-hundred dollar affairs, she was his equal, their experiences varied yet matched. As a grown-up Lolita, he didn’t think she would have the same attraction, that same sense of danger. But here, the first time they’ve been exposed in the daylight, the scenes before the park and hotel room they’ve so often skipped, the curves of her body indiscernible in the waning sunlight, no longer naive, no longer coy, no longer lost—she just was.

   “Do you want to go to the bar tonight?” he asks.

   “You know what would happen.”

   “But it’s your last night.”

   “That’s the problem.”

   They were supposed to be water under the bridge. That’s what he said once, in the harshness of the night only insomniacs witness, and she agreed even though, truthfully, she didn’t know what it meant. Very quiet water, like a shallow stream passing through a forest at midday, he said as they waited, huddled beneath the sheets, for their room service meals. It was the easiest thing for them to do—they convinced themselves so well. But it was never as easy as they liked to believe, leaving each other there, locked in a time they are forbidden to mention not even in a letter, not even in a metaphor. Water under the bridge, an empty phrase that is exemplary in thought yet falters when taken literally.

   “So here we are,” he says.

   “Yes,” she says. “Here we are.”

   They had their moments years before—a time where they were overcome with capricious notions—and in a way, none of that has changed. He formed several wrinkles in the center of his forehead; hers were etched at the corners of her eyes. Their joints were tighter, stiff with work and age, and though they may have appeared older, they were not a mere thought wiser.

   “If we do this,” he starts.

   “It won’t ever end,” she finishes.

   Darkness has fallen now, the lights of the skyscrapers flickering off in an indecipherable pattern. Businessmen and women crossing the Hudson to return home to their spouses, the others lingering in the draining city, prolonging arrival to their empty quarters. The promenade, too, is thinning, save for couples retreating to the benches for a bit of privacy and romance. He, like the others, motions to the nearest bench—a neglected one hidden among some shrubs—and she shakes her head.

   She pulls another cigarette from her purse and places it between her lips, smoking and speaking simultaneously, out of habit.

   “Lets go to that bar,” she says.

© Lauren Barbato

Call for Submissions: Summer Stories

Hi writers and readers,

If you didn't go "poof" and disappear on the day of the Rapture, how about joining a community of sinners and honing those creative juices this summer?

With summer approaching, I'd love for you to send in anecdotes or short stories about a summer memory, whether wonderful or please-let-this-day-be-over. They can be very brief, like sending a postcard to SelfScribes readers, or lengthier prose. Write something truthful, or make up a story as you're daydreaming in your cubicle, as long as it is summer-related. 

So whether you're on holiday, volunteering or going to work as usual, there's a story somewhere!

E-mail submissions to LuluScribe@hotmail.com