Abigail: A Short Story

lilac

Recently, I have been going through old files and documents saved on my laptop. I came across this character script that I wrote for a video production class. We had to create a personality in a page or less. This exercise was so enjoyable, that I thought I would share the finished product with you. Everything in italics is the visual part of the script.

Here it is, enjoy!

Abigail’s Story

Groaning loudly, Abigail reaches over and slams her hand down on the giant snooze button. Rolling onto her back, her honey brown hair spreads across her pillow like a halo.

She slowly and unwillingly climbs from between the thick comforter and flower patterned blankets. Her small bare feet touch the ice cold tile floor and she shivers uncontrollably, her dainty frame craving the warmth of a good morning cup of coffee.

Wrapping herself in a shiny blue robe covered in Chinese symbols, she ties it around her waist and heads down the hallway decorated with vintage wall paper and dozens of small pots of flowers. Yellow daisies and brilliant violets mix freely in the colorful bases, all showing Abigail’s pride in her ever growing neighborhood meadow.

Walking into her moderately sized kitchen, the backsplash tiled with old blue and white farm tiles, she quickly walks over to the coffee machine and turns it on. Abigail opens the window above the sink, sending the soft yellow curtains flowing in the slight autumn morning breeze.

Cupping her face in her tiny hands, she stares contently at the flowering meadow that takes the place of a common backyard. Her emerald green eyes take in every little detail of the community meadow, from the waist tall cattails swaying gently in the gentle wind, to the rustic gazebo, its sides entwined with ivy and violets.

Ten other small houses frame the meadow. The one on her left is crisply maintained with sharp white trim and a newly installed concrete patio. On the other hand, the house directly to her right shows its age with peeling paint and a cracked wooden boardwalk that leads from the slanting back porch to the meadow. Abigail’s house sits farther back than her neighbors. Old, but well cared for, the exterior held a pattern of wind chimes and dream catchers, all boasting a multitude of colors.

Abigail sighed peacefully, turning away from the window, her hands reaching for the used coffee pot.

[Noise in the background. A sudden sound of a lawn mower breaks the morning silence.]

Hearing the sudden sound, Abigail scampered quickly to the window, her eyes wide with fright. At the sight of an industrial sized lawn mower at the far left edge of the meadow, her jaw drops, her surprise showing clearly on her delicate and faerie like features.

Running to her back door, she threw it open and stood in the door way. Squinting at the lawn mower, she saw the Seattle National Park logo on the side of the giant green monster.

Her eyes sad, she folded her arms angrily across her chest, her long honey hair hanging haphazardly down her back. Walking to her solid oak kitchen table, she reached down and picked up the notice lying on its knotted surface.

In dark scrawling ink, the words COMMUNITY PLAYGROUND AND LAKE confirmed Abigail’s fears. They were going ahead with the project.

She sat down wearily on the cushioned kitchen chair next to the door. The notice sat on her lap and her elbow rested on the table, holding her head up. She had fought long and hard against this new bill. The papers covering the rest of the table proved that fact.

[The camera pans over the papers, picking up the titles and important bold facts.]

News articles, newspaper clippings, and magazines littered her kitchen table, showing her ever growing need to save the meadow before it was demolished. She had failed.

Her hands cradle her head, her hair falling down across her face. She looks up at the door with tears in her eyes. Slowly standing up, as though she has aged forty years in the past two minutes, she stumbles through the doorway and walks agedly out into the meadow.

Kneeling down in the rain soaked earth, she sits next to a patch of daisies growing freely. She picks five from the earth, rolling the stems between her fingers, savoring the feel, the sense of picking them from the ground.

Bringing them to her nose, she inhales their beauty, their ever persistent smell of nature. Closing her eyes, tears well from beneath the covering and trickle down her freckle dotted face.

Gathering as many daisies as possible, she fills her arms with the flowers. Slowly trudging back inside, she sets them all on the counter and goes in search for the perfect vase.

She settles on an antique Greek vase, made of colored glass and decorated with specks of gold. Filling it up with water from the chrome sink, she puts the daisies in the glass.

Gathering her hair into a ponytail, she arranges the vase on the kitchen table in the midst of all the papers. Pouring herself a cup of now lukewarm coffee, she sits in her faded kitchen chair and stares at the daisies with a kind of affection a mother has for her child.

This is her last vase.

This is the last of her meadow.

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