Valentine's Day Short Scene FINALISTS

All righty, Rouge Wavers. Here we go. The Wave-inatrix received ever so many submissions and some were just so good that I couldn't resist - we have four finalists here, instead of the usual three. We're going to keep the voting period shorter than usual - the winner will be announced end of day Wednesday so they can use their 1-800-Flowers gift certificate to send some posies to the one they love on V-Day.

Remember the criteria, please: how cleverly did the writers incorporate the key words (verve, writers strike, 1-800), do the scenes have a beginning, middle and end? Is there tension in the narrative? How is the dialogue? Do the characters seem organic, i.e., believable, with back stories and flaws, wants and needs?

Vote away, on the sidebar to your right.


WHY WRITERS SHOULDN'T STRIKE

OVER BLACK:

The opening violin riff of "Bitter Sweet Symphony" by The
Verve plays, perhaps on a jukebox inside a dive bar...

EXT. 500 CLUB - NIGHT

VANESSA (20's), a hippy lawyer gal still in her day job
uniform, stands under a blinking neon martini sign.
A stoned BOUNCER studies her license. He laughs.

BOUNCER
Heh. You were born on Valentine's Day.

She grabs her license from him and opens the door.

VANESSA
A lot of good it's done me...

INT. 500 CLUB - NIGHT
Vanessa scans the dank, red-lit space. A guy sitting in
a booth waves at her with a bouquet of red roses.
She walks towards him, squeezing past aging HIPSTERS
dressed in threadbare T-shirts, hoodies and skinny jeans.
She sits down next to RYAN (30's). He has spiky hair and
wears a pressed collared shirt and geek glasses.

Ryan tries to kiss Vanessa on the lips, but makes do with
a cheek. He hands her a glass of red wine and holds up
his half-consumed bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon.

RYAN
To us.

CLINK! They toast and drink. But she's suspicious.

VANESSA
Since when is it us? You moved to LA.

RYAN
Can't do much damage down there right
now, the writer's strike and all...

He hands her the bouquet. She takes it, but a thorn
pricks her finger. She dabs at the blood with a napkin.

RYAN
What do you want for your birthday?

He fingers her soft, shiny hair. She tenses up.

VANESSA
I don't know. How about a bouquet of
sincerity? Or maybe a box of honesty?

RYAN
Oh, come on. Do you want that stuff? Or
an engagement ring? It's time, baby --

VANESSA
I'm not falling for this story again --

LATER
Vanessa and Ryan kiss, heatedly. Ryan's iPhone RINGS.
He takes the call. Vanessa motions towards the bathroom.

MINUTES LATER
Vanessa comes out of the bathroom, smiling. She stops.
The booth is empty and Ryan is nowhere to be seen.

A BARTENDER approaches her, a pained expression on his
face. He holds the bouquet of red roses.

VANESSA
He left.

BARTENDER
He had to go to LA, said something about
getting a call -- the strike being over,
his series being picked up -- and your
phone going straight to voice mail.

VANESSA
I turned it off, to be with him.

BARTENDER
Is there another number where he can
reach you tonight?

VANESSA
(recovers, smiles)
Yes! Yes there is.

He hands her a pen and a slip of paper. She scribbles,
then folds the paper and hands it to him.

She walks away, leaving behind the roses. The bartender
unfolds the paper and looks down.

It reads: 1-800-EAT-SHIT!

He smiles, Yeah! And walks towards the phone...

***

THE PITS

EXT. LA BREA TAR PITS - DAY

The sky is blue, the bright green grass blows back and forth
gently in the breeze and a plastic, permanently trapped
elephant family floats around in its pool of tar behind a
fence built for tourists to gaze upon the bubbly black goo.

On the hill near the pit, one JACK BILLINGS, 24, hunches
over his bottle of vodka. Jack is dashing and rugged with a
chiseled jaw and perfect eyebrows. Except not right now.
Right now he's weeping and disheveled.

JACK
Heeeeeeeey guys!

He waves at a group of teenager who giggle and point.

A woman, VERONICA LAWSON, 29 and wearing a business suit,
runs up and grabs Jack by the arm.

VERONICA
Jack. Jack, come with me. You need
to get home.

JACK
Heeeeeeeeey Ronnie!

He grabs her, but refuses to budge as she tugs unsuccessfully
at his arm.

JACK
She's gone, Ronnie! She left! Left!
Took her stuff and left! On
Valentine's Day! Do you know what I
had to do to get reservations at 33
on Valentine's Day?

VERONICA
You had to make a call?

JACK
I had to make a call!

A few tourists point and take pictures. Jack takes another
swig from his bottle.

JACK
She said I'm a jerk, Ronnnie! A
jerk! Me! I'm not a jerk! Am I a
jerk?

VERONICA
Well, I don't think you're dealing
well with the Oscar nomination.

Jack curls up into a ball, still gripping Veronica's arm.
She tries not to fall.

VERONICA
I mean no, of course you're not a
jerk. You're full or verve and energy
and you make people smile. And you're
very pretty.

He looks up at her, his face scrunched up and teary. A small
crowd has gathered. Flashbulbs shoot off left and right.
Veronica looks around nervously at them.

JACK
Then why did she leave me?

VERONICA
I don't know, honey. She's a bitch.

JACK
She's not a bitch!

VERONICA
Okay then. Maybe she is just taking
some time. Jack we need to get you
home before the Paparazzi writers-

JACK
Strike? They're like a cobra. Pssst!
Pssst!

He makes a motion with his hand of a snake attack aimed at
his head.

JACK
Tell them to call 1-800-who-gives-ashit.

VERONICA
I give a shit. And you will too
when this shows up in the tabloids
tomorrow. Come on, honey let me get
you home. Please?

She tries to pull him up again. This time he stumbles to
his feet, a death grip on her arm and still holding his vodka
bottle.

JACK
Want to go to dinner at 33 tonight?

VERONICA
Ask me again when you're sober.

They walk out of the park, Jack leaning on Veronica's
shoulder, ignoring the murmurs and flash bulbs that continue
behind them.

***

LUVCELL

EXT. STREETS OF LA - DAY

A man, HARLAN (30’s) stands on a busy street corner holding a
red cell phone in the air. He’s overdressed for the California weather but since he’s
being paid to wear the gigantic stuffed heart and red tights,
he suffers silently.

Across his chest, sash-like is a phone number 1-800-LUV-CELL

HARLAN
Today only, call your loved one
free of charge!

Nobody around to pay attention to him. His delivery lacks
verve, his heart’s not really into it.

HARLAN
Valentines Day special, free within
the continental --

MAN’S VOICE (O.C.)
Harlan?

Harlan turns around quickly, the styrofoam arrow that
protrudes from his costume narrowly misses JEFF, who stands
behind Harlan with a shit-eating grin.

JEFF
Whoa, take it easy there, Cupid.

Jeff gives Harlan the head to toe, the smile only grows.

HARLAN
Jeff? Long time no see, what brings
you down from the hills?

JEFF
I was actually driving through, had
to stop.

Jeff nods to an idling sports car, complete with blond
airhead in the passenger seat attending to her makeup.

HARLAN
Of course you did.

JEFF
Hey, shouldn’t you be on a picket
line somewhere, you know with the
other writers?

Harlan stares at him, there’s no love.

JEFF
There’s a strike, right? A writer’s
strike ... or did you finally give
up that crap? I always said that
was the stupidest --

HARLAN
Yeah, Jeff, I gotta get back to
work ... unless you’d care to call
someone. It’s free. You could call
your mom or maybe your friend over
there.

Harlan nods toward the blonde. Jeff turn to look at her, she
waves, he waves back.

JEFF
Don’t waste your minutes, buddy. I
don’t even know her name. Anyways,
good seeing you, man --

Jeff laughs and pats Harlan on the back, a bit too hard, the
phone flies out of his hand and cracks on the sidewalk. They
both stare at it for a long moment.

JEFF
I should go, lady needs some bonbons.

When Harlan looks up, Jeff is already in his car. Harlan
struggles to pick up the broken phone, he falls over and like
Humpty Dumpty, can get back up.

Harlan rolls over onto his back, a broken lonely heart on a
busy sidewalk.

HARLAN
I should write something.

***

ALTERNATOR

INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT

JOE, beer belly held in by a stained red golf shirt, lounges
in a recliner watching a bowling match on T.V.

ANNOUNCER
(from T.V.)
Mark Writer’s strike in the third
frame really put this match out of
reach.

MARY, way out of Joe’s league, storms in the room.

MARY
I can’t believe you didn’t get it
fixed.

She jerks the phone out of its base.

JOE
Didn’t have time. Took me five
hours to get those damn flowers.

Mary grimaces at the grotesque vase of daisies and
sunflowers that sits on the table.

MARY
You know most ladies get Roses on
valentines!

JOE
Your right, most ladies do get
roses.

She glares at him.

MARY
What was the phone number for the
shop again?

JOE
It’s one of those One Eight hundred
numbers. I believe it was..

Mary dials as Joe tells her the number.

JOE
.. One, Eight, Zero, Zero, M-O-ES-
R-O-D.

Mary waits as the phone rings. A sultry voice answers.

SULTRY VOICE(O.S.)
You have reached Moe’s long hot
rod. How may I service you today?

Mary’s eyes widen. She slams the phone down.

MARY
You jerk.

Joe laughs.

MARY
What’s the real number?

JOE
Don’t know. You’ll have to look it
up.

She drags the phone book out from underneath a half eaten
box of chocolates. Looks through it. Redials.

MARY
(into phone)
Yeah.. Yeah.. When I turn the key
it just kinda makes a VerveVerve
sound. Yeah... A VerveVerveVerve.
Huh, okay... thanks.

She hangs up and sighs.

MARY
He says it probably needs a new
alternator.

JOE
How much that gonna cost?

MARY
Bout three hundred.

JOE
Damn, cars are just like women.

MARY
What’s that supposed to mean?

JOE
Need hundred’s of dollars and hours
of manual labor just to get a ride.

She huffs, then storms out of the room.

JOE
Happy valentines day.

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