Forensics
Geography
Creative Writing
the Transfiguration
Grete hiked up the hill with the autumn air biting her rosy-red cheeks and found
the dead vermin still intact, lying on the brown, dry grass.
In the dead of night, they had moved it here. With the help of Grete herself, her
father and the man seen fit to be her husband, they had dumped its body up on the
hill in the park outside the city and then drove home in Grete’s fiance’s truck for a
well deserved, warm meal.
At first—at the very first discussion of disposing of the beast—Grete had wanted
nothing to do with it. She did not think she could even lay eyes upon the monstrous
bug that had preyed on her family for so long without feeling sick. But with her
mother ill, the maid fired—Grete was the only other who could aid them in the
discarding of such a creature. She was the only one who could help.
Her skirt danced around her knees with the wind. Surrounded her only were the
trees; orange, yellow, red and the sky glowing dully white above her. The day was
damp, the wind was bitter and strong. She stared down at the bug, blankly. Its legs
had shriveled up and curled into its hardened belly as it lay on its back in the
blinding, white light over the weeks. Its colors had seemed to lighten as it rotted
away and now that she saw it in the day, up on the hill, compared to the trees and the
ground, it seemed drained of all color—drained of every last drop of life.
Grete picked up the shovel from the crunching grass and stumped it into the dirt
with her foot. Mr. Samsa had thought it stupid to bury it. “Let it rot above. It doesn’t
matter any longer.” and Grete had agreed. Grete felt nothing for it, it was nothing
after all, but Mrs. Samsa had protested. She spoke of Gregor, what he’d done for
them, how he had sacrificed everything for them—her first born—but “It is not
Gregor!” Grete had cried. And it was decided it would rot above the dirt.
But as the days went on, Grete could not get the vermin out of her mind. Walking
past Gregor’s old room, she would shiver. Some early mornings before work when
all in the house was silent and still, she would stand there and stare into it, the
window casting yellow light into the darkness. She would see Gregor, getting ready
for work and laughing despite his tiredness. But now, undusted and unused, the
room had sat and withered away like the body of the bug up on the hill, like the
image of what he had been and Grete felt guilt. It was as though the monstrous bug
was there at her feet. As though Gregor was there—dying with an apple stuck in the
shell of his back.
It’s becoming too much. She had thought. But she went on with her day. In the
light, when the stillness of the house was unsettled, she could walk by his door
without so much as a glance in its direction. But apples had begun to make her feel
sick with the thought of him.
The killer apple had perished in the vermin’s back, brown muck all that was left of
it, long ago in Gregor’s room. It seeped through the shell of its back and made Grete
feel nauseous and even more exhausted. Dirt covered her skin, her skirt, her face—
sitting next to the corpse, she huffed in and out, her pathetic excuse for a grave,
growing next to her. If only Antony could’ve helped her. It would have been over
much sooner if her fiancée was with her. But he had his job—he worked even harder
now that they were to be married. If not for his blonde hair and his blue eyes and his
tan skin, he would have been seen as an exact replica—an exact replacement of
Gregor. He worked harder for all of them now. He was carrying the burden Gregor
had once hauled. Mr. Samsa had again retired, Mrs. Samsa only working when she
found the energy to. It seemed to be repeating, this cycle of a caretaker, but Grete
was more grateful than she had been with Gregor. Even if her parents were not, even
if she was the only one who saw it. She felt more love, more gratitude than she ever
had before, so she tried to help carry the haul. But maybe that was only because of
Gregor. Maybe that was only because of her crippling fear that she, Antony—some
else so dear to her, might, again, transform.
Leaning on the shovel, she pulled herself up from the ground. A gust of cool wind
whipped brown hair from her bun and sent them flaying across her face. She
dragged a hand across her forehead, flicking cold sweat from her pale skin and stuck
the shovel into the soft, black dirt again. This is getting tiresome. Was it noon now?
Earlier? Or later still? She couldn’t be sure. Guilt had taken over so much of her life,
her mind felt too full to keep track of anything else. Not burying this thing, this
monster, this nuisance had for some reason, clotted her brain. She couldn’t focus on
her studies, her work, taking care of her parents or any of it. It was at six in the
morning, on this day that it finally became enough. She could not function with it
rotting above the dirt like she and her parents had agreed to. She could not continue
on with her life if Gregor did not have a proper burial.
Even if it was not truly Gregor.
How could it be Gregor?
She had been careful, sneaking out of her bed, past Antony on the couch, her
parents' room. She had snuck a bite from the kitchen, a few coins from the table and
hurried out to catch the trolly with the shovel she had stolen from Antony’s truck
clutched close to her. On the bus, it took much longer to reach the park than it had
by Antony's truck. As each stop went by, she wondered if she would finish before
dinner. Surely it could not take that long, she thought. But by the time she finally
reached the park, it was nearly 7:30. It could be five before I'm finished, she
thought. It could be later. And standing up on the hill, with a hole although large,
only as deep as the length of her ankle, she thought it would never be finished.
She could not finish this alone. She could not go on alone, and there he lay on the
grass, alone, dead, unloved. She had done this to him, hadn't she? She had ruined
him. They—her family, his family had pushed Gregor to such a brink, that reality had
shattered underneath him and thought it fit, he should be replaced with a useless
bug. What cruel universe? What cruel God? What a cruel life for poor Gregor! And
here, she continued on? They thought of him little, Antony knew nothing of him for
Godsakes and they continued on! The world kept spinning, how cruelly without
him!
“How cruel!”
In a mess of tears, snot, sobbing, Grete buried her brother. He was safely
underneath the dirt when the white clouds parted for the sun to shine down on her,
warm and proud.
It was finally over. Now he could rest, how sorrowful, he lay, crushed like a bug in
an unmarked grave. But he could rest and Grete thought she could also. Her
troubles were buried and gone, it had all come to its proper end—she thought it time
to carry on—time to start anew, like Gregor surely would have wish her to do.
The sun smiled down at her and she went on her way home.
The wedding had originally been planned for June, when the sun was high and
bright, the flowers bloomed and the grass was green. It had been Antony’s only
request for the wedding—he’d said, “the only thing I ask for our marriage is this”.
But Grete pushed it forward. In April they were married, in the smallest of churches
with the closest of family. Grete had worn Mrs. Samsa’s own wedding dress, white,
pristine and beautiful. Antony had cried when she walked toward him. Mr. Samsa
had smiled through his tears. This was their happy ending, Grete had thought. This
was what they deserved after all they had been through, after all they had suffered,
they deserved this. She deserved this most of all. After that day on the hill, she was
free, she knew it, Antony could even tell it. And this was her reward, for burying
him, for taking care of the vermin—this was it.
Standing across from the one she loved, looking as beautiful as ever, him as
handsome as he’d ever been—she thought this was the only happiness she needed in
her life. Antony, her family, these were the only things she needed.
But in the summer, after feeling sick for week’s end, she realized they were not
the only happiness she would receive. Growing in her belly was more happiness she
deserved, more joy, more love, more gratitude.
“What about Bogdan?” Antony had asked on one sunny afternoon. The whole
family sat around in the living room, discussing baby names, drinking coffee.
“No. My child will not be called that.” Grete shook her head and Mr. Samsa
laughed, “That’s my girl.”
Grete’s belly had grown like the pumpkins in Antony’s garden. He told her she
became more beautiful—glowed brighter and brighter as her stomach expended.
Now, a week from her due date, he treated her like a princess, he called her beautiful
instead of her name and took care of her every whim with love.
“I want it to be French.” Grete wrapped her hands around her belly and smiled
down at her baby.
“French?!” Mr. Samsa laughed again at her.
“I am teaching the baby French! So, doesn’t a French name fit, too? Like Hugo!
Hugo Samsa! Lovely, isn’t it!”
When Grete gushed, Mrs. Samsa, grey and rocking in the chair Antony had given
her for a birthday gift, muttered to herself. “Gregor. Gregor. You should name him
Gregor.”
“What was that, my dear?” Mr. Samsa looked to his wife and asked.
Mrs. Samsa looked up at her daughter, tears glinting in her eyes. Such sorrow
filled her voice, her expression, that Grete heard her heart crack in her chest.
“Name the baby Gregor.” Attempting to walk towards Grete, Mrs. Samsa crumbled
to the floor, “For me, do it, please, daughter.” She was crying. Grete felt tears
trickling down her cheeks, too. She crawled toward her. Mr. Samsa was shocked,
Antony confused. “Please, it is a Gregor, don’t you know it? He did it all for us! Do
you have no gratitude? Name the baby Gregor—if it is the only good thing in this
world you ever do, name the baby after your brother!”
Her mother reached for Grete’s belly with her cold, vein-ridden fingers and
Grete, with tears streaming down her cheeks, smacked her hands away. She stood
up to her feet, wobbling just slightly. “But it is not Gregor!” she cried again.
Grete refused to leave her room. Antony was the only one who was allowed to
enter. It was two, painful weeks of forced solitude. How could she have yelled at her
mother? How could she have been so cruel? She boiled in her own sorrow and
shame, rocking back and forth on her bed. How dare she? After all her mother had
done for her—after all her brother had done for her—she could never start over,
could she? This would haunt her ’til the end of her days, ’til the end of it all.
It was only two weeks later, when Grete cried to Antony she was hearing chirping
purtrude from her belly in a painful manner that she left her room and was rushed to
the hospital. Antony, her mother, her father had all waited, eight whole hours until
they saw her again in the hospital room. Crying still, she was curled on the bed, her
belly flat, her face the color of roses. Antony had rushed to her, “Is he alright? The
baby—is he fine?”
“He is a monster.” Grete cried out, pointing to the crib that sat in the far room,
unattended. “He is a monster!” Antony hurried over to check on the baby, with Mr.
Samsa and his wife beside him, they stared down into the crib. A beautiful, happy,
red-faced baby boy blinked up at them and cooed.
“Do not get close, he is hideous!” Grete yelled from her bed. Antony, with love
and horror in his eyes bent down and picked up his boy in his arms. He rocked him
back and forth and Mr. and Mrs. Samsa cried.
“He looks like Gregor.” Mrs. Samsa marveled, brushing a hand against the baby’s
cheek.
“Yes!” Grete yelled, “He is as Gregor was! He is… He is…”
“Grete—light of my life,” Antony approached her cautiously, watching her
carefully as she shivered in her bed. “He is our child, he is no monster, my love.”
She shook her head furiously, and backed closer to the head of her bed. “No, do
not bring it near… Antony! Do not bring Gregor near! Do you hear me?!”
“Grete, he is our baby… He is not Gregor, he is not a monster…” Antony stood
beside her bed, holding the beautiful boy out to her. She covered her eyes with her
trembling hands and turned away. “Look at our Hugo, Grete, please. You are
frightening me.”
“NO!” Grete screamed. “No! It is not my child!”
Mrs. Samsa cursed under her breath and began to pull the hands away from her
daughter’s face as Grete screamed and cried and thrashed.
“Look!” Mr. Samsa yelled.
With her father holding her head in place and her mother gripping both her
hands in hers, Grete stared down at the soft-skinned, dark-haired baby boy her
husband held close to him and screamed at the top of her lungs as the giant,
squirming larvae stretched its small body out in his arms.
Art
Korean III
Screenwriting
katie
2
(CONTINUED)
INT. THE PINK HOTEL/SWIMMING POOL - LATE AFTERNOON
BADER (26, skinny, brunette lounges in a WHITE PLASTIC
CHAIR beside the large open window, sunlight shining in and
reflecting off her TINTED BLACK, CIRCULAR SUNGLASSES. Her
hair, tied up into a messy bun, shines with water and her
black and white striped one-piece swimsuit sticks to her tan
skin. White tiles line the floors and the walls, an
assortment of chairs and tables scattered about the place in
groups, all empty, besides her, sitting there with her head
slung over the back of her chair, her legs stretched out,
ankles crossed.
Bader twists the large, obnoxious DIAMOND RING around her
ring-finger and exhales out through her nostrils, lifting
her sunglasses with the thumb and index finger of her right
hand. She strains her neck forward and examines the glinting
jewels covering the silver band, her expression blank and
indifferent. She rolls it again, a full circle around with
her thumb, and pushes her glasses back on the bridge of her
nose. She sits up straight and stands. She wraps her fingers
around the ring and yanks it from her left hand with a
grunt, clutching it in her fist, her knuckles white. There
is a moment of utter stillness, only her chest rising and
lowering and then, twisting her torso sideways like a
pitcher at a baseball game, she chucks the ring out the open
window, SCREAMING after it as it falls, glimmering in the
sunlight. The title card "The Incident Of Bader" fades onto
the screen. She slowly melts to her knees, clutching her
belly and SCREAMING still before, finally crumbling to the
floor, sobbing.
CUT TO:
INT. THE PINK HOTEL/LOBBY - EARLY EVENING
Dressed in a shimmering red dress, GOLD BRACELETS and
NECKLACES, Bader sips her drink, the ice CLINKING against
the GLASS. She stares down at the liquid, her eyes glazed.
The room is filled with the CHATTER of the well-to-do
patrons hovering all around the space, accompanied by the
clinking of glass and LAUGHTER.
BRAM (39, short) sits across from Bader, his voice slightly
muffled, melting with the NOISE. He gestures with grand
exaggeration, a broad smile on his face as he speaks.
CONTINUED: 3
BADER (V.O.)
(sweetly in Arabic)
On fine nights, I have considered
ending him, but I have never owned
a gun.
Bader and Bram stand, both their glasses empty on the black,
granite cube-shaped table. They walk towards the exit, Bram
slipping the waiter a single dollar bill. He loops Bader's
arm in his. Bader towers over him monstrously.
BADER (V.O.)
(in Arabic)
I have considered and I have
debated, but when these thoughts
come to their end--when he looks at
me, gives me that smile and claims
that he loves me with all his
soul--I can only go for a swim to
clear my mind.
EXT. THE PINK HOTEL - TWILIGHT
Bader and Bram, arm in arm, walk out on to the sidewalk,
Bram placing two fingers in his mouth to WHISTLE for a cab.
The streets bustles with life; couples, groups, families
walking the streets, smiles on their faces, the buildings,
trees and sky shining and glinting, reeking with an overall
warmth.
BADER (V.O.
(in Arabic)
I told him when I married him a
pool was necessary and he laughed.
And then we moved.
Bram smiles almost proudly up at Bader as the yellow, black
striped taxi pulls up next to them. He opens the door to the
vehicle and waves his hand for Bader to enter. She ducks
inside and scoots down to the far end, her bracelets and
necklaces JINGLING at the movement. Bram gets in and SLAMS
the door shut.
4
(CONTINUED)
INT/EXT. TAXI CAB - TWILIGHT
BADER (V.O.)
(in Arabic)
Sometimes I think I'm going
crazy...
Bader smiles at Bram, her eyes grinning with her and takes
his hand in hers. The black, leather seats SQUEAK under
their weight.
BRAM (O.S.)
(muffled, to the cabbie, in
English)
70 West Gaunt Street.
The CABBIE nods and the taxi haltingly lurches into motion,
Bader swinging both her hands up to the glass separator to
stop her face from smashing into the glass. She LAUGHS.
BADER (V.O.)
(in Arabic)
But sometimes I think that's okay.
CUT TO:
INT. RESTAURANT - NIGHT
Bader and Bram sit across from each other, a shared PLATE of
CALAMARI between them and two glasses of wine close to their
hands. An extinguish CANDLE sits on the WHITE-CLOTHED table,
smoke rising from its wick. Bader's WINEGLASS is nearly
empty and she swings her head back to finish the last, red
drop. Bram swirls the white whine in his own GLASS.
BADER (V.O.)
(in Arabic)
Because, either way, I did love him
at some point.
Bram eats the last piece of calamari.
BADER (V.O.)
(in Arabic)
At some point, I really did want to
spend my whole life and eight more
with him...
5
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED:
A WAITER dressed in a clean-cut, black uniform approaches
with a black TRAY, two, white DISHES of noodles and orange
vodka sauce upon them. He places them on their table and
Bram EXCLAIMS, before motioning for more wine. The waiter
nods and leaves and Bader and Bram begin to eat, soft smiles
shared between them.
BADER (V.O.)
(in Arabic)
But every word he speaks makes me
angry. His laugh, his humor, his
demeanor, his smile--every breath
he takes...
Bram reaches across the table and takes Bader's pale, fraillooking
hand in his fat-fingered grip. He gives her a
squeeze.
BADER (V.O.)
(in Arabic)
The way he says my name...
BRAM (O.S.)
(in English)
I love you. Djhamila, I love you.
Bader smiles sheepishly at him, her eyes still somehow cold
and unwavering.
BADER (V.O.)
It makes me want to kill him.
Bader opens her mouth to speak.
CUT TO:
EXT. RESTAURANT/ALLEYWAY - MIDNIGHT
Rising to his tip toes, Bram kisses Bader's mouth and pulls
away. Her back is pressed up against the shining, damp, grey
brick wall. The weather is now dreary and dark the only
source of light in the alley being a single BUZZING
streetlamp above their heads with a multitude of bugs flying
around it. An abandoned, black, dinged-up sedan is parked on
the street next to the entrance of the alleyway where they
stand, obscuring the view of all but their torsos up.
Bader's dress is the only thing of color in sight.
CONTINUED: 6
BADER (V.O.)
I have never even touched a gun,
but in my head I have shot him a
million times. A million times,
over and over. And if I was not
such a coward--if I was not so
afraid, I would do it for real. I
would shoot him and be free.
Bader's eyes are open when Bram's lips land on hers again.
CUT TO:
INT. THE PINK HOTEL/BRAM'S APT - EARLY MORNING
Wearing only a light blue, tattered dress shirt, Bader
stares out the window that covers the entire left side of
the apartment, a white mug of steaming, black coffee cupped
between her hands. The apartment is decorated with a '60smodern-
chic-ivory aesthetic, with scarce furniture; only a
dining room table set, an uncomfortable-looking, grey
backless couch, black marble coffee table, a tv set and an
unsettlingly large amount of bizarre shaped lamps, all
different tones of grey.
Bader's pale, exposed, thick legs are bruised and battered
and shivering. She has a terrible case of bed head, her eyes
are dull, lips swollen from sleep. She takes a cautious sip
of her coffee and continues staring out into the white light
of day.
EXT. RESTAURANT/ALLEYWAY - THE NIGHT BEFORE (FLASHBACK)
Bader, with tears in her eyes, slaps Bram across the face.
His hand flies up to his cheek instinctively and he stares
at her in shock. Without warning, he grabs both sides of her
head, black hair gripped between his fat fingers and SLAMS
her head against the brick wall--1, 2, 3--times. He lands a
punch across her face, right under her eye. Bader CRIES OUT
hoarsely.
SMASH CUT:
INT. THE PINK HOTEL/BRAM'S APT - EARLY MORNING (PRESENT DAY)
Bader's hands shake as she brings the rim of the mug to her
mouth again, steam swirling around.
7
EXT. RESTAURANT/ALLEYWAY - THE NIGHT BEFORE (FLASHBACK)
Bader pushes Bram away from her and begins to run down the
alley, Bram chasing and YELLING after her. Bader looks back
at him. He's close, red faced and mad. His shirt is
unbuttoned, his BOWTIE undone, blowing in the wind.
BRAM
(in English)
Come back here, you bitch!
Bader's gold high heel snaps and she falls to the ground,
landing on her stomach, her head slamming against the black
asphalt.
Her ears begin to RING, her vision is jarring and blurry.
In SLOW-MOTION, Bader, with both her eyes squinting, tries
to push herself up to her knees. Her hands, elbows, forearms
are covered in dirt and scrapped with red. She looks up, her
head bleeding, one single drop of blood trickling down her
eye in slow-motion, a bruise forming on her left cheek, dirt
smeared on her face...
She sees Bram above her.
INT. THE PINK HOTEL/BRAM'S APT - EARLY MORNING (PRESENT DAY)
Bader's eyes are green, her eyebrows freshly plucked. Not a
blemish or bruise on her skin. She stares into the camera.
EXT. RESTAURANT/ALLEYWAY - THE NIGHT BEFORE (FLASHBACK)
Bram's eyes are brown and dark. His eyebrows squirming
caterpillars. Bader and Bram stare at each other. Slowly,
their chests rise and fall, Bader's fingers grip the ground.
In what feels like a sudden flash back to regular speed,
Bader desperately begins to crawl away, clawing at the
asphalt. Bram grabs her leg and Bader kicks him in the
crotch, loosing her broken heel in the process. She tries to
scramble away again, but gets no farther than before before
Bram grabs her leg once more and pulls her back towards him,
kicking and SCREAMING, clawing at the street.
INT. THE PINK HOTEL/BRAM'S APT - EARLY MORNING (PRESENT DAY)
Bader's pale, slender fingers are curled around the mug. Her
fingernails are pristine, long and clean.
8
EXT. RESTAURANT/ALLEYWAY - THE NIGHT BEFORE (FLASHBACK)
Bram holds Bader down by her wrists, his knees squeezing in
on either side of her chest. She struggles, dried tears
smeared on her cheeks. Bram looks down at her and smiles
almost cruelly. His lips are thin and bleeding.
BRAM
Djhamila.
INT. THE PINK HOTEL/BRAM'S APT - EARLY MORNING (PRESENT DAY)
Bader's lips are glossy and full. She WHISTLES "Good
Morning".
EXT. RESTAURANT/ALLEYWAY - THE NIGHT BEFORE (FLASHBACK)
The WHISTLING continues.
Bader head-butts Bram twice and pushes him off of her, Bram
clutching his face. She rushes to her feet. Her dress is
ripped and smeared with dirt and mud. She kicks him in the
stomach, over and over and over and over. He groans, grasps
his belly, his eyes squeezed shut.
Bader slowly backs away, examining the marks and dirt on her
arms and hands. She turns and walks forward, her fingers
wiping away the dried tears on her cheeks. Behind her, even
in such pain, Bram crawls towards her. He reaches out and
grabs her foot, yanking on her ankle. Bader falls to the
ground and Bram pins her down again. He wraps his hands
around her throat and squeezes.
Her HEARTBEAT melts in with the WHISTLING.
Bader's arms, stretched out on either side of her reach
desperately for something to hit him with. Her fingers near
her broken heel that had fallen on the ground. Bram stares
down at her, his lips sucked into his mouth in
concentration. She grasps the shoe and jams the broken heel
into his right eye, all NOISE CEASES. Silently, Bram screams
out in pain, the high heel hanging from his eye, hands
hovering around his face like he doesn't know what to do.
Bader pushes him away and stands up again.
Her BREATH is all that can be heard.
She walks away, Bram still on the ground, CRYING out.
9
INT. THE PINK HOTEL/BRAM'S APT - EARLY MORNING (PRESENT DAY)
Bader stands in the open kitchen behind the island, resting
her elbows on the white, grey marble countertop, her coffee
mug still in her hands. Bram walks in with her broken high
heel still stuck in his eye. His white dress shirt is
wrinkled. Bader stands up straight and stares at him.
BRAM
(in English)
What are you looking at?
Bader continues to stare, her mouth hanging open.
BRAM (O.S.)
(laughing in English)
What's wrong with you?
The high heel is gone.
Bader closes her mouth and shakes her head.
BADER (V.O.)
(in Arabic)
I'm never going to kill him.
Bader smiles with her teeth.
BRAM (O.S.)
(in English, cheekily)
Well, good morning to you, too.
