Echo

i totally break the voice-over rule, but fuck-it. it’s about packing it into 5 pages.

Hiroshima

INT. CHILD’S NURSERY/JAPANESE HOUSE – DAY

INSERT TITLE: MAY, 1945

A small, bare Japanese bedroom with a tatami bed is being
transformed into a joint bedroom-nursery.

An elderly handyman (MR. YAMAMOTO), his face and hands world
worn, assembles a bamboo crib as a luminescent pregnant woman
in her 20’s, her long, beautiful hair neatly pleated to frame
her smooth, radiant face, sits near a window, knitting. This
is HANA TAKAHASHI, 6 months pregnant. On the dresser, is a
black & white wedding photo of her with her husband, TAKAO, a
handsome man in a pilot’s uniform.

MR. YAMAMOTO
Where is Takao now?

HANA
Flying supplies in Manchukuo. He
can’t say much about his missions,
but he hopes to be home in time for
the baby.

Hana looks out the window towards the blue skies. Her face is
stoic but can not hide the worry.

MR. YAMAMOTO
(kindly)
You and Takao will have a long and
blessed life with this child.

HANA
Thank you, Mr. Yamamoto.

There is a knock at the door, and Hana lumbers to her feet to
answer. It is a TELEGRAM MESSENGER, a young boy with head
bowed, hands her a telegram. He can not meet her eyes. She
rips open the envelope and reads.

HANA
No…

Mr. Yamamoto runs and catches her before her body hits the
ground.

INT. CHILD’S NURSERY/JAPANESE HOUSE – LATER

Hana wakes to see the worried face of Mr. Yamamoto. She is
laying on the tatami, a wet towel over her forehead.

MR. YAMAMOTO
I made tea if you’d like…

Hana struggles to sit up.

MR. YAMAMOTO
Please, lay. Too much excitement is
not good for the baby.

HANA
Takao–

MR. YAMAMOTO
Yes, the telegram.

HANA
Dead.

MR. YAMAMOTO
Missing.

HANA
Missing means they haven’t
recovered the body.

MR. YAMAMOTO
You must not think such thoughts.
Until you know, do not open your
door to darkness.

Outside, the sound of low-flying planes buzzes the air, a
patrol squadron, but the sound floods Hana’s heart, a single
tear falling, leaving a wet trail of sorrow.

INT. CHILD’S NURSERY/JAPANESE HOUSE – DAY

INSERT TITLE: JULY, 1945

Hana is sitting in her usual spot by the window, knitting.
Her stomach is bigger now. In the corner, the crib sits,
assembled. Every sound of planes draws her eyes to the sky. A
KNOCK comes at the front door. It’s the MAILMAN with a
letter. She opens it and lets out a scream of joy.

TAKAO (V.O.)
Dearest Hana. I am writing to let
you know I am alive.

EXT. PLAINS/MANCHUKUO – DAY

A plane crashes to the ground. It’s a terrible crash. The
navigator slumps in the back, the pilot is bloody but
breathing.

TAKAO (V.O.)
Our plane went down in the
uninhabited plains of the mainland,
my navigator Kenji was killed on
impact. It was only by sheer
miracle that I lived, though my
body was crushed and useless. For 4
days, I lay trapped, the only water
from light rainfall, no food,
waiting to be rescued, waiting to
die, waiting for some way out of
the twisted metal that had become
my world. Days into night, I felt
the crushing hopelessness, as
overwhelming as the pain of my
broken body. I would have gone
insane if it wasn’t for you–your
spirit, your voice, whispering in
my ear at my most desperate
moments, to hold on. By the 3rd
night, I was overcome by fever,
convinced I was nearing the end.

EXT. OCEAN – NIGHT

A man is struggling in the water under a full moon.

TAKAO (V.O.)
In fever, I dreamed, of a dark
ocean smelling of metal, burning
and death. The smells of war. In
the distance, I could hear the
moans of the dying. I was drowning
in it, wave after wave like human
hatred, pushing my head underwater.
I screamed your name over and over,
Hana…I wasn’t ready to let you
go. Suddenly, I looked up, and
there was a little girl standing
above me. You wouldn’t believe it.
She had your eyes, your long,
beautiful hair, an angel. She said
her name was Fumiko, and she’d come
to save me. She reached out a tiny
hand, and I took it, and with
complete ease, she pulled me into
the moon, a place so white and full
of grace, the black waters could no
longer drown me. I knew I was
saved. When I woke, I was in a
hospital in Changchun, having spent
weeks in and out of consciousness.
Hana, they say as soon as I can
walk, I’m coming home. Please
forgive me for what grief I have
caused you, a husband lost for
dead. My body is broken, but your
love saved my life. Just know that
I am fighting to get back to you,
and soon our lives will be one.

INT. CHILD’S NURSERY/JAPANESE HOUSE – DUSK

Hana clutches the letter to her chest, looking out the window
at the darkening sky. She cries tears of relief.

INT. CHILD’S NURSERY/JAPANESE HOUSE – EARLY MORNING

INSERT TITLE: August 6, 1945

Mr. Yamamoto is painting the walls a clean, cream color. Hana
brings in a tray of tea. She hands him a small cup and he
comes to sit next to her.

MR. YAMAMOTO
Takao will be here by the end of
the month?

HANA
Yes, he’s coming by train. He uses
a cane, but he can walk.

MR. YAMAMOTO
A miracle. You can’t ask for more.

Suddenly, Mr. Yamamoto’s expression changes to one of
confusion. Hana follows his gaze out the window.

MR. YAMAMOTO
I saw a flash.

As they look out the window, the sky suddenly turns red and
the air in the room wavers with heat, the glass of the window
seeming to bend. Air raid sirens SCREAM. Mr. Yamamoto pulls
Hana to the floor just before the glass bursts. Everything
rumbles around them.

Hana cries in pain. Her water breaks.

EXT/INT. TRAIN – DAY

Takao sits on a train, staring at the passing scenery. A
group of soldiers nearby are tuning a handheld radio
broadcasting Emperor Hirohito’s address of surrender. ANGRY
UPROAR. A SOLDIER with a bandaged arm that ends with a stump
sits down next to him.

SOLDIER
It’s over now. We’ve lost.

Takeo shakes his head.

SOLDIER
Where’s home, brother?

TAKAO
Hiroshima.

INT. CHILD’S NURSERY/JAPANESE HOUSE – NIGHT

Takao rushes in, leaning on a cane.

TAKAO
Hana?

By the window, Hana turns, a warm bundle in her arms. Her
hair is long and sleek, down to her back. She bounds towards
him and they embrace, tears flowing. She holds out the baby.

HANA
Fumiko.

TAKAO
The angel who saved my life.

Takao takes the bundle, and holds her, her tiny hand reaching
out for him. He clasps it in his.

TAKAO
And to think, each day, her hands
will never be this small again.

He looks at his wife, eyes full of love. He embraces her like
he’ll never let her go and kisses her. But something’s wrong.
Her hair hangs limply against her back from his hand. He
looks up and sees that she is bald, her hair a wig that’s
fallen. She’s sick. Her face is wet with tears.

HANA
I’m so sorry, Takao.

done. sick of this contest. or maybe i’m always like this at the end of things, when it’s time to let go of the writing. to be honest, i never like anything i write once it’s done. i wonder if other writers feel the same way. there’s a sense of elation when you’re finished. followed by a sense of self-loathing. maybe it’s the fact that you’re being judged that creates the self-loathing.

oh jesus christ, not again.

zero 7 concert tonight. really missed sia, who’s not on this tour.

went to amber to people watch and think about the story. met a dave, charles, seth, john–a line of guys who just kept taking the spot next to me, trying some angle with me. i was polite but kind of irritated because they would assume i was “bored” and could use some “company,” and i would tell them that this is my regular neighborhood spot and i’m actually working right now, thinking out a story. it was kind of irritating, but it’s what happens when you think better in crowded places and you’re in a bar (i wish they had late night cafes open around here, but most late-night food places are all bars). some guy came up just to cuss me out, mumbling how much he didn’t want me. i kept asking him to repeat what he said and he would say “nevermind,” but just get angrier at me, an angry little asian robot.

end of the night, the bartender who had periodically come by to chat and comment that i’m very popular, asked for my phone number, and i wouldn’t give it to him. so he told the little angry asian robot that i needed a walk home. i wrote “muthafucker” on a piece of paper and gave it to him as my phone number. the guy was wearing a wedding band. i told him i don’t mess around with married guys, yet he says he wears it because he gets more tips even though he’s not really married.

actually, in la, the bartenders DON’T wear their wedding bands to get better tips.

lies. all around. men lying to get my attention. and all i’m looking for is some truth. a home. someone whose arms i can fall asleep in. or at the very least, tonight, a good story to write about.

i think it’s because i wore red today. that was the issue. and it was like a break in the dam that wouldn’t stop flowing. i’d been avoiding wearing red in seattle, joking to myself that the men of seattle can’t handle me wearing red. but i wanted the red today to aid my creativity.

and so that was the course for the night–men, women–as soon as i got rid of one, another one would sidle up. even when i was talking to the bartender, telling him i only have room for 1 in my entourage, and unless he can fit into snake eyes’ outfit and be willing to die for me, i’m closed–these guys were filing by and touching my back, one by one.

more of your fans, the bartender said.

flattering, okay. but not the way i want it to be. i’m ready for next level shit. not idiots spitting game, acting like i’m a creature from some other place.

tonight felt like one of those throwaway nights. mildly irritating. i think i would have felt better about it and more celebratory if i knew what i’m going to write about.