DANIEL SCOTT TYSDAL

Light against grass along a riverbed on an early twentieth-century morning of grey clouds without rain. Early twentieth-century traffic—its mixture of hoof beats and engines—is audible but not seen. Pedestrians mingle through early twentieth-century gestures and journeys, some hurried and silent, some exchanging words, others seated polite in laughter along the bank. A FATHER and DAUGHTER in the distance walk a path away from us with backs turned in smart attire. The DAUGHTER holds the right sleeve of her FATHER's jacket with her left hand. Traffic quiets. The FATHER and DAUGHTER are before us now though we still only reach them from behind. 

 

FATHER 

Do you remember who we are meeting today? 

 

For a few steps, the DAUGHTER contemplates this. 

 

DAUGHTER 

I think so, Daddy. 

 

The FATHER stops. The DAUGHTER's momentum carries her forward a half-step further and her hand pulls away from his sleeve. She looks up at him looking down. 

 

FATHER 

Go on then. 

 

DAUGHTER (thinking) 

There are the apparitions, the faces, the petals . . . . 

 

The DAUGHTER turns a single fingertip against her chin before pointing. 

 

DAUGHTER (proudly) 

And a bough, a bough that's black and wet. 

 

FATHER 

You've forgotten someone. 

 

The DAUGHTER's hand drops to her side, fingers white against her coat's purple. 

 

DAUGHTER 

Who's that? 

 

Sky-tipped buildings and unlit streetlamps as the FATHER's palm touches the parted middle of his DAUGHTER's hair. 

 

FATHER 

The crowd, darling. 

 

The traffic is all torsion and nearing. 

 

DAUGHTER 

Of course. 

 

Her hand again holds his sleeve. 

 

FATHER 

The apparitions and those faces are in . . . 

 

Black. 

 

DAUGHTER 

. . . the crowd. 

 

TITLE 

In a Station of the Metro 

 

TITLE 

Opens Everywhere This Fall