The Splittage of Ms. Molly Gambol
rating: +14+x

The Natural Atria


THE SCENE OPENS on a door set within the raveled mass of a massive hugging tree, its multiple trunks expertly directed around the frame. The door itself is an engraved black metal, the carvings of a multitude of botanical wonders glinting off the natural glow of the Atria.

The door opens to reveal a Librarian — likely an Archivist due to its more unique look. It wears a light blue button-up with a high collar, a dark purple vest that turns tan on the shoulders (the tan area decorated with slightly lighter purple flowers dispersing from the dark), and a head composed entirely of red and purple snapdragons. Two golden sprigs of wheat float to the left and right of its head, creating a pseudo-frame. Its voice sounds like an uncertain breeze.


ARCHIVIST ANTIR RHINUM: Sometimes, the patrons who visit my desk don't know what they're looking for — in fact, almost every single one doesn't know unless they're looking for me specifically. As an extension of the Library, I do not have a specific "job." I am an Archivist, no little no less, but I have often taken the role of a guide to something new, while my fellow Archivists are more concerned with pinpointing the location of something known.

THE SHOT MOVES FORWARD as the Archivist turns and leads the viewer to the aforementioned desk. It's spacious inside the tree but still quite cramped, likely due to the impressive pneumatic tube systems filling most of the space. A. ANTIR RHINUM sits down behind the desk, which upon further inspection appears to be a mess of pneumatic tubes pretending to be a desk with a carpet of moss growing across the top. The many other tubes not making up the desk drop down from the air above and halo the Archivist. A potted plant that is simultaneously growing nectarines and black dahlias sits to the Librarian's left.


ARCHIVIST ANTIR RHINUM: I wonder if anything might come in today?

A golden filigreed tube from the top-middlemost shute with a fresh notepad inside introduces itself to the space with a shhhhhh ka-thunk! A. ANTIR RHINUM guides one black-gloved hand to the tube and plucks it as if it was a sea urchin he wanted to take a closer look at.


ARCHIVIST ANTIR RHINUM (FEIGNING SURPRISE): What a surprise!

A. ANTIR RHINUM unscrews the top, holds minuscule glasses in front of where it might have had eyes, and reads the first page of the notepad.


ARCHIVIST ANTIR RHINUM: It seems a reptilian journalist you might be familiar with is feeling homesick and is wondering if I have anything to soothe his ails. It can be daunting to pick something out at the library, even more so when it's this wonderful place. Thankfully, I've got a serving of chicken soup already prepared.

CLOSE UP ON A. ANTIR RHINUM'S CHEST - BLURRED. A book — in-focus — flips into view, held by the Librarian. It is a dark green cover, with a centered small copper-leaf ink drawing of a frog wearing a hat decorated with flowers framed by the title THE SPLITTAGE OF MS. MOLLY GAMBOL which is in a blocky, scratchy font. RETURN TO PREVIOUS SHOT.


ARCHIVIST ANTIR RHINUM: Here we go.

Hotel Lobby - Midnight


WIDE SHOT. Four individuals stand or sit in their usual places on a usual evening. ZOOM IN FOR BUST SHOT WHEN EACH SPEAKS


THE DOORMAN: Molly Gambol lives in room forty-two on the forty-second floor within the safely guarded doors of the Damselfly Hotel. She leaves the building every day at exactly 9:31 a.m. and returns at exactly 11:44 p.m. except for Saturdays (on which I never see her). The staff here are almost never without some treats she's made — her vilejas are to die for — and she never passes by without at least a warm greeting.

THE RECEPTIONIST: Ms. Gambol is a spiny-throated reed frog with a pale apple-green complexion and little brown spots visible just underneath her skin. She wears wide-brimmed hats to keep the sun out of her big orange eyes and for their structural support, which she uses to host a small garden of fake flowers, which she'll match to her suits and dresses — and I do mean only suits and dresses, because that's all she owns. I don't know her personally since she never needs the receptionist, but I do love her dark chocolate cookies.

THE CONCIERGE: Molly's about four feet three inches tall and a ripe sixty-two years old. For about twenty of those years she's been permanently residing with us. It's been a joy to host her; she has a passionate love for life.

HOTEL GUEST (STAYING IN ROOM FORTY-THREE ON THE FORTY-SECOND FLOOR): She's got an absolute monster of a snore. …Did somebody say something about treats?

WIDE SHOT placed slightly behind and above the head of THE RECEPTIONIST facing the main doors (centered), THE DOORMAN stands to the left of the doors. Outside, a shadow can be seen approaching rapidly.


THE DOORMAN (GRAVELY): It's five past midnight.

MOLLY GAMBOL: I burst through the doors, heading straight to the receptionist's desk, my feet making a slap slap slap sort of sound. My bones are creaking, I desperately need the restroom, and all six of my eyelids are weighing heavy. Today has been a day like no other, and by that I mean it's a day like any other, at least for me.

THE RECEPTIONIST turns back towards the shot, panic in their eyes.


THE RECEPTIONIST: Dear cod, she's wearing sweatpants.

MOLLY GAMBOL: I clear the distance between the doors and the desk within a second or two. The step-ladder placed to the side specifically to assist me springs into my hands, is folded out, and I'm up the steps and staring into the eyes of the crocodile behind the desk.

THE RECEPTIONIST: "How can I help you Ms. Gambol?"

MOLLY GAMBOL: "My greetings are cold, I'm uncoordinated, I'm quite unjoyful, and my goodness I've taken up snoring. I'm awfully sorry to bother, but could you please have a meal sent up to my room?"

THE RECEPTIONIST (SURPRISED): "Of course."

MOLLY GAMBOL exits left, syncing with the next shot where she enters her room from the left.

The Forty-Second Floor, Room Forty-Two - Midnight


CLOSE-UP SHOT of MOLLY GAMBOL’s eyes


MOLLY GAMBOL: I quietly close my door, and stand in the darkness for a moment. If my eyes stop adjusting, I think, if they could enjoy the quiet, if we could just hold this moment for a second longer… but they rebel. I sigh, and flick on the lightning bug lights. Coat to hanger, wallet and keys to the bowl by the door, hat to the rack, and myself to the dining room table.

SHOT CHANGE to MOLLY GAMBOL sitting at the dining room table center-left of the shot


MOLLY GAMBOL: I remember that I forgot to say something to the doorman. “Ach,” I think, “I’ll have to make him something as an apology.” I glance to the kitchen, which is still a mess. I’m not sure how long it’s been that way. There just hasn’t been the time. Just today for instance—

As MOLLY GAMBOL begins to speak, the right half of the shot is filled with pictures sliding top from bottom, accompanied with the click of a projector. Each picture displays a unique experience she had that day.


MOLLY GAMBOL: —I had to wake up extra early to join my rock band Cold-Blooded Couchsurfers for practice at Scummy’s hotel room since the rest of them are nocturnal. click I had to leave practice early this time, so I grabbed my uniform which I had stashed there last week and caught the train. I changed in the bathroom. click I nearly missed my stop but made it to my security job at the convention center, which today was housing a rare scale trading expo, the Lilygrass High School Class of ‘93 Reunion, and a LARPing group. click One of my friends from back in the day was in town, so I used my lunch break to walk around the scale traders’ booths while we caught up. click I forgot to eat during my break, but that was fine since I asked a coworker to cover the rest of my shift today a week ago. click I was going to take the train, but I saw a rickshaw and I had never done that before so I hopped on. Unfortunately the driver had never done it either, so we got lost, but eventually we made it to the grand opening of this new restaurant I had heard about from the doorman’s sister’s wife’s frill stylist, but since I was late I had to wait in line. click I sat down, but wouldn’t you know it my manager (who I’ve been avoiding) was sitting one table away; he spotted me and started to tell me about a new fight he scheduled in just a few days, and he’d already put my name in to be considered! Mentally noting down that commitment, I asked for a big to-go box since I barely managed to touch my meal and I’m late for my next appointment. click I make it over to the theatre, the one by the library, and just barely make it on stage in order to play for my jazz band The Old Folks Club for our battle of the bands competition against Candleier, a blues band I’m also a part of. click I donned a multitude of disguises so my bandmates and the judges wouldn't realize what I was doing, got nearly caught a few times but ultimately eked out a victory for one of the bands, I don’t remember which, who I went out to the bar with to celebrate. And now here I am, exhausted, dreading the full day I have scheduled for tomorrow and with no idea where these sweatpants came from.

The last picture slides out of frame. SHOT SLIDES to the LEFT to fully center MOLLY GAMBOL.


MOLLY GAMBOL: I hear a knock knock knock on the door. That must be the meal I requested. I get out of the chair, but don’t make it far — a loose bit of skin trips me up and I hit the deck.

LOW SHOT placed on the floor. MOLLY GAMBOL has her left cheek pressed to the floor, face towards the shot.


MOLLY GAMBOL: The floor has a soothing coolness to it. I sigh again. It had completely slipped my mind, but today was a shedding day. How am I meant to eat a full meal and my sheddings (not to mention the full effort of removing the skin as well)? The tasks seem overwhelming at such a late hour, and I need my sleep for tomorrow. I can eat in the morning. I’ll eat in the morning.

WIDE SHOT from the perspective of the bed.


MOLLY GAMBOL: Slowly, painfully, I rise to my feet. My hand finds a flour-dusted butter knife on the counter, which I use to cut myself out of the old skin, revealing the wet new stuff. I leave the sheddings crumpled up on the floor. Normally, I’d take a shower, but I think I’ll just wash the sheets another day. All that matters to me right now is resting. I walk over to the bed, slump under the covers, and sleep.

ARCHIVIST ANTIR RHINUM: For those of you unfamiliar with the culture, what Ms. Gambol did just now is highly irregular. It’s said that your own skin, when shed, is the most delicious thing a frog will ever taste. It’s sweeter than honey, more sour than pure acid, saltier than the Dead Sea, as bitter as a break-up, and more savory than saying the word ’umami.’ The flavor combination is so powerful, most completely forget the experience come the sunrise. For someone to eschew eating the sheddings, it’s completely unheard of. Which is why what happened next is so. very. unique.

The Forty-Second Floor, Room Forty-Two - Morning



MOLLY GAMBOL: Something’s… off. My eyes open like I’m peeling a banana, the phloem that is eye crust protesting but falling away just the same. Why isn’t the alarm going off? And what’s that smell? My neck snaps towards the alarm. 8:55 p.m. My body phases past four stages of waking up in the morning, I fling myself out of bed—

FULL-BODY SHOT placed to the right of MOLLY GAMBOL.


MOLLY GAMBOL: —about to throw clothes on, already planning my begging apology to the greenhouse—

SHOT SLOWLY REVOLVES around MOLLY GAMBOL ninety degrees to the left, ending behind her, slowly revealing the kitchen. MOLLY GAMBOL looks back towards the shot.


MOLLY GAMBOL: —until I stop. There’s someone cooking in my kitchen. I take another glance at my kitchen. My clean kitchen? There’s someone cooking in my kitchen, who’s also cleaned my kitchen. I take a third glance, allow myself a sniff. Breakfast. Someone is cooking breakfast in my kitchen, my clean kitchen, the kitchen I left a mess for the past I-don’t-know that they've now cleaned.

SHOT begins to FOLLOW MOLLY GAMBOL.


MOLLY GAMBOL: I rush up to the island. She notices me and smiles.

???: “Good morning! Sleep well?”

MOLLY GAMBOL: “Who are you?” She looks familiar, but I can’t quite figure it out. The name feels like it’s on the tip of my tongue.

???: “I’m you.”

MOLLY GAMBOL: That’s impossible, I think. “That’s impossible!” I say.

MOLLY GAMBOL?: The old woman claiming to be me has a twinkle in her eye. “I know everything you know, and I’m willing to bet you know everything I know too. How else can you explain arriving at the greenhouse this morning despite waking up just now?”

MOLLY GAMBOL: I was eager to object, but sure enough as soon as I was prompted the memories began to filter in like a dream. I was there, I remember taking care of the plants, I gave that cute toad kid a couple pieces of buttflyscotch I keep in my purse, and I even helped with the tours. The Mirror Molly in front of me gives me an understanding look.

MOLLY GAMBOL?: “Now imagine how I felt receiving live broadcasts of your dreams.”

MOLLY GAMBOL: “I don't have to.”

MOLLY GAMBOL?: “Exactly.”

MOLLY GAMBOL: I ponder for a moment.

HEAD SHOT of MOLLY GAMBOL? staring into shot. After a moment, HEAD SHOT on MOLLY GAMBOL when she begins to speak again. Continue to switch as conversation moves.


MOLLY GAMBOL: If this isn't a dream, and I haven't died in my sleep, and my age hasn't caught up to me… maybe I could make this work. Something tickles the back of my brain. My breath becomes somewhat shallow again.

MOLLY GAMBOL?: “Yeah yeah, we have a shift right now, I know. Boss called, he said the bathroom pipes exploded. Convention center had to be shut down. We've got an hour to ourselves. Yourself? Myself? Whatever.”

MOLLY GAMBOL: I pull out the journal I keep in a pocket close to my heart.

OVER THE SHOULDER HIGH-ANGLE SHOT of MOLLY GAMBOL, flipping through pages of a completely filled journal.


MOLLY GAMBOL: Inside there are lists and lists of all the things I want to do. I fill my days with new experiences, but I always think of more to experience. More to live. I’m doomed to never make a dent in the number of ideas, but I had promised myself to keep trying. I have to live my life to the fullest.

MEDIUM SHOT from one end of the island, showing the two standing across from one another, across the island.


MOLLY GAMBOL: I place the journal back in its round-the-clock spot. I was getting slightly excited now. “Do you know what this means? We could experience double the life, and remember it all!”

MOLLY GAMBOL?: “I was thinking the same thing. But first, you need to eat! You look like you're starving.”

MOLLY GAMBOL: I shovel the breakfast into my mouth, because I am. Between bites I say, “Just for our own reference, you're Molly Twobol from now on.” Our minds begin to race, filling the new itinerary with new experiences. It’s disorienting, having two people working on one plan, but I think I’ll get used to it. I hope so at least.

MOLLY TWOBOL: “Let’s get to it.”

Hotel Lobby - Morning


FULLBODY SHOT following MOLLY GAMBOL. Begin CENTERED on elevator doors, which open.


MOLLY GAMBOL: I step off the elevator at 9:31 a.m. and briskly walk to the door. I feel like I have a new lease on life. I look towards the doorman, and smile. “Good morning, wonderful day for it! Sorry about last night.”

THE DOORMAN: I smile back — it’s been quite some time since I’ve seen her at her old usual. “We all have our days Ms. Gambol, not a worry, not a worry at all.” She doesn’t stop to chat, so I prepare to begin daydreaming again until the elevator dings once more.

SHOT lingers on THE DOORMAN, then rapidly returns to the elevator, which is opening again.


MOLLY TWOBOL: I step off the elevator at 9:32 a.m. and briskly walk to the door. I feel like I have an even newer lease on life. I look towards the doorman, and smile. “Good morning, wonderful day for it! Sorry about last night.” For some reason I couldn’t possibly guess, his eyes pop practically out of his head. It’s not like we’re wearing the same outfit.

Downtown - Day


MONTAGE following the described events of the day.


MOLLY GAMBOL: On the train again, I pull out my sketchbook, practicing a portrait on the frog sitting in front of me. Twobol is listening to a new album from one of my favorite artists. It’s strange listening to music through the slight delay of memory, like when I used to sit at the bottom of a pool for as long as I could while my sister yelled at me to come back up. Next, I had a yoga class at the community center while my counterpart was off to the store, and then the park after, to buy supplies to build a kite from scratch. While in my cobra pose, I close my eyes while I try to focus on my breathing. I scrunch my brow, because it feels like my exhales turn around to blow past me.

MOLLY TWOBOL: Against all odds, the kite is in the air. I can’t run with it like I used to when I was younger, but thankfully it is a windy day. The shoddily made craft swoops and twirls, dancing, leaping, whorling, almost calling out to the مونجوAvian to take it away. I wish I could stand here all day, watching it dance in the wind, but my schedule burns in the back of my mind. I begin to slowly reel in the line, savoring every second.

MOLLY GAMBOL: I wince after accidentally pulling too hard on a muscle. Wasn’t paying attention, I suppose. I take a deep breath to loosen up, but glance at the clock. No time to breathe — already falling behind. Trying to ignore the bewildered look of the instructor, I pack my gear up and rush out.

MOLLY TWOBOL: The rest of the day continues much like this, us rushing to and fro, kites and yoga, surveys and canvassing, rushed meals with no name, night clubs and street dancing, but same as always: making a day like no other.

BIRDS-EYE SHOT above MOLLY GAMBOL awake in bed. MOLLY TWOBOL sleeps beside her.


MOLLY GAMBOL: My mind swims with all the memories of the day, slotting them into place. I’m shocked, absolutely shocked, by how productive we were able to be. Never before could I have imagined this amount of experiences in one day. I place my hand over my breast pocket. The journal feels warm.

ARCHIVIST ANTIR RHINUM: I don’t want to understate Ms. Molly Gambol’s motivations here. Many would treat an ability such as this as a curse, some, if they were given the chance, would’ve jumped at the chance to take advantage of the hex to enact some great change, but others, and these are a rarer sort, embrace this major change and attempt to live their life exactly as they have been. Molly Gambol is one such of these thirdmost individuals. On the second day of her newfound abilities, she (herself and her other self) did it all again. Truly, she was a master at scheduling (in fact at one point she worked for a company doing just that, which had a record year before she decided the job was taking up too much of her own time). I'm sure you've picked this up by now, but Ms. Molly Gambol is also a fast innovator and a faster thinker.

Two Days Since the Split - The Forty-Second Floor, Room Forty-Two - Midnight


BIRDS-EYE SHOT of the full hotel room. MOLLY GAMBOL sits at her table, at a small space formed out of the domestic detritus filling the rest of the surface.


MOLLY GAMBOL: I pore over my calendars, ensuring every minute is filled to perfection, ink rubbing off on the side of my hand. Fingers cramping, out of breath, I have to take my breaks. Resting my hand on the ice pack I have to my side, I take in my magnum opus. The writing is so tiny, I proudly think to myself, a master spy would have to beat the information out of me. I scratch my face with the free hand, loose skin nagging me. I wonder, could I get Louise to cover my shift agai- wait. My skin. I need to shed again.

MOLLY TWOBOL: I rise from the bed, fire lighting up my eyes. “I also need to shed.”

MOLLY GAMBOL: For a moment we look at each other, well-oiled gears in our rusty noggins beginning to whir. Without a word we arrive at the same conclusion.

SHOT begins to slowly SPIN, counterclockwise.


MOLLY TWOBOL: I spring from the bed into the welcoming arms of my old friend the kitchen, ripping two knives from the cherry wood block.

MOLLY GAMBOL: The bindings of the calendar book release the pages of my already out-of-date magnum opus to my ripping hands. A little dramatic but I have an abundance of calendar books.

MOLLY TWOBOL: The pages fly out of her hands, framing my exit from behind the island. I flip one knife, half a turn, catching the dull side of the non-handle and hold it out to myself.

CLOSE-UP SHOTS, BISECTED both shots on the left and right show each MOLLY slicing into the skin shedding, one starting at the leg and the other the arm, careful not to swipe the real skin underneath. CUT to faces.


MOLLY GAMBOL: “Go down to the lobby and ask the concierge to buy as many sleeping bags that are available at the store across the street. I don’t want him to think I’m running my own hotel up here, so tell him it’s for a camping trip I’m running for the band. He doesn’t need to know which band, I’d be mortified if he ever showed up at a performance, obviously you know that I’m just rambling now. Go, go!”

MOLLY TWOBOL: I peel the last bit of my shell off, tossing it to the place I woke up just two days ago. It’s unclear how I came to be, but we’ll do our best to perfectly replicate. I step over another abandoned meal left at the hotel door.

MOLLY GAMBOL: My sheddings piled up next to my duplicate’s, I sit down and pull out two new calendars. I’ll need more room

SHOT FALLS AS IF DROPPED the room blurred and indecipherable, then landing on the bed, tilted downwards towards the floor. There are sleeping bags littered throughout, seven filled.

Six Days Since The Split - The Forty-Second Floor, Room Forty-Two - Dawn


SHOT from the perspective of the front door. MOLLY GAMBOL sits up in bed, and turns to look towards the shot.


MOLLY GAMBOL (WHISPERING): There’s a knock at the door. After a moment of thought, maybe they’ll go away, I hear it again: ka-knock knock knock. Sliding out of bed, I grab my fluffy lavender nightgown, the one with the sleeves that connect to the bottom of the garment, and carefully step over the sleeping forms of myself. I stop for a moment as my vision goes blurry, waiting for it to return (I’ll take an iron supplement before returning to bed), then continue my careful march to the door, which I open.

SHOT MOVES BACKWARDS now an OVER THE SHOULDER SHOT of JOHN FARJI, PORTER, who stands on the other side of the door.


JOHN FARAJI, PORTER: What the resident of the forty-second floor of room forty-two in the Damselfly Hotel sees is an enormous lizard that barely fits in the hallway, clothing fairly nondescript aside from the large bucket hat I’m wearing, along with the comically-sized mailbag with multiple expansion straps hanging next to my hip.

MOLLY GAMBOL: I smoothly flank my left side with the door and rest my right hand on the doorframe, letting the nightgown drape across the exposed space. He doesn’t seem to notice.

JOHN FARAJI, PORTER: She’s clearly hiding something, but I don’t really give a damn.

MOLLY GAMBOL: “Can I help you?”

JOHN FARAJI, PORTER: “…Mail.”

MOLLY GAMBOL: “Oh, thank you dear.” He hands me a small envelope and presumably continues on his route. The paper feels smooth, but imperceptibly textured. I turn it over in my hands — no return address.

As she closes the door, CUT to MEDIUM SHOT placed at the farthest corner of the bed, where she was sleeping.


MOLLY GAMBOL: Hesitantly, I slide my finger underneath the fold and pry it open. Before my eyes adjust to the darkness once more to read it, distracted by the note, I trip on one of my selves, barely catching myself from falling. I let silence swallow the room for a moment. No one wakes up. I continue, reaching the bed where I sit on its edge. The letter says:

Dear Molly,

It’s been quite a while! I think the last time I saw you was twenty some years ago, back when you moved out of town, off to the city. We were all quite shocked with your leaving, due to the duly suddenness of it, but I’ve heard you’ve made quite the name for yorself[sic] here! Practically everyone I talked to knew you somehow or another, ‘cept for the mailman weirdly enough. I’m in town for the week, and was wondering if you might want to meet up, maybe rekindle some things? Meet me at Frankie’s two days from now, eight p.m. sharp. If you aren’t intersted[sic] then don’t worry about it, I’ll enjoy a meal for one!

Love,
Mayter Dee



MOLLY GAMBOL: I feel my cheeks burn red and hold the letter close to my chest. I can’t believe he didn’t tell me he’d be in town! Bless his heart, he still isn’t all the way good with spelling, but I could see him again! I pull out my journal and open it to the first page. Scribbled in a different handwriting than my own: ‘Figured you might want a new journal to start fresh. Good luck!’ He was always so sweet, it would be nice to catch up. One of the new calendars sits on the nightstand, which I grab to check the date. I frown to see it’s full, but realize that if I offload on more thoughts that we create tonight (I’ve started to call the other versions of me thoughts) I could free up the whole day for myself just on one dinner plan. No scrambling to meet various appointments — I want this to be special — so it’s a good thing I can have my thoughts elsewhere.

MOLLY FIVEBOL: “How romantic!”

MOLLY GAMBOL: I turn around to find the thoughts have all woken up. Do I really look like that when my cheeks burn?

MOLLY THREEBOL: “We’re going to need more sleeping bags for that plan, but I’ll fit it in today.”

MOLLY EIGHTBALL: “I was going to offer that!”

MOLLY GAMBOL: “Only because I was going to do that myself. Three can do it, her schedule puts her closest to a store that isn’t out of sleeping bags.” I stand up and retrieve a pile of clipboards from the table. “Gather ‘round ladies, we’re going to try the new system I’m testing.”

Downtown - Late Afternoon


MEDIUM SHOT placed on the hood of a car, with MOLLY GAMBOL sitting inside driving.


MOLLY GAMBOL: The system’s been working delightfully. I’ve noticed that each of my selves seem to be more predisposed to one of my many interests, so I’ve devised unique schedules that prioritize a couple genres for each of my thoughts.

MULTIPLE MEDIUM CENTERED SHOTS of the MOLLIES flash, showing a variety of activities such as mud swimming, a painting class, BINGO, and the rest of the Mollies working on how to ride a bike.


MOLLY GAMBOL: Well, thoughts five through eight would be on unique schedules, but I really want to get a hang of that bike thing. My pop never let me do anything, love that man to death but he was incredibly protective. Anything, anything at all he thought might result in some way of harm was off limits. I roll my eyes. Bikes were high on that list of banned activities.

As MOLLY GAMBOL becomes lost in thought, VIEW ZOOMS OUT to host all FIVE SHOTS of each activity, with the original MOLLY in the middle.


MOLLY FIVEBOL: It’s my turn on the bike, Six and Seven are still running behind me keeping the bike steady. My ankles click every time I make a rotation but I’m going. I’m going farther and farther and farther than anyone ever has. I hear Eight give a whoop, and I look back but Six and Seven aren’t there anymore, they stopped a while ago. I beam towards the others, right until the wheel hits a rock I begin to swerve I try to regain balance but there’s more rocks more uneven ground the ground begins to slant it’s a hill I didn’t think we’d get this far equilibriums lost I fall—

MOLLY GAMBOL: —RUMBABUMPBABUMPBABUMP goes the side of the road I swerve back I overcorrect—

MOLLY THREEBOL: —the paint spills the canvas is ruined I don’t know what happened—

MOLLY FOURBOL: —my pencil lead snaps I pressed down to hard—

MOLLY TWOBOL (DROWNING): …

ALL: —I slap my hands to my throat I can’t BREATHE—

MOLLY GAMBOL: —I swerve again, narrowly missing the cars on the road with me I’m off the road I slam the brakes—

MOLLY TWOBOL: —I break the surface. I gulp in air, the greedy lake lapping at my shoulders. Inandoutinandoutin and out in and out in and out. “I’m okay,” I say to myself.

MOLLY GAMBOL: I manage not to crash the car. I rest my face in my hands, closing my eyes.

MOLLY THREE/FOURBOL: I leave the room, the rest of the class/group staring at me, worried.

MEDIUM SHOT RETURNS to just MOLLY GAMBOL in the car.


MOLLY GAMBOL: I focused too hard on what one of my thoughts were doing. That must’ve been it.

MOLLY SEVENBOL: Maybe we shouldn’t—

MOLLY GAMBOL: No! We can still make this work. We learned a very important lesson today, but remember that everything’s been fine up until right now. This is just… a bump in the road.

Eight Days Since the Split - Outside Frankie’s - Evening


WIDE SHOT of the restaurant Frankie’s, MOLLY GAMBOL standing in front, facing the doors.


MOLLY GAMBOL: I’m a lot more nervous than I thought I’d be. My sixteen thoughts are all over the city, having fun and learning new things. It’s the perfect night. My stomach gurgles, which I answer with a handful of painkillers and gas pills. It’s now or never.

Frankie’s


MEDIUM SHOT following MOLLY GAMBOL three steps behind her.


MOLLY GAMBOL: I look over the crowd of people for him. Eventually, we catch eyes and I make my way towards him.

As MOLLY GAMBOL walks, the scenery around her and her outfits begins to rapidly shift — archery course, rock-climbing, shopping mall, sauna, the hotel lobby, movie theater, regular theatre, forest, beach, more and more — until she’s back in Frankie’s, about to sit down at the table. She doesn’t seem to notice the change.


MAYTER DEE: Molly looks beautiful, just like the day she left her hometown, maybe with a few more wrinkles. Heck, I’ve got a few more wrinkles too. I smile, and stand up to pull her chair out.

MOLLY GAMBOL: Mayter looks so different. He actually reminds me a lot of his father now, which I’m sure would mortify him. I decide to save that comment for next time. I take the chair and say, “You’re such a gentleman now Mayter! Not the man who refused to be locked down all those years ago, hm?”

MAYTER DEE: I grimace, playfully hurt. “I’ve changed a lot since then. Slower for one, ever since I had to get the knee replaced. I’ve missed you a lot, how’ve you been?”

MOLLY GAMBOL: I soften, lowering the defenses. I admit, I wasn’t sure how this would go, but maybe everything’ll work out. I look down at the open menu in front of me. “You know me, the only way I can be - busy.” He laughs at that. “I’ve had the most incredible week, I’ve got to tell you everything about it I-” I pause in fear. The crab rangoons, the words, on the menu; I swear they’re moving. I blink and—

MOLLY THIRTEENBOL: —I’m on the beach, watching a real crab scootch about in the sand.

MOLLY GAMBOL: This can’t be happening, not yet. I drag my transfixed eyes from the menu back up towards Mayter.

MAYTER DEE: “You ok Molly? You’ve started sweating bullets all ‘a sudden.”

MOLLY GAMBOL: I can’t focus on his face because the television hanging above the bar is too—

MOLLY NINEBOL: —large, the previews just ended and the projectionist has got the sound too high—

MOLLY THREEBOL: —I ask the DJ to turn the music down but he tells me to shove it—

MOLLY SIXTEENBOL: —I try to shove it but the box is too heavy, I call my friends to help—

MOLLY GAMBOL: —me”

MAYTER DEE (WORRIED): “What’s going on, how can I help?”

MOLLY GAMBOL: “Did I say that out loud?”

MAYTER DEE: “You said help me. Should I call someone?”

SHOT of a domino, which delicately, slowly, ever-so-slightly falls onto a second domino right beside it. DIRECT ON SET for next part.


ALL: The dam breaks the thoughts break loose control is lost command is scuttled menu numbers begin to dance off the page as silverware sparks becomes unmade inside a warm/hot/cool pool of whatever one woman stands and fifteen others struggle to foll(ey)ow of man rubber bands snap and the food is burning some can smell it others eating step and step and step and step and step and step and step and step and step and step and step and step and step and step and step and step and on the movie screen the damsel in distress calls taxi the cowboy rushes after her hands her a rake asks if she’s ok bumps into side repairs her bicycle checks her out swerves around her shakes her to see if she’s ok but the maiden has to run as sitcom bits and recipe tips run rampant in their new demand roaring consciousness stream of conscious that’s the format down to a trickle the door slams and opens again

The Forty-Second Floor, Room Forty-Two - Evening


SHOT from inside the hotel room, filtered through darkness. The viewer’s eyes haven’t adjusted yet, but the heads of fifteen duplicates can be discerned. MOLLY GAMBOL stands illuminated from behind in the open doorway, hunched. Her face cannot be seen.


MOLLY GAMBOL: …

She closes the door.


MOLLY GAMBOL: I pounce on the first one I can see biting into her neck she goes limp I suck the skin up like bánh pho in two seconds flat. The others scream but I’m on them too, I’m surprised to find them so flimsy but by the fourth shedding I’ve consumed I don’t think anymore. The table’s flipped but I vault over and release the kites hiding behind it. I’m swimming from the bottom of the pool now, my eyes are wide open I can see clearly through the chlorine and the dark my sister, my twin sister, looks down at me and the ripples distort her face and I think to myself how beautifully different she is. There’s one left, it’s Twobol she has a knife I run towards her she swings up I dodge left something is hit but it doesn’t matter because I’m hungry and I’m angry and I want control over my life again and it didn’t start with my thoughts but it will end with them. …I’m full. I flick on the lights.

BIRD’S-EYE SHOT of a room filled with piles of dresses, suits, and hats. MOLLY GAMBOL stands victorious, breathing heavy, finger on the lightswitch. The pages of her journal, the something that was hit, still flutter in the air, scattered and slashed and ruined.


MOLLY GAMBOL: I walk to the landline and dial up my band, doesn’t matter which one. They pick up on the third ring. “I’m going to have to cancel for tomorrow,” and I hang up. I start dialing again. I’ve got a lot more calls to make.
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