PAGE ONE.
1.1: H.G. WELLS
sits on a stool in his workshop focusing very hard on a piece of paper on a
desk. He’s scribbling furiously. He’s talking to
himself—like a mad inventor.
WELLS: It
was all a fraud they said.
WELLS: Time
travel.
1.2: Panning out
a little further and we can see the MACHINE in the background—plugged into the
wall. There’s a typewriter hooked up to the center console.
WELLS: But
they didn’t expect it would be this easy.
SFX [over the typewriter]: Click clack.
1.3: The
machine’s typewriter releases a ream of paper.
NO DIALOGUE.
1.4: There’s a
pile of paper on the floor. Display lettering for the years—unboxed lettering
for the years.
WELLS [CAP]: You
see, we’re all going to end up as fertilizer.
DISPLAY LETT: 1899.
DISPLAY LETT: 1940.
DISPLAY LETT: 2016.
1.5: Back to Wells’s
empty writing desk and the pile of paper. Someone young and in his twenties
stands over the papers. Say he’s red-haired and wearing a scarf that goes along
with his winter coat. He looks a little like Wells, like he might be his
great-great-grandson or something.
WELLS [CAP]: Eventually,
we’ll be dirt in the ground.
CAP [2] But
when people read our words they travel back to our time and into our futures.
CAP [3] Writing
is time travelling.
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