Jay — I've been working on something for a while and I'd rather show you than explain it.
Over the last stretch I've written thirty short scenes. One to two minutes each, two actors, one location. All of them written for you. Not audition pieces — real scenes, built to give you something to actually play. You're the reason they exist.
This page has one of them on it. Everything's here, in the order I'd read it:
- The scene. Read it cold — don't skip ahead.
- The notes. What's going on underneath, after you've read it.
- Sample frames. Four shots, so you can see the look.
The order matters. The scene never says out loud what's happening, and I'd like to know whether it lands without help.
One / The scene
Two pages. Elise, 25. Trevor, 24. An airport baggage service counter.
INT. AIRPORT BAGGAGE SERVICE COUNTER - DAY
A gray suitcase sits on the shelf behind the counter. Eight feet back. Green tag.
ELISE, 25, coat still on, both hands flat on the counter. TREVOR, 24, uniform polo, a form squared in front of him.
TREVOR
I can't take a death certificate. It's not on the list.
ELISE
His name is on it.
TREVOR
The list says ID matching the tag.
ELISE
He can't come in and get it himself.
TREVOR
I'm sorry for your loss.
He says it the way he says everything.
TREVOR (CONT'D)
There's one other way.
He taps the form.
TREVOR (CONT'D)
I open it, I read the inventory, you identify the contents.
ELISE
Fine.
TREVOR
I have to read all of it. Every line. That's the procedure.
ELISE
Fine.
He gets the suitcase. Sets it on the counter, facing him. Unzips it.
Somewhere down the concourse a shutter comes down. She doesn't turn around.
TREVOR
Three shirts, button-down. One blue, two white.
ELISE
Yes.
TREVOR
One pair brown shoes.
ELISE
Yes.
TREVOR
One phone charger. One shaving kit, black.
ELISE
Yes.
He checks each line as he goes. Reaches deeper.
TREVOR
One set of house keys.
He holds them up. A leather fob, a red ribbon knotted through the ring.
Elise looks at them a moment too long.
ELISE
Yes.
He sets them down. Reads.
TREVOR
One lease agreement. Twelve month. Signed.
He turns it over, checking for a name, the way you check a form.
TREVOR (CONT'D)
One women's coat, wool, gray.
He lifts it out, holds it up to see the whole thing, folds it badly.
Elise hasn't moved. Trevor looks at the coat. At her. Something arrives on him, late.
TREVOR (CONT'D)
There's three more.
ELISE
Keep going.
TREVOR
One hairbrush.
He puts it down.
TREVOR (CONT'D)
One prescription bottle. Name of Marin, K.
The counter phone rings. He lets it ring.
TREVOR (CONT'D)
Two boarding passes. One way.
He squares them on the counter. Looks up, ready to release the bag.
TREVOR (CONT'D)
Okay. That's the inventory. So if you'll just initial the --
ELISE
That's not my bag.
TREVOR
Ma'am --
She takes her hands off the counter.
She walks out. The suitcase stays open, the coat half out of it, one sleeve hanging over the edge.
Two / The notes
The situation. Elise is twenty-five. Her husband died nine weeks ago. He was travelling when it happened, and the airline still has his suitcase. She's come to collect it.
She's brought a death certificate. Trevor can't accept it — policy requires ID matching the name on the bag tag, and the man is dead, so he can't produce any. It's a loop with no way out: the only person allowed to claim the bag is the one person who can't walk in.
The workaround. Trevor offers the one alternative he has. He opens the bag, reads the inventory aloud, and she identifies the contents. If she knows what's inside, it's hers. He warns her twice that he has to read all of it. Every line. Neither of them knows yet why that matters.
What the list does. Item by item, the bag stops being her husband's.
- Shirts, shoes, a charger, a shaving kit. All his. She says yes.
- House keys — leather fob, red ribbon. She looks a beat too long. These aren't the keys to her house.
- A signed twelve-month lease. He'd rented an apartment.
- A woman's grey wool coat. Not hers.
- A hairbrush.
- A prescription bottle. "Name of Marin, K." The other woman has a name now, said out loud in a public building.
- Two boarding passes. One way. They weren't coming back.
Her husband was leaving her. He had an apartment, another woman, and two one-way tickets. He died before she ever found out — and she's finding out now, at a counter, from a stranger reading off a form, and she has to say yes to each item to prove she's entitled to any of it.
Why he doesn't stop. Trevor isn't cruel. He's decent and he's trapped by his own procedure — he can't release the bag without finishing the inventory. He works out what's happening around the coat, far too late. Then the beat that matters most: he offers her a way out — "There's three more" — and she makes him keep going. It's the only power she has in that room and she spends it on hearing all of it.
The ending. He finishes and asks her to initial for release. She says "That's not my bag." It's a lie, and it's the truest thing available to her. She refuses it and walks out with nothing. The suitcase stays open on the counter with another woman's coat hanging over the edge.
The title works three ways. It's unclaimed baggage. She leaves it unclaimed. And she's now unclaimed herself.
How it's written. The affair is never named — nobody says the word. Elise has very few lines and fewer as it goes. She doesn't cry, doesn't raise her voice, never explains herself. Almost all of it happens on her face while a stranger reads a list. The two hardest and best moments are the pause on the keys, and "keep going."
Three / Sample frames
These are mockups, not photographs — I generated them to work out the framing and the light before shooting anything. Four of thirty-six shots.
And here's what I want to ask you. I made two versions. One uses your headshots as the reference, so the character looks like you. The other was built from a written description only, so it's someone who resembles you but isn't you. I'd like to know which you'd rather I use going forward.
Either one is genuinely fine with me. The scenes don't change either way, and I'd rather ask than assume. Just tell me which you prefer — or tell me you'd rather I didn't use your face at all, which is a completely reasonable answer.
Version A — built using your headshots
Your photos went in as reference. The character is you.
Version B — description only
No photo of you was used. Same colouring, different face.
Four / What's in the thirty
Three groups of ten. Every one is two actors, one location, one to two minutes.
Drama and thriller. Grief, crime, a bit of science fiction, one horror. Quiet, mostly — a lot of it is what your face is doing while someone else talks. Unclaimed is from this group.
Comedy. You and one other actress. Contemporary, Los Angeles, properly funny for most of the running time and then something real surfaces in the last thirty seconds.
Survival thriller. You win every single one of these — and you win by noticing something, not by luck and not by being rescued.
Five / The actual invitation
These are drafts. I'd much rather build them with you than hand them over finished.
If something doesn't sit right, if there's a kind of character you've been wanting to play that I haven't written, if you want to cut a line or throw a whole scene out — tell me. That's the version of this I actually want. Any thoughts you have make it better.
No rush on any of it.
— Josh