**Here is a writing sample I submitted to Florida State University. No dialogue was allowed.** EXT. WORKING CLASS APARTMENT - KITCHEN - NIGHT
Underneath the constant stream of Orwellian-sounding PROPAGANDA SPEWING from the radio, the loud THUD of a rubber-soled work boot stomping onto the dirty, yellow linoleum floor removes any semblance of a relaxing evening in THE RUSSIAN’S apartment. His old and powerful logger’s legs surely have ended the life of whatever had been caught underneath, and by just one look of his weathered hands can one tell that this was likely not the first he had taken. The old man’s face shone of a hard life, and even his dirty, graying beard told its own troubling story.
As he lifts his foot from the ground, the work-worn man takes a quick peek at the bottom of his shoe- clean, other than the stains of red from the day’s duties and certainly without any pest’s flattened corpse. Looking to the floor, he spies a black speck of some unknown substance and bends down at the knee to identify it, grasping the nearby countertop for support. Once his eyes focus the object into view, he realizes that the speck he "killed" was only a bit of pocket lint.
Frustrated, the Russian pinches the lint between two fingers and begins to straighten himself. Upon exertion, his back stiffens solid and he cannot stand upright, let alone move at all. Grabbing the countertop with his other arm, he painfully rotates himself perpendicular with it, now eye-level with the surface.
Staring back at him with seemingly a thousand eyes only mere inches from his face: a small, common house spider. Its front appendages quiver as if ready to dart again, its chelicera slowly swinging open and shut as if cursing the tired old man. The spider must realize this Russian man’s current predicament, as the brave arachnid just sits there waiting for the human to make his next move.
The logger slowly removes his left hand from the countertop in order to keep the spider from running off in fear of death, and with it he quietly opens the nearby bottom cupboard. About halfway into opening the door, a loud CREAK is heard, forcing the man off-balance and onto the floor completely, likewise slamming the door shut.
Thinking the spider gone, the Russian peeks back at the top of the counter. Returning his inspection is the spider, either unaware or indifferent to this man’s predicament. Realizing the spider’s apathy towards him nor its concern for the sound of the cabinet door, the man flings open the cupboard and hastily retrieves a bottle of bug spray. After a readying pause, he swings the can around to where the spider is waiting and sprays wildly like a terrorist spraying a Kalashnikov, leaving a pile of white foamy matter all over the counter where the scoffing spider loiters.
Wrenching from his pain, the man manages to lift himself back up onto his feet, albeit quite slowly. Satisfied at his triumph over the nuisance, he reaches into his pocket for a state-sanctioned handkerchief in order to wipe the scene clean of guts and spray. Clearing the counter, he finds no proof of his kill and immediately scans the room like a security camera- no sign of a spider anywhere. Fuming, the man hurls the can of spray at the cabinet in desperation.
The old man turns around, now angrily hunting his prey. The spider scurries behind him, running between cans of herring and beans on the counter as the man’s gaze just misses the perceived threat, turning around with seemingly new life just as the spider disappears again. In a fit of uncontrollable rage, the Russian yanks a pistol from the rear of his trousers and aims it where his eyes scan. Seeing movement out of the corner of his eye, the man swings around and pulls the trigger. The pistol doesn’t fire, locking the slide to the rear as if it was unloaded. The Russian checks his magazine and reloads it, chambering a round to be sure.
Suddenly a ROAR of thunder cuts through the silence and the lights flicker. The old forester sees that a storm is brewing nearby as he looks through the window from where he stands, then immediately returns to hunting mode. The man unaware, headlights appear in the distance through the window.
He tiptoes ever-so-softly on the creaking linoleum, pointing the pistol at the slightest hint of movement. The headlights outside grow larger and shine into the kitchen, come to a stop, and are extinguished.
Suddenly, the wind from the oncoming storm gusts and knocks free the latch holding two latticed casement windows closed, allowing one to swing wildly open and shut at the will of the wind. The act of nature startles the man, and he leaves the hunt to return the windows back to their original position. Just as he notices the vehicle parked outside through the open window, the Russian turns around to the THUD of a metal shovel introducing itself to the front of his skull and he crumples to the ground unconscious.
Two MASKED MEN tower over the Russian’s body. One of the men digs out a photograph from his shirt pocket and compares it to the man lying motionless on the ground, nodding at his partner in confirmation. The photograph is of the dead man and underneath the photo it reads "Wanted for crimes against her workers." As one lights a cigarette, the other digs out a flask and takes a swig, offering it to his partner as he finishes. The other masked man takes his ration of vodka and spies a crumpled newspaper on the countertop. The headline reads "TWO DEAD IN ANTI-BOLSHEVIK ATTACK AT LUMBER YARD". As the two masked men drag the lifeless body away, the spider reappears. It scurries to the edge of the countertop and watches its hunter become the hunted.