Yellow Is The Color

Screenplay draft

Title: YELLOW IS THE COLOR
Credit: Written by
Author: 
Draft date: 10/10/2024
Contact: 

FADE IN.

INT. KITCHEN - DAWN

A yellow rain mac sways on the clothesline outside the narrow window. Sickly yellow fabric twists against bruised Leeds brick. Dawn light leaks sodium orange across the Formica table.

RORY, fifteen, skinny, ink-stained fingers, stands on a chair. He wears a yellow cagoule two sizes too big. His lanyard of yellow pegs swings from his belt. A torn Mike D ticket stub is pinched between his teeth. The radio hums a low Beastie Boys track, bass muffled through cheap speakers.

Rory stretches, reaches the fridge door. He smooths the stub flat with his palm. Ticket fragments catch on old magnets. He presses harder. The paper tears a little more.

RORY
(under his breath, repeating lyrics)
No sleep till...

He steps down. The chair leg scrapes the lino. Rory turns. His eyes scan the counter. Yellow pegs lie scattered beside a pizza box and a broken stereo. He picks one up. Clicks it once, twice, like a lighter. The sound cuts the track's hi-hat.

Rory moves to the window. The mac outside turns again in the wind. He watches it. His fingers keep clicking the peg in time with the beat leaking from the radio.

Rory crosses back to the fridge. He opens the door. Cold air spills out. Inside, a half-loaf of bread and a single egg sit on the shelf. He closes it. Tapes the stub again, lower this time, so it won't fall into the toast.

The track on the radio builds. Rory mouths the next line without sound. His cowlick falls over one eye. He brushes it back with the peg still in his hand. The click-click-click matches the snare.

Rory drags the chair to the centre of the room. He climbs up again. Adjusts the angle of the stub so the fridge light hits the printed letters. Yellow pegs on his belt sway with the motion. One peg drops. It lands on the lino with a sharp plastic tap.

He steps off. Picks up the fallen peg. Clicks it three times fast. The radio fades the track into static. Rory stands still. The only movement is the mac turning outside the window and the slow spin of the fridge's old fan.

Rory walks to the sink. Runs the tap. Yellow dish soap sits in a cracked bottle. He squeezes a drop onto his fingers. Rubs them together. The smell cuts the kitchen air. He wipes his hands on the cagoule. Yellow fabric darkens where the water hits.

He returns to the chair. Climbs once more. One final press on the ticket stub. It holds. Rory steps down. The chair stays in the middle of the floor. He looks at the fridge. The stub is crooked but fixed.

Outside the window the mac keeps turning. The radio clicks off. Silence. Rory stands with the peg in his fist. He clicks it once more, slower now. The sound echoes against the formica and the grey brick visible through the glass.

INT. KITCHEN - DAWN

A yellow rain mac sways on the clothesline outside the window. Morning light filters through net curtains, catching dust motes above the formica table. RORY, 15, stands on a wooden chair, tape in one hand, torn Mike D ticket stub in the other. He wears a yellow cagoule two sizes too big. The radio hums a low Beastie Boys loop.

He presses the stub flat against the fridge door, already crowded with other faded stubs.

The back door creaks. SHEILA enters in her cleaner’s tabard, hair pinned with two yellow pegs. She carries a plastic lunchbox. She stops when she sees the stub.

SHEILA
We’re not made of brass, love.

Rory doesn’t turn. He smooths the tape edge with his thumb.

RORY
They’re only playing Leeds once.

Sheila sets the lunchbox on the table. Her eyes stay on the stub.

SHEILA
And we’ve got gas to pay. Put that down before it falls in the toast.

Rory steps off the chair. He reaches for a yellow peg on the counter, clicks it open and shut like a lighter. The sound is sharp in the small room.

SHEILA
We have Mike D at home.

Rory freezes mid-click. He looks at her, cowlick falling over one eye.

RORY
That’s not the same.

Sheila moves to the kettle, fills it from the tap. Water splashes into the chipped sink.

SHEILA
It’s what we’ve got.

Rory clicks the peg again, slower now. Yellow light from the single bulb catches the peg’s plastic edge. Sheila watches him, hands raw and still on the counter. The radio track fades into static.

INT. KITCHEN - MORNING

A Formica table crammed with cassette tapes in neat rows, each sleeve marked with yellow highlighter. A stack of yellow pegs sits beside a charity-shop torch wrapped in tinfoil. Rory’s lanyard of pegs hangs from a chair back, swinging slightly. The fridge hums. A torn Mike D ticket stub is taped crooked above the toaster.

Sheila stands at the sink in her cleaner’s tabard, hair pinned with two yellow pegs. She stuffs sandwiches into a lunchbox, movements sharp and automatic. Rory perches on the edge of the table, skinny in his oversized yellow cagoule, ink-stained fingers sorting cassettes.

RORY
(under his breath)
No sleep till Brooklyn... no sleep till—

SHEILA
Gas man’s due Friday. Don’t leave those tapes on the breadboard again.

RORY
They’re only playing Leeds once.

Sheila snaps the lunchbox shut. She glances at the shrine, then at Rory’s cowlick sticking up like it always does.

SHEILA
And we’ve got the meter to feed. Put the pegs back in the drawer before the cat bats them under the cooker.

Rory clicks two pegs together like a hi-hat. The sound is small and metallic in the tight room. Sheila watches him a second longer than she means to, then pulls her tabard straight.

SHEILA
Tommy’s under the bed again with that torch. Tell him if he wants breakfast he comes out like a human.

RORY
(quick, clipped)
Intergalactic... planetary...

Sheila exhales through her nose, the closest she gets to a laugh. She grabs her coat from the back of the door. Yellow rain macs sway on the line outside the window, grey brick beyond them.

SHEILA
Double shift means I’m not back till after ten. Door locked. No messing with the stereo.

Rory doesn’t answer. He lines up another cassette, yellow spine facing out. Sheila pauses at the threshold, eyes on the table full of yellow junk and black tape.

SHEILA
We’re not made of brass, love.

She steps out. The door clicks. Rory keeps clicking the pegs, slower now, the fridge hum filling the space she left.

INT. KITCHEN - MORNING

Rory stands on the same chair from dawn, ink-stained fingers peeling yellow pegs from a string on the counter. He clips them one by one onto the lanyard at his belt, each click sharp against the fridge hum. A Beastie Boys cassette case lies open beside the broken stereo. Sunlight cuts through the net curtain, turning the pegs sickly yellow against the grey brick visible outside.

Tommy crawls under the Formica table, yellow mac sleeves dragging. He clutches the toy mic, torch wrapped in foil, and watches Rory’s trainers through the chair legs.

RORY
(under his breath, fast)
No sleep till Brooklyn, no sleep till—

TOMMY
(one beat late, high-pitched)
No sleep till Brooklyn, no sleep till—

Rory pauses, tilts his head, then keeps moving. He opens a drawer and pulls out a stack of old ticket stubs, sorting them by colour on the table edge.

RORY
They’re only playing Leeds once. Once. You tape it wrong and it’s gone.

TOMMY
(one beat late)
Once. You tape it wrong and it’s gone.

Rory steps off the chair. He picks up the open cassette case, blows dust from the spools, and slots it into the stereo. Nothing plays. He clicks the buttons twice anyway.

RORY
(mumbling)
Intergalactic, planetary, planetary, intergalactic—

TOMMY
(one beat late)
Intergalactic, planetary, planetary, intergalactic—

Rory crouches, peers under the table. Tommy’s eyes widen but he doesn’t move. The toy mic stays pressed to his mouth.

RORY
You’re meant to be at school.

TOMMY
(whispering, one beat late)
You’re meant to be at school.

Rory stands again, grabs a yellow peg from the counter, and spins it between his fingers like a coin. He tapes another stub to the fridge door, lower th

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