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Storyboard Text

  • They did? How?
  • Which one?
  • How did you get in?
  • You wanted to eat me
  • Why did you not do so before?
  • The one about the green girl. She lived until she was nine years old. They succeeded, you know, in washing away the green from her.
  • Let me continue your Aunt Hilda’s story
  • Because you would run from me, like you did, this afternoon
  • The same way you got into my garden
  • Her parents moved away, but they burned the garden first, using most of their furniture. Why did they want to change her—what was so wrong with her lovely green skin?
  • An old woman helped them. She had brought many candles, a bag of ash, a washcloth she wiped the girl with, and a basin of day where the water slowly turned green as it drained away from the girl. And that basin of green, they emptied in the garden. The garden grew the most splendid plants, fat, juicy tomatoes and eggplants; rare, one-of-a-kind ferns; beautiful sunflowers, chrysanthemums, roses, and orchids. But as the garden grew, the girl weakened. She grew paler, more transparent, and when they could barely see her outline, she breathed her last and disappeared altogether.
  • NO!
  • Outside my room’s window, just across it, an old, murky window leers at me, and below, a jungle has grown, trees linking branches to mask the underbrush, keeping me out. When I sleep, I stumble into this jungle, where I glimpse something completely green, except where it is dappled golden by the sunlight. It moves, always ahead of me, promising adventure, but I am never able to touch it.
  • I am the green that had been washed out of her, and I am no longer green. I have grown wild and unwieldy, hungry and unloved. Will you love me, Milton?
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