Screenwriting

As writers, we often imagine the perfect creative partner, the producer, company, or talent whose voice feels like it could bring our pages to life.

For Soul Mated, I picture the producers at Zero Gravity. Their bold approach to character-driven narratives feels like the right energy to elevate this story. And imagining actors like Jodie Comer or Dakota Johnson embodying these roles makes me think about how casting choices can transform the rhythm of dialogue and the emotional arc.

For The Misstep, I see Matriarch Productions UK as a natural fit. Their commitment to socially resonant storytelling aligns with the film’s purpose: sparking dialogue and offering hope. I’d love to explore how they shape scripts that balance artistry with impact and how they nurture stories that carry both intimacy and cultural weight.

Here’s my question for you, screenwriters:

If you could hand your script to any producer, company, or actor, who would it be?

How do you imagine their voice, style, or presence shaping your story?

Let’s share our dream collaborators; not just names, but the storytelling reasons behind them. Sometimes, the way we articulate that dream reveals the heart of our writing.

I did a little experiment to see if something that was shot for 16:9 could easily be reframed for vertical without losing original intent - I found a few interesting things I thought I would share:

- some of the dialogue lines landed better (in my opinion) simply because of the adjusted composition on screen

- if you were close up in landscape, you will go MACRO on reframing for vertical. So when you do your own samples using a phone, for example, don't forget to shoot it/frame it vertically from the start

- the tone changes for me quite a bit. In this week's Writer's Room Breakdown Webcast, Michael Schulman described the trending viewing preferences as searching for something like "the intimacy of a novel" - besides being a beautiful description, I can see, post this little experiment, how a vertical framing can get you there.. not like in my experiment though where we get right up their nose haha. but it gave me the sense of what that might be for this vertical composition.

All in all - I think they meant it when they said this format requires its own guides/rules/conventions. Pretty exciting.

The other reason I wanted to share this is to perhaps show that things don't need to be perfect to try getting some of your scenes shot and edited for POCs or just to visualize. When I did this bit, I actually paid around $500 to have a cinematographer and his audio recording buddy come in and shoot this is in half-day. As for the actors, Kevin was a buddy of mine and for Michael I did do a casting and did pay him an Ultra Low SAG rate even though this was obviously not a SAG production. But beautiful things happen when we respect our colleagues :)

If I was doing this today, an iPhone and Premiere Pro / DaVinci is all I would have needed.

Has anyone else tried reframing some of their existing projects? Or got their friends together and bullied them into being actors for the day to try out some scenes you wrote? Would love to hear about the experience.

[ The original landscape scene is attached to this post. And you can watch the reframe here: https://www.stage32.com/media/3951361911743848803?ref=search ]

FADE IN:

EXT. ABANDONED WAREHOUSE – NIGHT

RAIN HAMMERS the roof like a drunk percussionist. Lightning CRACKS. A BLACK HELICOPTER descends violently, its rotors whipping the rain into a frenzy. The side door slides open.

A HUGE, SHIRTLESS MAN (mid-40s, inexplicably oiled) stands framed in the doorway. His name is BRICK KILLMORE. He wears sunglasses at night. And a bandolier of grenades shaped like pineapples.

BRICK

(gravelly, like a bear with a hangover)

"Remember, boys – this is a stealth mission."

He BACKFLIPS out of the helicopter. Lands in a puddle. Doesn’t break eye contact with the camera.

INT. WAREHOUSE – CONTINUOUS

THREE HENCHMEN play poker around a barrel-fire. One chews a toothpick. Another has an eyepatch. The third is just… weirdly sweaty.

HENCHMAN #1

(muttering)

"Killmore’s gonna show up. I can feel it."

HENCHMAN #2

(adjusting eyepatch)

"That guy’s like herpes – shows up uninvited, ruins your weekend."

SUDDENLY – THE ROOF EXPLODES. BRICK KILLMORE crashes through the ceiling, landing directly on the poker table. Cards fly. The barrel-fire tips over. The sweaty henchman catches on fire.

BRICK

(cracking knuckles)

"Gentlemen… you’re holding my stapler."

A BEAT. The henchmen exchange glances.

HENCHMAN #3

(screaming, on fire)

"WE DON’T EVEN WORK IN AN OFFICE!"

BRICK sighs. PUNCHES him so hard his skeleton flies out the back of his body cartoon-style.

MONTAGE: BRICK dismantles the remaining henchmen using:

- A paperclip

- A strongly worded Post-It note

- One (1) disciplinary meeting about "appropriate workplace conduct"

When the dust settles, Brick stands victorious. His hair is perfect. His pecs glisten.

A SHADOWY FIGURE steps from the darkness. It’s THE BOSS – a middle manager in a cheap suit, clutching a coffee mug that reads "#1 DAD".

THE BOSS

(deadpan)

"Killmore. You were late on your TPS reports."

BRICK’S EYE TWITCHES.

BRICK

(whisper-shouting)

"Not… the TPS reports…"

DUN DUN DUUUUN.

SMASH CUT TO:

EXT. MEGACORP HEADQUARTERS – DAY

A GLASS SKYSCRAPER. The logo reads: "EVIL INC. – WE EVIL GOOD".

BRICK KICK-DOORS his way into the lobby.

SECURITY GUARD (70 years old, named Stan) looks up from his crossword.

STAN

(sighing)

"Again?"

BRICK NODS. Stan presses the alarm button. It plays "Careless Whisper" on a kazoo.

BRICK

"Where’s the server room?"

STAN

(pointing)

"Past the motivational posters."

BRICK SQUINTS. A WALL OF POSTERS reads:

- "TEAMWORK MAKES THE DREAM WORK (unless the dream is leaving before 5PM)"

- "FAILURE IS NOT AN OPTION (but dental is)"

BRICK GROANS. PULLS OUT A ROCKET LAUNCHER.

STAN

(cheerfully)

"401k’s vested in three weeks!"

BRICK PAUSES. Lowers the rocket launcher.

BRICK

"Damn. That’s good benefits."

TO BE CONTINUED…

(Just kidding.)

INT. MEGACORP LOBBY – CONTINUOUS

BRICK pockets the rocket launcher with visible regret. Stan slides a pamphlet across the desk.

STAN

(conspiratorially)

"Also, we got a ping-pong table."

BRICK

(squinting harder)

"...Full health coverage?"

STAN

(nodding)

"Including therapy for 'workplace trauma.'"

BRICK’S FIST SHAKES. He exhales through his nose like a bull who just got a 5% 401k match.

BRICK

(grudgingly)

"Fine. But I’m filing a complaint about the kazoo alarm."

STAN shrugs, hands him Form 47-B ("Complaints/Unjustifiable Homicide").

SMASH CUT TO:

INT. SERVER ROOM – CONTINUOUS

FLUORESCENT LIGHTS BUZZ ominously. Rows of servers hum. A SINGLE IT GUY (Glenn, 28, cargo shorts) types furiously.

GLENN

(without looking up)

"Password?"

BRICK

(deadpan)

"Guest."

GLENN

"…Really?"

BRICK

(loading shotgun)

"I’m not great with technology."

GLENN SIGHS. Slides a sticky note across the desk: "Password123."

BRICK

(blinking)

"That’s… it?"

GLENN

(munching Cheetos)

"Upper management said cybersecurity was ‘a buzzkill.’"

BRICK stares at the sticky note. The shotgun looks sad.

SUDDENLY—THE DOOR BLASTS OPEN. In strides BRICK’S ARCH-NEMESIS: KAREN FROM HR. Power suit. Clipboard. Lethal amounts of passive aggression.

KAREN

(clicking pen)

"Killmore. You didn’t initial page 37 of your onboarding paperwork."

BRICK’S EYE TWITCHES AGAIN.

BRICK

(voice breaking)

"I WAS BUSY SAVING THE WORLD."

KAREN

(smirking)

"World-saving requires two forms of ID and a signed W-9."

BRICK WHIPS OUT A FLAMETHROWER.

GLENN

(casually)

"Uh, that’s a write-up."

BRICK SCREAMS INTO THE FLAMETHROWER. Cut to:

EXT. MEGACORP BUILDING – CONTINUOUS

BRICK is LAUNCHED out a window. He TUCK-AND-ROLLS into a conveniently placed dumpster labeled "FAILED CAREER CHOICES."

HIS PHONE BUZZES. A text from THE BOSS:

"TPS REPORTS STILL PENDING. ALSO, FIRE EXTINGUISHER TRAINING IS MANDATORY."

BRICK WHIMPERS. FADE TO BLACK.

TO BE CONTINUED… (For real this time.)

FADE IN:

EXT. CITY STREET – NIGHT

BRICK KILLMORE lies sprawled in the dumpster, covered in expired yogurt and shattered dreams. A STRAY CAT (named Mr. Whiskers, unimpressed) stares at him from atop a pizza box.

MR. WHISKERS

(judgingly)

"Meow."

BRICK

(groaning)

"Not now, Whiskers. I’m having a moment."

HIS PHONE BUZZES AGAIN. Another text from THE BOSS:

"REMINDER: ANNUAL PERFORMANCE REVIEWS ARE NEXT WEEK. DRESS CODE: BUSINESS CASUAL (NO BANDOLIERS)."

BRICK’S EYE TWITCHES SO HARD IT COULD POWER A SMALL VILLAGE.

SUDDENLY—A MYSTERIOUS FIGURE steps into the alley. Wearing a TRENCH COAT and a NAME TAG that reads "HELLO MY NAME IS: PLOT DEVICE."

MYSTERIOUS FIGURE

(whispering)

"Killmore. There’s a file… a file so dangerous, HR tried to shred it twice."

BRICK

(squinting)

"Is it… my unpaid parking tickets?"

MYSTERIOUS FIGURE

(gravely)

"Worse. Your unsubmitted timesheets."

BRICK GASPS. The cat hisses. A DISTANT KAZOO plays ominously.

MYSTERIOUS FIGURE

"The Boss is cooking the books—literally. He’s using them to barbecue."

BRICK

(standing up dramatically)

"That’s a violation of corporate policy."

MYSTERIOUS FIGURE NODS SOLEMNLY. Hands him a USB DRIVE labeled "CONFIDENTIAL (DO NOT EAT)."

BRICK

(clenching fists)

"Time to punch some numbers… literally."

CUT TO:

INT. MEGACORP ACCOUNTING DEPARTMENT – NIGHT

BRICK KICK-DOORS his way in. The room is a sea of cubicles, each with a SAD OFFICE WORKER (tie askew, soul crushed).

SAD OFFICE WORKER #1

(monotone)

"Welcome to hell. The coffee’s decaf."

BRICK

(scanning the room)

"Where’s the Boss?"

SUDDENLY—A SPEAKER CRACKLES. THE BOSS’S VOICE echoes through the room like a haunting by PowerPoint.

THE BOSS (V.O.)

"Killmore. You’re the virus in my system."

BRICK

(smirking)

"Funny. I was just thinking the same thing about your expense reports."

THE BOSS (V.O.)

(scoffs)

"Those are creative interpretations."

BRICK PULLS OUT A CHAIR—not to sit, but to SMASH IT INTO A PRINTER. The printer EXPLODES in a blizzard of paper and toner.

SAD OFFICE WORKER #2

(cheering weakly)

"...That was my performance review."

BRICK

(nods)

"You’re promoted."

SUDDENLY—THE ELEVATOR DINGS. Out steps KAREN FROM HR, holding a LEGAL PAD and UNYIELDING EYE CONTACT.

KAREN

(smug)

"Killmore. You didn’t schedule your exit interview."

BRICK

(loading a STAPLE GUN)

"Exit this building—or enter the morgue."

KAREN

(clicks pen)

"That’s hostile workplace behavior."

BRICK SCREAMS. FIRES THE STAPLE GUN. IT JAMS.

KAREN

(smirking)

"Out of staples? How tragic."

BRICK WHIPS OUT A CALCULATOR.

BRICK

(typing furiously)

"Let’s calculate… your chances of survival."

KAREN

(raising an eyebrow)

"Zero… because I have health insurance."

BRICK FREEZES. HIS LIP QUIVERS.

BRICK

(whispering)

"...Damn you."

CUT TO BLACK.

TO BE CONTINUED… (

FADE IN:

INT. MEGACORP ACCOUNTING DEPARTMENT – CONTINUOUS

BRICK and KAREN stare each other down across a sea of overturned cubicles. A SINGLE STAPLE clatters to the floor between them like a tumbleweed in a corporate wasteland.

SUDDENLY—THE CEILING COLLAPSES. BRICK’S HELICOPTER CRASHES THROUGH THE ACCOUNTS PAYABLE DEPARTMENT.

BLACK SUITED COMMANDOS repel down on VISIBLY EXPENSED nylon ropes. Their leader? STAN THE SECURITY GUARD, now wearing tactical suspenders over his uniform shirt.

STAN

(cracking knuckles)

"I took an optional combat seminar."

BRICK

(grinning)

"Stan. You son of a bitch."

STAN

(shrugging)

"Benefits include dental."

KAREN

(clicking pen furiously)

"This is unauthorized demolition!"

BRICK WHIPS OUT A CHAIR. Not to sit—to SMASH it over the nearest copier. The copier EXPLODES in a blizzard of W-2 forms.

SAD OFFICE WORKER #3

(cheering weakly)

"...My tax withholdings..."

BRICK

(gravelly)

"You’re free, son."

SUDDENLY—A PROJECTOR SCREEN descends. THE BOSS appears via GRAINY ZOOM CALL from what appears to be a BEACH RESORT.

THE BOSS

(sipping margarita)

"Killmore. You’re violating the company dress code."

BRICK

(adjusting his bullet bandolier)

"Casual Friday."

THE BOSS

(smirking)

"Funny. Because today’s Tuesday."

BRICK’S EYE TWITCHES. His MUSCLES TWITCH harder.

STAN

(whispering)

"That’s time theft. Straight to HR jail."

KAREN

(triumphant)

"Gotcha."

BRICK

(loading PAPERCLIP GUN)

"You’ll never take me alive."

KAREN

(scoffs)

"We don’t have to. PTO’s been denied."

BRICK GASPS. The commandos GASP. Even the copier debris seems to GASP.

STAN

(horrified)

"...No... paid... leave?"

BRICK COLLAPSES to his knees. The PAPERCLIP GUN slips from his fingers.

BRICK

(whispering)

"...Monsters."

SUDDENLY—THE FIRE SPRINKLERS activate. Not from fire—from EXCESSIVE WORKPLACE DRAMA. Everyone is SOAKED.

KAREN

(screaming)

"MY PAPERWORK!"

BRICK

(standing slowly)

"Time to liquidate... your assets."

He KICK-FLIPS onto a ROLLING OFFICE CHAIR, SLIDING toward Karen with the SPEED of a MID-MANAGER AVOIDING RESPONSIBILITY.

CUT TO:

EXT. MEGACORP ROOFTOP – NIGHT

THE BOSS SMUGLY sips his margarita by the ROOFTOP POOL. The CITY sprawls below him.

SUDDENLY—BRICK CRASHES through the GLASS CEILING, LANDING in the HOT TUB. Bubbles FURIOUSLY.

THE BOSS

(sighing)

"You’re tracking carpet fibers in the wet area."

BRICK

(rising like a PHOENIX... if phoenixes HAD HEALTHCARE DEDUCTIBLES)

"End of the line, Boss."

THE BOSS

(smirking)

"Wrong. This is the end..."

He PRESSES A BUTTON. The POOL DRAINS... revealing a SECRET ESCAPE SUBMARINE labeled "CORPORATE RETREAT".

BRICK

(blinking)

"...Is that tax-deductible?"

THE BOSS

(winking)

"Team-building exercise."

BRICK LUNGES—

—only to SLIP on a WET POOL NOODLE. He FACE-PLANTS onto the MARBLE DECK as the Boss STROLLS toward the submarine.

THE BOSS (adjusting his SUNHAT)

"Killmore. You failed to account for liabilities."

BRICK SPITS OUT A TOOTH. It CLINKS against the tile—audibly DEDUCTIBLE.

BRICK

(grunting)

"Your escape... is unauthorized!"

THE BOSS

(shrugging)

"So’s your PTO request."

BRICK ROARS—flips the HOT TUB over with SHEER RAGE. Water FLOODS the rooftop, short-circuiting the TIKI TORCHES.

SUDDENLY—KAREN REPELS down from a HELICOPTER wearing FULL SCUBA GEAR.

KAREN (through DIVING MASK)

"Violation: unsanctioned aquatic activity!"

BRICK GRABS a FLOATING POOL BAR. Swings it LIKE A CLUB. Hits the SUBMARINE’S HATCH—which DINGS like a MICROWAVE.

THE BOSS (laughing)

"Impact-resistant! Cost: three company retreats!"

BRICK GROWLS—RIPS a CHAIR from the POOL DECK. It’s WICKER. This is PERSONAL now.

BRICK

(hefting chair)

"Last chance... hand over the W-2s."

THE BOSS SMIRKS. Presses ANOTHER BUTTON. The SUBMARINE’S HATCH opens—revealing GLENN THE IT GUY at the controls, EATING CHEETOS.

GLENN

(mouth full)

"Uh. Password?"

BRICK SCREAMS—HURLS the WICKER CHAIR. It BOUNCES off the submarine’s hull HARMLESSLY.

THE BOSS (boarding submarine)

"Performance review: unsatisfactory."

BRICK PANTS. WATER drips from his GLISTENING PECS. The KAZOO ALARM plays DISTANTLY.

KAREN (adjusting CLIPBOARD)

"Next steps: disciplinary meeting."

BRICK CLENCHES his FISTS—then FREEZES. His PHONE BUZZES. A TEXT from STAN:

"PSA: Donut truck in lobby."

BRICK’S EYES WIDEN.

BRICK

(whispering)

"...Chocolate-glazed?"

SMASH CUT TO:

INT. MEGACORP LOBBY – CONTINUOUS

BRICK STORMING toward the DONUT TRUCK—only to SKID to a HALT. The TRUCK is UNMANNED. A NOTE reads:

"OUT: Mandatory sensitivity training."

BRICK SCREAMS at the CEILING.

SUDDENLY—A VENT COVER CLATTERS open. MR. WHISKERS drops down, dragging a MANILA FOLDER with his TEETH.

BRICK (scooping file)

"You... magnificent furry bastard."

HE FLIPS it open. Inside: THE BOSS’S TAX RETURNS.

A STAMP on the front: "AUDIT IN PROGRESS."

BRICK’S SMILE could MELT STEEL.

BRICK

(gravelly)

"Time to... file for bankruptcy."

CUT TO BLACK.

TO BE CONTINUED... (Probably.)

I don’t know what I’m doing wrong but when I search webinars for mystery none come up. can someone please direct me to a webinar on writing mystery?

Whilst NWC was not quite as productive as it could have been I did get into the habit of engaging with this extraordinary community daily, I wrote the logline, character bios etc for my current feature rewrite, I read the two previous drafts and wrote reverse outlines. I have a better understanding of the concept as a whole and have a renewed commitment moving forward. December will my do over month to get a new draft completed. Following that I am committed to polishing my script, submitting it for feedback, all culminating in preparing myself to pitch and pitching in the new year. I plan to track my progress publicly to maintain accountability.

Found this great substack article on how the industry works. Very insightful and clear on what the responsibility is for writers in making waves. I liked this tidbit especially:

"Representation Is Not Access—Representation Is Introductions. Writers obsess over getting representation. We’re taught that a manager or agent is the finish line. But what do reps actually do?

They introduce you. They send emails that say: “I represent this writer. You should meet.” Reps aren’t magical beings. They don’t create opportunities out of thin air. They connect you to opportunities that already exist.

The power of having representation isn’t that they’re better at pitching than you. The power is that their introduction carries more weight than you pitching yourself. Because the industry trusts them. Representation is a system of introductions. That’s the business model."

(https://thehubstudio.substack.com/p/the-introduction-revolution-how-we?f...)

If you haven't seen the Hollywood Reporter article on the upcoming partnership between our Stage32 and the 2nd most successful in global monetization Vertical Drama platform, DramaBox, here it is: https://www.hollywoodreporter.com/business/business-news/dramabox-seeks-new-u-s-writers-stage32-1236436618/

Once again, so impressed with Stage32's commitment and follow through with creating real opportunities for its members. In this particular case:

- Access to a free development program and mentorship for those selected

- More opportunities for paid writing assignments

- and possible segue into a new legitimate career pathway

And, as it happens... ;) I will have the pleasure of moderating a webinar on "How to Write Vertical Drama Scripts" this Tuesday, Dec 9th at 1pm PT / 4pm ET with an instructor that's right in the thick of it. Education equals preparation is what I always tell my students, as they stare in shock that I am implying 'practicality' haha

You can register here if you want to check it out:

https://www.stage32.com/education/products/how-to-write-vertical-micro-d...

Who's writing micro dramas right now? I resurfaced an old series pilot proof-of-concept film I did a while back (I'll be posting about it shortly) and thinking if it's worth restructuring into a micro drama - it doesn't quite follow the structure but I have some thoughts on why sooner than we may expect, there will be a niche also for what we may call 'elevated micro dramas' ... so, if you're writing one, what can you share of your experience thus far?

Can I have feedback for this scene? I have tried to describe characters, settings, it's my second screenplay and I want it to be good before I pitch. This is the logline: 'When Grace moves to a small town, the locals become dangerously obsessed with her, and she must uncover why she's the target of their fixation in order to escape before their obsession turns deadly.'

For context this is a prologue to the story:

EXT. MILLER HOUSE - NIGHT

A two-story colonial sits at the end of a tree-lined street in what should be a picture-perfect small town. White picket fence. Manicured lawn. American flag hanging limp in the suffocating stillness.

But tonight, it's under siege.

DOZENS OF TOWNSPEOPLE swarm the property like insects drawn to rotting meat. They press against windows, their breath fogging the glass in rhythmic patterns in, out, in, out, perfectly synchronized. They rattle doorknobs with mechanical precision. They climb onto the wraparound porch, moving on all fours, stepping over flower pots and trampling Claire's prized begonias into pulp.

Their faces are illuminated by the warm glow from inside the house. Some are CRYING. Tears streaming down their faces while they SMILE. Others have eyes rolled back, showing only whites. A WOMAN in blood-spattered pyjamas claws at a window screen. She doesn't stop. Her exposed nail beds leave dark smears on the glass. She's LAUGHING.

The crowd moves as one organism, pulsing, breathing, reaching. When one person inhales, they all inhale. The sound is deafening.

INT. MILLER HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - CONTINUOUS

The coffee table is overturned, family photos scattered across the floor, their glass frames cracked, the images beneath staring up accusingly. Furniture has been shoved haphazardly against doors, the antique credenza, the leather armchair David's father left him, even the piano bench. Everything.

Windows rattle in their frames like teeth chattering. The whole house GROANS like something alive and dying.

DAVID MILLER (40s, high school history teacher, wire-rim glasses cracked and hanging off one ear, button-down shirt soaked with sweat and something darker) drags a heavy oak bookshelf across the hardwood floor. His hands are bleeding. The bookshelf leaves a dark smear behind it.

Books tumble off the shelves- Gibbon's Decline and Fall, Team of Rivals, a battered copy of To Kill a Mockingbird. They land with wet, heavy thuds.

DAVID

(voice cracking, almost gone from shouting)

Kitchen! Claire—check the kitchen door!

CLAIRE MILLER (40s, ER nurse, still in her blood-stained scrubs from the hospital, dark hair matted to her skull, a deep gash bleeding freely from her temple down her neck) sprints past him. Her sneakers leave red footprints on the hardwood. She's running on something beyond adrenaline now. Beyond fear. Pure survival instinct.

CLAIRE

It's locked! Deadbolt! Chain! They're at the back door!

Her voice breaks into a sob.

A CRASH. Multiple HANDS smash through the living room window simultaneously, sending a explosion of glass across the Persian rug. The hands grope blindly, fingers splayed, searching, caressing the air.

One hand belongs to MRS. CHEN—Sarah's piano teacher. Her fingers are broken, bent at impossible angles. She's still wearing her wedding ring. The skin around it has split.

David grabs the aluminium baseball bat—Ethan's, from Little League and swings hard. CRACK. CRACK. CRACK. Bones break. The hands don't withdraw. They keep reaching, even as fingers dangle uselessly.

SARAH MILLER (16, their daughter, long dark hair tangled and stuck to her face with sweat, eyes wild and red-rimmed, wearing an oversized hoodie torn at the shoulder) stands frozen halfway up the staircase. She clutches her younger brother against her side so tightly he can barely breathe.

SARAH

(voice breaking, barely audible)

Dad—dad, what did we do? What did we DO?

From outside, a CHANT begins. Low at first, almost melodic, a lullaby sung by a hundred voices. Then building, building, building—

TOWNSPEOPLE (O.S.)

(overlapping, frantic, ecstatic)

Sarah-David-Claire-Ethan... The Millers-The Millers-The Millers... The family-our family-THE FAMILY...

The voices fracture into glossolalia, speaking in tongues, animal sounds mixed with names.

David's face goes corpse-white. He looks at Claire. Her eyes are hollow. They both understand now.

This is about all of them. The entire family. Together. As one.

CLAIRE

(whispered, horrified)

They want to keep us.

Sarah can't move. She's transfixed by the windows where faces press against the glass like specimens pinned to boards. Faces she knows. Faces she trusted.

At one window: MR. HAYES, who runs the hardware store, his face pressed so hard against the glass that blood vessels burst in his eyes. He's mouthing something over and over. His teeth scrape the glass.

At another: PRINCIPAL MORRISON, mascara running down her face in black rivers, hands splayed against the pane. At the side window: JESSICA WONG, Sarah's best friend since third grade, still in her soccer uniform. She's sobbing hysterically, her face contorted.

let’s try this—do you find this time-jump (‘epilogue as prologue’ device) effective, or just disorienting?

GUNPOWDER

By James Luo

ON BLACK - TITLE CARD

2075

FADE IN

Dashing Don’s Diner is quiet.

PHOEBE (age: 105) sits on the sun-warmed bench.

Across the square, a small group of children play.

The veranda overlooks the collapsed quarter, low arcologies nestled between what remains of the old city’s bones.

Phoebe looks at the cup in her hands.

It had been broken once.

Someone had put it back together with gold.

CUT TO

TITLE CARD

1995

Hottest summer on record and the elevator’s broken again. KARIM and Phoebe lug their groceries up five flights. Before he’s finished dead-bolting the door, she’s peeling off her sodden dress.

KARIM

(mock pleading)

Babe - it’s too hot to fuck…

She flips him two birds and rushes, nude, to the shower.

PHOEBE (O.S.)

Jeeezus - the pipes are boiling!