Let’s not pretend I didn’t know what I was getting into. Before I went under, as they say, I signed the contract – 45 years – and that sounded pretty good. They were late. Over twenty years late. But my mother always said better late than never. And I’m not dense. That’s what seems to shock everyone, like they’d packed me away in 1852 not 1952. It’s an adjustment. A matter of shaking out my frozen legs. Not complete shock. I’ve used these legs before. So let’s not pretend that I’m an alien or that the scientists standing in front of me are aliens. They look the same as they did when I went under. More women. More color. But still in their white lab coats and glasses. “Hello, Victoria,” the woman attempts to ease me back into existence with a calming voice, “welcome back.”

“Fabulous,” I lifted my eyebrow, “but please, darling, call me Vicki.” She nods and then holds out a pile of clothing toward me. I raised my eyebrow, “I’ve been sitting there naked for what,” I pause as I take the clothing, “fifty years?” I hold for confirmation, but they all just stare at me. One of the male scientists attempting not to look at my body. I smile, “what I’d really like is a cigarette. Could you be a dear and get me one?” The woman, now holding a clipboard over her chest, looked at me and studied my demeanor. I later learned that I was the last one to be unfrozen and the only one who hadn’t screamed or cried. I suppose it’s quite rare to come into the world, even if it’s a coming back into the world, without so much as whimper. And they asked if I had questions. I had one.

“Cigarette?”

And that was a wrap.

___

Confessional:

How did it feel waking up? (takes a drag) Well, I’ve never been opposed to waking up. It’s only rough until you’ve had a cigarette. And this cigarette is rough, darling. Nothing like it was before. I used to feel it in my chest when I inhaled.

Yes. I’m aware. They prepped me alright. Sat me in a room for a few days straight watching The Bachelor, the Kardashians, and several Housewives and I have to say I found it all quite marvelous. Why, the first thing I did was ask for a book. I received a few. Donny says I’m going to be a star and really, after almost 70 years of sleep, what else can I be? Have you heard of Real People? (laughing) Oh darling, you don’t even understand where you come from. You see, my fascination always gets the best of me and I just have to absorb everything I can about it. This phenomena (taking a drag) it’s not novel or a symptom of the twenty-first century to crave something everyday and it happened in the 70s. That’s not so far from my time really. And believe me we had our own Kardashians. Have you heard of Helen Hope. You might call her … (snapping) what is that term I kept hearing – oh right – a hot mess (takes a drag). And it all seems very much a response to Lefebvre’s critique don’t you think? (puts out cigarette) You’re unfamiliar? Why … I doubt I could … I suppose it matters very little, what I mean is that this reality television, it develops the everyday. If it weren’t for profit, I’d say it’s almost antithetical to production – in the economic sense, not the Hollywood sense. Don’t you think?

(laughing) What did I do before I was frozen? Darling, would you really want me to give away that material so early in the show. No, I didn’t think so.

___

“Well.” I looked around the room. It was the contemporary interior that I had seen in the many shows that I consumed before being driven here. “It looks as if I’m slightly underdressed.” All the other unfrozen turned to me. They were holding wine glasses, listening to Bing, and now staring at me. The women were synched, dressed to the nines in their cocktail dresses. And the men looked as if they'd been plucked straight out of a black-and-white talkie. One of the girls who sat on the counter in her full silhouette dress, plaid cape, gloves, her ankles crossed and toes pointed toward the fourth rate Bogart in front of her, looked like Marilyn Monroe herself if Marilyn had been a brunette. The others were in their taffeta sheath dresses – hugging every inch of them – and the men looked bland, compared to Donny and the men I’d seen on the vivid television of the tcontemporary. “Don’t just stand there, darling,” I moved toward the Bogart, “fetch me a drink.”

I watched as he moved toward another room. “I thought we’d seen the last of us,” I turned to face the woman on the counter. She put her hand out, “I’m Darby, 1956, and you are …”

“Vicki. 1952.”

“Oh.” She said looking at the outfit. My high-waist pants and a tucked shirt.

“Darling,” I smiled, “haven’t you heard, it’s the twenty-first century, they dressed me like this for good television.”

She looked intrigued, “so you didn’t …”

I laughed, “I absolutely did. But that shouldn’t mean anything.”

___

Confessional:

Darby? What do I think about Darby? I think the name Darby says it all –it means free from envy – and darling, I don’t envy Darby at all. (laughing) She looks very young. Seems bland. And she’s obviously never been a computer.

A computer? During the war, I sat at a table cross from a girl named Audre, we made calculations. They called us computers. What I’m really saying is she looks as if she’s never worked.

___

“I feel like I know you.” I took a long sip of my drink as he approached. I’d been talking with Leonard and Rita. “Anthony,” he held out his hand and it looked as greased as his hair, “1954.”

“1952,” I took it, “and I don’t believe we’ve ever had the pleasure.”

___

Confessional:

Oh, I knew we ran with different people. He strikes me as a Reagan.

___

“No,” Anthony placed his drink down on the table beside me and I swear I bit the inside of my cheek. If there were ever a time for a cigarette. “I’d swear we’ve met, I never forget a face. Did you go to Yale?”

“Darling,” I almost laughed, “do I look like I went to college?” He stared. “I’m self educated and far too obstinate to suffer the collegiate, but I did once date a Yale man – it was short-lived and thank god for that.” I let out a slight breath, noticing that I had been offensive, “nothing intended, really, it’s just the men I met were so sure that they were god, which is ridiculous considering how easily they seemed to shake.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m talking about the scare,” I smiled into my drink as I took a sip, “you know the Red Planet Mars.”

He nodded, “I see.”

I raised an eyebrow, “oh, don’t tell me you fell for the ramblings of that little midwestern boy.”

___

Confessional:

I knew very well that he subscribed to the loon. Who's the loon? McCarthy, of course. (takes a drag). He was just a dumb scared little man, but a dumb scared man can do a lot of harm … but you know that. It seems to me the world has changed very little. I think I’d be depressed. Luckily I was never an optimist.

___

“Were you,” Rita asked.

“I was,” I said. And Anthony gave us the side-eye, one that would have been dangerous 65 years ago. One that was the reason I’d decided on freezing myself - well, that and my big mouth. It was also the side-eye that I might gamble had a lot to do with Rita's presence here. I’d love to know what had possessed the rest to surrender their bodies to time. I turned to Anthony, “you were not?”

“No.” He said it simply.

“I figured as much,” I took a long sip. “Maybe we did meet, darling. Did you ever associate with that Buckley fellow?” I put my hand on Rita’s, “he had a ghastly face, an overbite that is especially prominent when confronted by an opinion that does not match his own,” I looked back to Anthony, “and he had just published a book, God and Man at Yale.” I took another drink, “I threw it across the room.”

“Buckley was a friend,” he said and I could tell by the way he put his hand in his pocket that I was infuriating him, “a brilliant mind.”

“Yes, a brilliant mind indeed,” I said, “but so fragile. And he liked me very much.” I saw the skepticism and I laughed, “well, of course not with company. In front of an audience he called me a communist c*** but as soon as the boys left. ” I finished with a sip.

___

Confessional:

I can’t say c*** on television. (laughs) I’m sorry darling, you’re going to be censoring me often, I can be quite crass. (takes a drag) If it helps, my c*** made him see god.

Heavens no. I was never afraid to speak my mind before. It got me in a world of trouble, but why should I be afraid to speak it now, when it makes such good content. I think, at least from my interaction with the other unfrozen, that I was more prepared that first day. Even before Donny came in – I already had an idea of what was expected – and I knew, a good show needs a good antagonist. (takes a drag) Here I am.

___

Donny walked in – he’s the host. “I hope we’re having a good evening.” He was a stupid looking man child with charming clothing, very colorful. And thank god he arrived when he did. I can only be shocking for so long. “I’m sure you’re all wondering why we’ve brought you here.” And he explained the premise of the show: “We thought the kindest way to reintroduce you to the world was on NBC’s dime,” he said, “so we took you, eight individuals who were cryogenically frozen between the 50s and 60s, and we’ll follow you as you adjust to the 20th century. Some of you have been frozen for 65 years. We’ll take you shopping, follow you as you interview for job, document this moment of history and in return we provide you with a place to stay and any resources you need. You can contact me whenever you need using these.” He handed us the hand-held telephones. The same I’d seen on all the shows. “I’ll be here tomorrow morning for our first day, we’ve unfrozen you right in time for summer in Los Angeles.”

I took a sip of my drink, looking around at my fellow unfrozen. No doubt they'd chosen a bunch that could sell - a Marylin, a couple Bogarts and a Grant, Velez, and, of course, if I may flatter myself, a Deitrich. “Fabulous darling.”

___

Confession:

I’m appalled, offended. I mean, we’re talking exploitation to the nines. And yet, I’m intrigued, a little turned on, and excited. It is simply brilliant and, darling, I find it grossly delectable.

[Tune in Next Time]

Irene used to drive me crazy.

There were many reasons Irene drove me crazy. Sometimes it was because she told me that, if you squint real hard, you could see the ocean from her porch, smack-dab in the middle of the Valley. Usually, it was just that she was there. And when she was there, she was there. Impossible to ignore. She wouldn’t let you. Once, it was because she hit me in church after I thanked god for “fine German engineering,” like it were blasphemous or something. I’d just been hit head-on. My C280 was dead. And I didn’t even want to tell Irene. But thank god I did – how else was she supposed to know that she could have died that night.

But often, it was because she called herself “a writer.” And though, I suppose, she did have a way with words, every time she said it with an air of prestige and I would twitch.

You don’t like it ’cuz you’re a writer too.

And I counter. I’m not a writer, I write.

Same thing, right? This distinction may seem trivial. Or cheesy. But I’ve always had this understanding that to write is something that anyone can do. I tell my students this. Not as a joke or to motivate them. I just believe it. But to be a writer … To be “a writer” there needs to be a consensus. It’s not something you can call yourself. It’s a title that is given to you by others who have read your work. It’s a nomination. It’s a matter of the times. But it’s also an economic determination. Being “a writer” has nothing to do with whether you write. Less, whether you write well. It’s a reflection of the moment. And the culture. And, sadly, the market. And if it’s been called “good,” than it’s been accepted into the ethos of whatever the fuck “good” means by the gatekeepers – intellectual, literary, journalistic, challenge judges on theprose.com. Take Hemmingway – we consider him a classic. He defined a generation. The modernists. The “lost.” He influenced people to come and there’s a very specific reader who has championed him from the midcentury to now. I can’t stand Hemingway. It’s pretty common to not stand Hemingway these days. In fact, it’s in vogue. And those of us who can’t stand Hemingway constantly ask that question: what makes him “a writer?” Then, if we are bold, we might ask what makes him a good writer. And, if we’re real bold, we might ask this question in front of one of his champions … This usually ends bad but I would recommend it.

I think there are two difficulties to defining a good writer. It’s not just that it’s subjective – socially and culturally constructed. Dawn Powell was a woman who made fun of writers like Hemingway and she did it well. Her only claim to fame now is an aside on an episode of Gilmore Girls. For a long time “women’s writing” was not considered “good.” Romance is not “good.” In an anthology about pulp fiction magazines – an already distinctly low-brow genre – decided that romances, despite being the wild success of the Love Story magazine, were not worth looking at because they were “brain-dead.” But without providing any examples, I’m inclined to say this was gendered. And this happens across several lines of difference. So I have no right to say what’s good because I am just one person and, like I said, it needs consensus. All I can do is point out the problems with the word good.

I was once told that I wrote a good story. My instructor said I should submit it for publication. I told my dad. Then I told him I wrote it from the male perspective. And he said women can never write good men.

I never submitted.

Good is a word I tell students to avoid. It’s too vague. When we say the word “good,” we could mean several things. It can express approval. I could mean having the required skills. It can be a display of morals or a pleasurable feeling. It can be thorough. Or large. Or valid. And I think the question – what does it mean t be a good writer – is asking for a specific response. And asking if it matters – or have … turned us into mindless, unsophisticated zombies – is asking for a bias to be confirmed. It’s asking us to jack off to our own sentences and flex our grammar, punctuation, vocabulary, or creativity. And I’ve read so much syntactic masturbation that I’ve begun to understand that we conflate the good that means skill to the good that means moral. Intelligence – narrowly defined as having grammatical skill – is equated to a moral superiority. The wellatleastIcanspellandknowthedifferencebetweentheretheirandtheyre syndrome. And I know the rules of your basic composition classroom. Don’t use I. Don’t say I think. Don’t use the passive voice. Don’t use a comma splice. As one of my students said, don’t use “no-no words.” She highlighted words like but and also … how can you write without the word but. And for all her “good” advice about the rules of writing, her papers made one thing clear. She did not know what she was saying. I’m not under the impression that new media has ruined language – that’s what I’m going to call it – it’s opened possibilities. Now we have novels and poems using these forms to be creative. We have writers self publishing online, using platforms to challenge those gatekeepers. And sometimes the sophisticated writer – and I take that to mean the one aware of the fashion and culture that this question asks us to subscribe to – are more zombified than the Tweeters or that one girl on America’s Next Top Model that the show made fun of for combining considering and deliberating into a portmanteau. When Joyce does this it’s good. When Jade does this, it’s laughable.

That’s bullshit.

Which is why I just write – good or not – because that good is meaningless. And I think about the poem “38” by Layli Long Soldier. Where she says “the sentence will be respected.” Sentence being a play on words, she goes on to say:

I will compose each sentence with care, by minding what the rules of writing dictate.

For example, all sentences will begin with capital letters.

Likewise, the history of the sentence will be honored by ending each one with appropriate

punctuation such as a period or question mark, thus bringing the idea to (momentary)

completion.

and yet, the most compelling parts of her poem

are

where

our rules

break

and words

run free

Sample:

[1]

It opens with a small light blinking in the dark. A flashlight. Two quick flickers. A heavy pause. Then a longer, but still brief, flare. The setting is blank. Blanketed by such thick night that description is unnecessary. Save those flashes nothing can be seen. Miles to the west there are lights. Miles to the east. Even more. Bigger lights. Armies of lights. Lined like soldiers. Ready to expose enemies within their scope. Invasion by exposure. But here. Now. There are just three flickers and a man.

He moves toward them.

He knows they belong to his contact. He knows there is an abandoned, broken down train car. He knows she waits there. He climbs in. Looks toward his contact. She nearly closes the doors. Leaves enough room for the barrel of a rifle. His contact leans down. Switches on a lantern. She doesn’t linger. Nods to her carrier. Then turns back to the black. For a long time they are both silent. It’s a long stretching silence. A stilling war. A war to still. Still life itself and disappear. Sound is presence. Presence, treason. And treason has no place between them. There’s just enough air for silence.

“Have you been afraid?” He breaks it. Keeps his eyes on his task. Supplies move from his carrier to hers. She knows he wouldn’t lift them. His eyes. He wouldn’t lift his eyes. It’d been too long. She holds her position. Contemplating. “I mean…” He clarifies. “Afraid of this. That you might … You were wrong?”

“No.” She squints. Surveying. Searching for something other than blackness. It’s ceaseless. She lets out a long sigh. “And yes.” He continues his task. She hers. “I worry.” She speaks straight. Strong. “Someone I care for might ... They might not make it. Derrick, Oma …” She pauses. Hesitating. Contemplating. “You.” He pauses. Hesitating. Contemplating. But he’s never been as brave. Instead he resumes his task. She breathes for him. “But the thought of relapse.” She studies the scene. The entire dessert stirred silent. She turns. Sending him the first glance of the evening. He’s still a coward. Still holding his breath. Still save his movements. She sustains. “I’m no revolutionary.” Taking a step. “I didn’t start this.” Taking it back as his stillness congeals. “I’ve no plan. No vision. Really, no hope.” She shakes her head. There’s humor in her breath as she gives up on his eyes. Resuming her watch. “I’m on the losing side of an ill-conceived insurgency. We’ve no food. No ammunition. And my only ally refuses to look at me.” He steals a glance at her stiff profile. Dimly lit by the lantern. Her grip is firm. Her focus steady. Her voice cold. “Right and wrong. I’ve more important things to worry about.”

He stands. Inspecting her. All the equipment and food transferred. For weeks they’ve given little more than a shiver. Strategic syntax. Shade. And now he’s broken that. But he’s still stifled. Or stifled still. He’s a pitiful opponent. A worse ally. And she’s so tall. He offers only small gestures. “Few leaders ...” She waits. He does not finish.

She takes her carrier. Tossing it over her shoulder. Staring at him. Screaming at him with a silent intensity. And he turns his head. Unable to bear her eyes for more than a second. She starts. “They were right, you know.” Nothing. “To fear anonymity.” Nothing. “The uncertainty.” She holds her unrequited gaze. But. Still. Nothing. “Indistinguishable faces.” He doesn’t move. “The unnamed.” She seethes looking once more. Then, turns out the lantern. “I didn’t understand.” She pushes the doors open. Taking a seat on the edge. Legs dangling off the side. She takes a cigarette from her jacket pocket. A lighter. He sits beside her. She lights hers. Coloring her face with a dim auburn. She hands him one. He lights up. She exhales smoke. He still won’t look at her. So she looks harder. And harder still. Willing him to meet her gaze. But he won’t. She sighs in resignation. “Now I get it.” With a shake. “Can’t think of much else.” A long silence stretches between them. It stretches between each breath. Weighed down by the dense smoke. Compressed by dark. “It’s disturbing.” It lingers somewhere between. “You could stay.” She doesn’t mean stay. But stay. It’s all she can say.

“You know I can’t.” He drops the cigarette. Steps on it. Putting out the light.

The last bit sits between her fingertips. It’s too slight to construct her features. It glows dim. And dimmer still. And just dies. She feels it. Something. Between. But without light, it dissipates. Dissolves. Disperses. “I know you won’t.” She drops out of sight.

---

Title: __________ (Tentatively an underlined lack of name)

Genre: Dystopian

Audience: Adult

Word Count: 50,000 (Sample is 785) words

Author: Bronwyn Stewart

Why my work is a good fit: At it’s core, I believe Trident Media Group - like most literary agencies - wants to tell stories that move people. In our current political and pandemic climate, many also want escape and seek that through literature. I think the beautful thing about the dystopian genre is that it provides both the opportunity for escape and contemplation - they can pose challenge to status quo in new and exciting ways. It does this by abstracting or obscuring the familiar. And yet, it’s still familiar. With my story, audiences will see themselves reflected just in a slightly altered perspective. And I think that’s what we’re looking for.

The Hook: From high school to menial jobs to one outburst in a crowded room and then all out war. A story of slow, silent disintegration.

Synopsis: Three time lines converge to tell the story of Sarah Durou, a girl who goes from $5 delinquent to the reluctant leader of a failing revolution. Set against a vaguely dystopian landscape that literally puts a price on each individual’s name, we will follow a collection of characters (Sarah, Camdyn, Quantum, and Derrick) as they navigate this landscape. At it's core. This is a character study. The audience will try to piece together how we get to the final time line (beginning with this sample) and what happened between the characters that led to the alienation, tension, and silence that manifests. The final time line is brief. Only a couple days. It is all present tense and short sentences. Almost nothing is revealed in these short vignettes, except the characters themselves. Though these short scenes lead to the final coup. A quiet end that doesn't quite close anything. These scenes, interspersed between the more expository time lines of the past, will keep the audience on the edge of their seat as they experience the building of relationships and bridges that they know are all but deteriorated by the end.

Author Bio/Experience: My name is Bronwyn Stewart and I am originally from Los Angeles, California but have been living in Iowa for the past four years. I have a BA in English Lit from CSUN and am currently working towards my PhD in Literature at the University of Iowa. While most of my studies and research have been focused on analyzing literature, my two main joys are teaching and writing (creatively) - which consumes more time than I’d tell any of my advisors. I have no writing or publishing experience except a creative writing class I took in college. I have a few articles published in CSUN’s library e-News but other than that I am a closet typer (or more accurately a corner-in-the-coffee-shop typer). In my spare time I binge watch television, play nerdy boardgames, and make self-deprivating jokes with my roommate over homemade cocktailes that we make based on themes the other has come up with on the spot.

Writing Style: I like to describe my writing as unfortunately influenced by the experimental garbage that I read (literally what I study). I’m a fan of loose and sometimes even chaotic narrative structures, multiple timelines and have a general dislike for chronology. I’ve been told that I alienate my audience - I don’t mean to - and I’m working on that. I’ve also been told that I tell not show - defying the cardinal rule of writing - and I should tell people it’s avant-garde before I let them read it. Then again, that was from an ex who knew I studied the “avant garde” and disliked me very much. I also once had an instructor who called my writing “too 90′s theoretical.” I don’t know what that means. But I like it. hopefully this anti-pitch has been coonvincing.

“I know nothing of the world. I’m a dumb kid from Iowa and I’m tripping on LSD, what do I know of the world?”

- Bryce, 16 or 27

“If I could say something to the world … huh … let me finish my cigarette real quick so I can give you a real answer.

Okay, so like, I think if I could say something to the world it’d be an apology for how much we suck – not like me specifically but like the country in general – and I guess me too. I once donated to one of those adopt a child in Africa programs where you pay like $20 a month and you feed a child and she like sends you crayon drawn pictures. And, you know, I did it because I’m a sucker for those panderers on the street corners – I also have a weird, overpriced hair straightener from one of those mall kiosk women – and anyway, I had this child for a couple months. And I’d brag about it. Use it as a defense that I’m a good a person but then I had to cancel my credit card – the same one that was supporting this child. I got several calls from the foundation asking me to renew. I never did. And I was secretly relieved because I felt too guilty to cancel the $20 donations, but I also didn’t really want to spend those $20 a month. And I almost renewed.

Hold on … I’m going to light another cigarette.

…

Like I said, I almost renewed it. About a month and a half after I canceled the card I got one of those drawings. It said thank you. It was all in yellow and green crayon and she drew a stick figure version of herself and I was like wow I am shit.

…

I hung it over my desk to remind myself that I was once a good person. But like that’s how we are here. We pretend for two seconds to give a shit and for like three days you learn about Yemen and you tweet about the worst humanitarian disaster but then it falls out of fashion so you start posting your sad single girl posts again without a hint of irony or shame. So yeah … I’d say I’m sorry that our care for the world is mostly just a social media virtue signal.

Is that too cynical?

…

I don’t know – it’s hard, I’m broke and I’ve got my own problems.”

- Jasmine, 19

“Can’t we just all love each other? It’s like the Beatles say, All You Need Is Love.”

- Mateo, 27

“The environmental crisis – that’s what we need to talk about. It should be on everyone’s conscience. I mean, everyone knows we’re in one but like there’s this huge gap between the monumental magnitude of these problems and the real awareness that we have. I truly think that this can be the topic or like the unifying issue that brings the world together – it’s like the one thing that affects all of us. And like, the main thing I hear when I talk to friends about this is that they can’t make a difference.

Well, let me tell you world.

No action is too small. I mean just like recycle and start carpooling or I don’t know walk or ride a bike. And like, don’t waste food, because tons of people are starving and people need to stop throwing away food – leftovers are a sign of love – though we should probably eat less in general, but like I’m not body shaming or anything, all shapes are good shapes.

Oh and reusable cups and bags, fuck straws. These are all easy ways to contribute. It’s not hard.”

- Erica, 24

“Wait. What? Who’s this for? The world? I didn’t vote for him, that’s all I have to say.”

- Georgia, 38

“I’ve got something to say, there are still good men out there. I’m one of them. We’re not all privileged, fuckboy assholes. We have our own trouble. I’ve suffered through addiction, my parents kicked me out because they thought I was a fuck up and you know what, they were right. But I’ve worked my way out of that ditch.

That’s what you have to do. That’s what the world needs to do.

We need to dig ourselves out of a ditch, pull ourselves up by our bootstraps and help each other up along the way. Like, take me for example. When all that #MeToo stuff was happening, I was marching alongside all the women and same thing with #BLM, I’m an ally. I believe in equal rights for everyone all over the world.

…

Off the record … maybe we could grab coffee some time.”

- Jacob, 32

“Fuck gender and fuck J.K. Rowling.”

- Logan, 28

“Listen, I’ve been silently rooting for the disease since March. Is this anonymous? Fine, yeah, you can include my name.

I’m not trying to be an asshole and it’s not that I don’t care about other people, it’s that the world is going to shit. We thought it was bad 20 years ago. Nothing has changed. We thought it was bad in 2016 and it’s only gotten worse. So, yeah, I’m rooting for Covid and the apocalypse. I think we need something that will just completely erase everything and I’ve secretly always wanted to be in an apocalyptic plot line.

Sure, we’ve got flying snakes and murder hornets and whatever else they’ve thrown out. We’ve had protests and riots, but I want more. I want to walk over to the college campus down the street, dowse it in lighter fluid and set the whole institution ablaze. We’ve been marching for months and now they want to paint over the graffiti – how much are they spending on that while firing people of color? It’s bs. And guess who’s still funded? Minneapolis had it right. We have to burn it all to the ground. Burn our capital buildings, burn the academy, burn the Amazon warehouse outside town – they should march on Disney studios and burn that in the process. Google too. I honestly just don’t feel like there’s any other course of action. The institutions – they’re not listening. They’re sending response letters that don’t raise any course of action and I’m sick of it. They’re letting the incarcerated die and I don’t see how that’s fair. We need to open the gates to every single one of our prisons, everyone needs to stop paying, and we need to destroy everything that’s wrong with this country and the rest of the colonial capitalist world.

I want to watch the world burn because there’s nothing left to preserve.”

- Angelica, 31

“This is a stupid project. It’s just the artsy crap that you think is gonna make a difference and the only people who are gonna watch are mom, dad, and twelve people who thought they were watching a real movie.”

- My brother, 16

“I have an uncompromising faith in people. I think that’s what we need – amidst all the cynicism – we need more faith.

No, I’m not talking about a religious faith per say. Have you ever read “The Offshore Pirate?”

It’s Fitzgerald – one of his short stories – anyway, I think it taught me what faith was in a nonreligious way. There’s this scene where the main character climbs up three different cliffs over the ocean and jumps from each. She’s a resounding faith in herself. Faith to take the leap each time – from higher heights with no assurance that the landing won’t be painful. That’s faith. And even if it’s faith in a beautiful lie, if that faith leads to good then really what harm does it do? I think we’ll get out of this as long as we put our faith in each other – not our leaders or the government – faith in the people. You and me.”

- Sarah, 26

“Why did I start this project? Simple. If I’m to tell the world anything, it can’t just be me. Alone, I’m too small. So I collected the opinions of hundreds of people in the area.

These are just samples, not conclusions. A mix of the grim. The cynical. And the hopeful.

What are my hopes? To archive a moment the best I can.”

- Filmmaker, 27