Unnamed Disturbances

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.