My goal is to publish a few samples of my writing here and I realize that Sunday is #SampleSunday on Twitter – but I wasn’t home yesterday. So since today is #MondayBlogs on Twitter, I decided to kill two birds with one stone. Below is a sample of a screenplay I’m having an affair with while I finish up this last set of line edits on my historical novel. I often use scripts in two ways; 1. I use them to outline new novels. Every novel I write starts out as a screenplay. And 2. I use them to explore new genres. This is self-explanatory. So, I hope you enjoy this snippet of this first draft of FATAL a young adult contemporary horror. –
Ext. a dark country two lane highway — night
A twin pair of white pinpoints pierce the thick darkness. The older model sedan comes in focus. It moves along slowly. Uncertainly. Budding trees. Languid willow limbs. A rusty looking fence all border the side of the highway. This part of the roadway is void of any lights, except the sedan’s headlights. A thick blanket of fog drifts in, cloaking the road. Muted light is seen courtesy of the full moon overhead.
Int. Kirkpatrick Sedan — night
Two sixteen year old girls, Becca Kirkpatrick and Valerie Bean are seated inside. Valerie layers on another coat of dark lipstick with the aid of the mirror behind the visor. Becca squints out the windshield. Her knuckles white from her grip on the steering wheel.
(with a snap of her huge wad of chewing gum)
Turn up your headlights.
No. Low beams are best when you’re driving through fog.
Valerie turns a bemused look in Becca’s direction. Becca doesn’t notice. Valerie blows a huge pink bubble with her gum and cranes her neck to see the speed readout. She rolls her eyes at the reading of 35 miles per hour.
Yeah, whatever. But could you at least pick up the speed a little? I mean at this rate we aren’t even going to get to Roosevelt High in time for the Spring Fling before it’s over. Ya know?
No way! Mom rarely ever lets me borrow the car, and I’m not going to crash it.
Crash it? At this speed you’d probably get a chance to back up and go again.
Becca’s eyes jerk to Valerie for a second before jumping back to the foggy road.
Forget it. (Valerie huffs) I mean the old Flannigan Bridge is right ahead.
A view out of the windshield.
A large green road sign flashes past reading, Great Lick Creek. The sound of rushing water can be heard. The fog fades momentarily and a perfect shot of the old early nineteenth century wooden covered bridge is seen. A wall of sudden impenetrable fog leaps up in front of the dark sedan.
Becca’s foot taps the brake. The car’s speed readout drops to twenty-five. Valerie depresses her window and lowers it a few inches. The sound of rushing water gets louder. She pitches her wad of pink gum out of the the window as the tires of the car crunch over the loose gravels at the edge of the bridge. There’s a small bump as the sedan bounces up on the wooden planks.
Seriously? You’re slowing down even more? Come on Becca! My grandmother drives faster than this.
Becca ignores her. Her eyes stay fixed on the black and yellow ribbon of road in front of her. Valerie is still moaning for Becca to hurry, as the fog fades lightly. Becca’s foot stomps the brake grinding the sedan to a complete stop. Both girls are pitched forward with the sudden stop.
Hey! Now what are you doing?
Valerie spins around to glare at Becca as she stares out of the windshield. Valerie’s brown eyes look three sizes too big for her peach colored face with all the thick black eyeliner that rings them.
Becca’s finger trembles as she points out the window.
There’s a woman in a red dress.
Valerie spins her head to follow Becca’s finger. The sound of whistling wind picks up as it rushes through the still cracked open windows. Valerie reaches for Becca’s hand and squeezes it. They both freeze in place.
Ext. Flannigan Bridge – Railings — Night
The dark haired woman turns her head toward the sedan. Her face is paled with the backdrop of dense fog. Her eyes are black, like two medium-sized chunks of coal. A length of coiled rope is in one hand. She looks down below the bridge, letting a length of the rope drop. Calmly. Almost peacefully, she ties the other end around the railing in front of her.
What’s she doing?
I don’t know.
The woman turns toward the sedan once more, and smiles. Her feet find purchase on the wood crosspiece along the bridge. Fitting a loop of the rope neatly around her throat, she offers the girls in the sedan the tiniest of waves. With a fresh smile, she steps cleanly off the rail.
Oh my GOD!
INT. KIRKPATRICK SEDAN — NIGHT
The two girls rush to get out of the car. Seat belts crash against the frame. Dress shoes squelch on the floor mats. Lacquered fingernails rake against the door handles.
EXT. Flannigan bridge — night
The doors blast open and the two girls run for the railing where the woman had stood only moments before. The woman is gone. Not even a flap of frayed rope is visible.