First Assignment: Story Statement Detective McAllister enlists the help of Dr. Kem Hunter, a forensic psychologist, to track down and bring justice to a serial killer that is targeting a specific family type. Second Assignment: Sketch my antagonist James Martin played second fiddle to his mother after his new baby brother was born. His father abandoned the family, and with each passing day his pent up hate and anger towards his mother and the baby was building. Until one day he had enough... Eleven-year old James Martin was found outside his burning home after his mother had been brutally murdered. He watched in horror as his baby brother was saved by a "hero" passing by. James is hidden in the bushes full of rage at the sight of his brother being saved. When the authorities find him they were uncertain if he was a fortuitous victim or the perpetrator of the heinous crime. With no living relatives and the inability to speak, James was placed in the DeJarnette Sanitarium.James remained there until his escape at the age of seventeen. His whereabouts to this day, are still unknown... What happens when the fickle winds of fate deliver a serial killer to your doorstep? What happens when the very thing you are striving for after is just too close to catch? Third Assignment: Book Title(s) Striving After Wind is based on Ecclesiastes 1:14 and the meaning that it invokes: -pursuing wisdom and the understanding of madness and folly -rewarding oneself with pleasure -thinking one can control the outcome of their lives/and others -seeking immortality/trying to make a lasting name for oneself Fourth Assignment: Comparables-who compares to you and why? Red Dragon-Thomas Harris When the Bough Breaks-Jonathan Kellerman Both of these authors have written psychological thrilling stories with well developed characters. There are psychological factions in both books that relate to the antagonists childhood trauma that ultimately created the monsters they become. Fifth Assignment: Hook Line Everyone is a suspect, and no one is presumed innocent as a savage serial killer targets the most vulnerable of families. The only truth is that all involved are striving after wind. Sixth Assignment: a) sketch conditions for the inner conflict of my protagonist(s) b) sketch hypothetical scenario for the "secondary conflict" involving the social environment -Detective McAllister, believing she does not have the experience with serial killers asks for help from forensic psychologist (Dr. Hunter) -Detective McAllister is forced to look at associates as possible suspects, including her new love interest -Catherine (a psychologist) who has been helpful to the police in the past, and worked with Detective McAllister is now having to deal with her husband being a person on interest in the serial killings due to his best selling book that mirrors the crimes. Secondary Conflict -Catherine's desire to help in the murder investigation to clear her husbands name is repeatedly told to stay away from the investigation by Detective McAllister -Catherine's past relationship as a graduate student with her professor Dr. Hunter, who is now helping Detective McAllister with the investigation. How far does she go to insert herself in the investigation? What rules is she willing to bend/break? Seventh Assignment: sketch out settings Prologue: The book begins with a young James Martin who brutally kills his mother, attempts to kill his baby brother, and sets his house on fire. Thirty Years Later: A young graduate student, Catherine, is listening to her professor, Dr. Hunter, at the University of Virginia lecturing about a case of a young boy with elective mutism, that potentially killed his mother. Modern Day: Catherine had relayed the story of James Martin to her husband who writes a best selling book based on the case study. The setting is based in Fairfax County Virgina and each chapter is set from the perspective of Detective McAllister, Catherine, and the Killer

Part One: St. Germain-des-Prés, Paris, August, 1668 Chapter One “Un! Deux! Trois! Quatre!” Charlôtte yells, her hands covering her eyes. Before slipping around the wall, Marguerite glances back and shakes her head. Dressed in a white shift, smudged with dirt, the little sprite has slipped off her shoes once again, running barefoot. Maman will likely have a fit about this, but even a swift slap of her behind from Papa never shakes Charlôtte’s resolute dislike for footwear. She’s unbreakable, that one, and never scared of disobeying rules like Marguerite. Although, Marguerite has to admit, Papa isn’t really that scary. Marguerite sits down on the ground and Bisou, the stray cat that begs for milk and bread, finds her and rubs up against her legs with a loud purr. “Shhhhhh, Bisou,” Marguerite giggles, scratching the cat's nose, “Charlôtte will find us!” It’s neither a clever nor a difficult hiding spot, but Marguerite has come to realize that her five year old sister loves searching the obvious—and obviously not—places first. “Prête ou pas prête, j’y vais!” Charlôtte yells, not really caring if Marguerite is ready or not, and then the sound of her feet pad around the dirt yard. “Are you behind this tree?” She pauses, jumps up and down, and then, “Mais noooooo!” More padding. Are you around THIS tree?” Another pause, another jump. “Mais noooooooo!” Marguerite smiles as she listens to the girl's baby bird voice twitter around the yard. Her fingers mindlessly caress Bisou’s gray fur. The day is as lovely and carefree as she is. “Are you around this corner?” Charlôtte calls out from across the yard. And then a scream slices the air. Marguerite jerks out from her hiding spot behind the wall. Bisou scampers away. “Charlôtte? Are you okay?” But the small girl is standing statue still, her hands in the air, one foot pointing to the side. A figurine carved from marble. She stares back at the house where the scream came from. “Come on,” the older girl whispers, and protectively grabs Charlôtte’s tiny hand. The two tiptoe to the front door which is flung open to let the late summer air in. Their hearts clamor, their fingers squeeze together. Maman is collapsed on the floor next to Papa like a pile of rags, weeping. Outside, in the blinding light, an old woman sings as she hangs laundry. Children call out playfully and chase one another across des prés, the meadows that have become the namesake of this section of the city. A chamber pot is emptied from a window and a policeman yells in disgust. A cart bounces over the dusty street. A ship passes along the river, and waves slap against the banks. Sparrows flit between cloud and sky. The bells from the abbey release a deep bellow covering the distant noise from the Louvre’s incessant construction across the Seine. The entire world moves beyond them while the inside shrinks, carving itself into a frieze. “Maman?” Marguerite asks, creeping forward, but her voice forces itself through a stranglehold, as if she’s lost her voice. “Tout va bien? Are you okay?” Maman moans. Charlôtte lets go of her older sister’s hand and runs over to Papa. She leans in close to their dear father’s face. “Papa? Papa?” When Maman raises her head, her eyes widen with fear. It’s as though her entire soul has left her, but by looking at Papa, the two girls can tell that it is actually his soul that has departed. No angels descend with flutes and flourishes like in the church carvings. No filtered light exonerates Papa, lifting him to the heavens as promised by the priests. There is just a lifeless, gray body with a slack jaw, and an oddly twisted arm. A small pool of drool runs down the side of his gray cheek. Maman pushes Charlôtte aside and bends over his face, staring into his vacant eyes. “Jean,” she whispers, grabbing his face. “Jean!” Marguerite can’t feel her own breath moving in and throughout her body, but she can hear the wild wind pushing its way through Maman’s, and she shrinks back as she realizes that nothing enters or escapes Papa’s. She scrambles back, scratching at the floor with her nails, away from the body, reaching for air, reaching for reality. The walls are close, death is closer, and she can’t get out. She is trapped. But little Charlôtte—she takes Maman’s hands into one of her own and closes Papa’s eyes with the other. “Shhhh,” the small girl leans in and whispers in her dead father’s ears. “You should close your eyes when you sleep.” What happens next is all a blur that robs Marguerite of time and presence—Maman forcing hot, black, itchy dresses over their heads, a priest washing and binding Papa’s closed-eyed body, curious and well-meaning neighbors in their yard, a grim procession to Saint Sulpice, hymns, prayers, mutterings, tears. It is a blur cloaked by a pain that paralyzes her, while Maman keeps telling her that Papa has gone to Heaven. But Marguerite has not seen angels or clouds parting, so isn’t sure how or if this happened. But maybe it snuck by her while the world was creeping its gray edges around her. It is all a blur— the king’s bill collectors shuffling in shortly after the funeral and confiscating their money and furniture, looking down at their feet, muttering something about mismanaged accounts, debts owed, inaccurate books. “Vraiment désolé,” a bald man says, embarrassed in his apology to Maman. He tucks a bag of coins in his pocket and picks up Papa’s leather boots. Maybe he put them on and wore them out? She isn’t sure. It is all a blur—Maman lying on the bare floor in the now empty room, her face white and tear-streaked, the nuns arriving the next day, murmuring and shaking their heads. It’s all a blur as Maman pleads with them to take her girls, to keep them safe. She is on her knees hugging them, telling them she will come visit, she will find a way to get more money and get them, that they aren’t going to the orphanage at Saint Sulpice for very long, she promises. Orphanage. Marguerite has heard stories about the orphans of Paris and the men who round them up off the streets, but she never considered she could be one of them. Not with Maman here to protect them, surely? She is protecting them, Maman insists, but Marguerite knows she is handing them over— and all of the grief, pain, and fear are smudged in Marguerite’s memory as though Maman’s tears have slid onto watercolor promises. She gives up her children to the church and Marguerite pinches her eyes shut and covers her ears to block out the roaring train of dismay and fear. There are colors and sounds and blurs, and one moment they are two girls playing Hide and Seek in the summer sun with no desire to ever be brave, and the next they are sharing a bed in a cold stone room surrounded by other girls who look as lost and despondent as they feel, with every need to find courage.

THE ACT OF STORY STATEMENT Do whatever it takes to survive the brutal reality of emigrating to New France. ANTAGONIST PLOTS THE PLOT Marguerite faces many antagonistic situations and people during her journey: There is Louise, her erratic supervisor at La Salpetriere who taunts, sexually assaults, and physically abuses her. She is unpredictable, fancies herself to be clever, goes unseen by the Superior, and is the result of Marguerite transitioning from a naive girl to a woman who needs to make difficult decisions. A horrific journey across the Atlantic threatens her safety. It is cold and rough on the sea, the men on the ship are not kind, her best friend becomes quite ill. This is the first time Marguerite has seen the sea and it becomes a formidable adversary that pushes her into making another heartbreaking choice. In Canada, she is trained by demanding nuns, has to endure brutal winters, encounters wildlife that threatens her while she learns the trade of trapping, but mostly has to survive a violent marriage to a man who is no longer tethered to reality after fighting in the Iroquois wars. BREAKOUT TITLE IDEA Trapped Daughter of the Sun King The Voyageur La Minou DECIDING GENRE & APPROACHING COMPARABLES Genre: Historical Fiction Comparable 1: Lost Nation by Jeffrey Lent. Here, Lent takes a highly romanticized time period (the settling of colonial New England) and immerses the reader in raw, detailed realities; prostitution, poverty, conflicts with indigenous people, lack of healthcare, winter survival, land disagreements, and more. He writes about loss and mental health during a time when folks struggled with them but didn’t have the words or science to understand. I too am writing about a highly romanticized time period—the populating of colonial Canada by the filles du roi, a subject of national pride and hence, a great deal of legendary “glamour.” My book is equally raw and honest. Comparable 2: Where the Crawdads Sing by Delia Owens. This may seem like a lofty choice, but I learned a lot from Owens' writing. She takes serious themes, scientific topics, and deep history and masterfully turns it into popular fiction. There is a balance here of creating stunning imagery and memorable characters while holding them up in the light of knowledge and story. My book is steeped in history on two continents and could become very academic, but I lean hard on the characters and plot to highlight the history rather than the other way around. Comparable 3: Daughter of the King by Kerry Chaput. While the story of the filles du roi are well known in Quebec, there is very little fiction written about them. Chaput is one of the few authors who have tackled this lore, with her main character starting out in La Rochelle, where my main character departs from, and travelling to Quebec. Chaput’s take is a little different though—she focuses on the conflicts between Protestants and Catholic’s, making her character a spy of sorts. Her main character is more spritely and determined, looking for and finding adventure, whereas my main character develops grit because of the situations she is pushed into. . CORE WOUND & PRIMARY CONFLICT When Marguerite becomes an orphan in unforgiving 17th century Paris, she is thrust into a terrifying journey to help settle the New World. OTHER MATTERS OF CONFLICT Throughout the journey, Marguerite will face many conflicts: leaving her younger sister, being abused at La Salpetriere, encountering her mentally ill mother, the shipride over, an abusive husband, a love affair with a Huron, surviving winter as part of the fur trade, testifying in a court case, and in the final pages, meeting her sister face to face again. At each turn, Marguerite has to decide whether she saves someone else or herself. For example, on the ship from France to Canada, Marguerite and her roommate and dear friend, Camille, become quite ill, but it is clear that Camille will most likely die. Dehydrated and in need of sustenance, Marguerite slowly starves Camille to death in order to survive the trip herself. While racked with guilt that will haunt her, she understands if she will live, she must be practical, but others may see it as ruthless. Quarantined to their rooms, this is a conflict Marguerite fights herself while caring for her dwindling friend. THE INCREDIBLE IMPORTANCE OF SETTING This novel takes place in a few different places: Saint Germain des Pres, Paris—once fields (des pres), this quiet section of Paris on the left bank had dirt roads. Across the river, the Louvre was being extended. This is where Marguerite grew up and the story begins. La Salpetriere—a mammoth and foreboding hospital/prison for women in the 17th century, this building needs to become a character in itself (since I see further novels routing from here as well!). It is an echoing chamber that houses 3,000 impoverished women. Next to the Seine, it is surrounded by walls with guards. The yellow brick walls accent the dark stone windows and shale roof much like dark eyes in a pale face. The grounds are hushed, but busy. The hallways echoing, but still. There is life brewing in every corner, yet a sensation of death and gloom. The ship—The journey from France to Canada took place on ships that regularly traversed the ocean. I still have to research this part of the trip more thoroughly, but I know that the bottom level was for animals being transported and that when people got sick, the crew would bring the pigs up into the rooms to eat the feces and vomit. My main character and her roommate are quite sick on this trip and I want to be a scene that sticks with people. On the ship, there are rats, illness, and death, so the smells will be rancid. This is the first time Marguerite has seen the ocean, so descriptions of being where you can see no land will be important. Canada—From the entrance to the St. Lawrence river to Quebec City, Canada is wild at this time. The cities are small, the houses outside of town are far apart. The wilderness is vast and dangerous. Winters threaten safety, spring mosquitoes threaten sanity. This is a land they shared with the Huron-Wendat tribe who live nearby in villages with central wigwams. Marguerite becomes an active trapper for the fur trade which takes place in rural areas of sprawling forests, wide rivers, and rocky Canadian land. Other smaller settings: Saint Sulpice orphanage in Paris, Chateau du Fresne in the French countryside, La Rochelle where the ship is docked, the nunnery in QC.

Jean Palmer HECK Log Line: Two Eastern European siblings, driven by duty to family, are scorned and exploited as illiterate outsiders in America, while they struggle to earn money for their starving family living under Russian oppression, and they are torn between the promise of a new life and the pull of their homeland. If I Could See Across the Ocean 1905 Kaunas, Lithuania — under Russian rule When Sofia didn’t come home from the market where she was selling her woven linen tablecloths, her brothers knew something was wrong. The three men headed to the town square and discovered her bruised, bloodied body behind the tavern. They carried her home and buried her next to their parents. Inside the house, in the silence of grief, the youngest brother picked up their lone photograph of the family and touched the image of Sofia. “It’s time to go,” commanded the oldest. “I refuse to wear their Russian uniforms.” “If we stay, I’ll kill them,” said the middle one, “if they don’t kill us first.” Before the moon rose that night, they closed the door to their home for the last time and headed to the border. 1909 Merkine, Lithuania — under Russian rule “Tell me a story before you leave,” said Martynas, his wan, innocent face staring up at his oldest sister from his frequent resting place on the sofa. “Prašau. Please.” “How about the one with the lambs? The stubborn ones.” Viktoria’s voice strained, a bit higher than usual. She was dressed in her Sunday skirt and blouse, wearing a new pair of shoes the cobbler gave her, a gift for all the times she brought communion to his sickly wife when no one else in the village dared. Viktoria would much rather be wearing her broken-down shoes and frayed work clothes, filling the copper wash bucket and scrubbing laundry for her parents and seven younger siblings. Today she wouldn’t be the one to do that. Nor tomorrow. Nor the next day. The tickets were bought; the ship for America would leave England in six days; and, Viktoria would be on it with her brother, Petras. “Let’s make up a new story,” Martynas suggested, “with someone who can fly.” Viktoria glanced over at their mother who was sweeping the bare floor for the third time that morning, pretending it needed her attention. Motina gave a little nod, wiped her eyes with the end of her apron, and turned back to the unnecessary task at hand. Viktoria granted her favorite brother’s wish — knowing it would be the last time for four or maybe five years. “Once upon a time, there was a stork and a little boy,” she began. “And…who else should there be?” “A hedgehog. I like those,” said Martynas. “You know they’re very, very strong…like I’ll be someday.” “Yes, you will, sweet one.” Viktoria patted her brother’s head, lingering to stroke his soft hair. “The hedgehog and the little boy lived in a castle. The boy—he was in the tower part.” “A tower that goes all the way up to the sky!” He pointed as they both craned their necks towards the clouds outside. Viktoria continued to keep her face lifted, blinking her eyes to soak up the tears that started to form. On any other day, she would have been absorbed in the story-telling. Today, she was anchored in reality. The Russian Tsar’s taxes were oppressive. Sending family members to America was the real price they paid. If she could, she would stay. But at age 23, and unmarried, Viktoria knew it was her duty to go.

Sit up, whodunnit fans! There’s a new murder mystery series coming to Netflix. It’s called The Residence. And it’s got a lot going on. It’s a “screwball” “whodunnit” set in the “White House.” I said that in the title. But there’s more! Like, it’s set among the staff of the White House. It’s like Upstairs/Downstairs meets The West Wing, but with murder and comedy. Or it’s like Downton Abbey meets Scandal but with comedy. Have I made myself clear enough? As I said, it’s got a lot going on! Case in point: this is the advertising logline that appeared on Twitter: 132 rooms 157 suspects 1 dead body Kylie Minogue I have to admit, I’m intrigued. The show features an impressive roster of stars. Uzo Aduba is the lead, detective Cornelia Cupp (Is “Cornelia Cupp” a play on “Benoit Blanc?” We will find out.) She performs opposite: Giancarlo Esposito, Jason Lee, Randall Park, Edwina Findley, Susan Kelechi Watson, Ken Marino, Bronson Pinchot, Isiah Whitlock Jr., and Al Franken. (Al Franken?! Who does not play himself, btw.) It looks silly, a little meta. A character knowingly says “murder mysteries are so popular right now.” Indeed. Indeed. Watch the trailer here: View the full article

Excerpt from first meeting of two main characters including the protagonist. Sets tone and setting. He was immediately struck by the air, clean and sweet, scented with what he didn’t know to be bush honeysuckle. There was a light rush of wind through newly budding trees, and he could hear the crackle of squirrel claws as the small animals scurried up the course bark of a nearby elm. A few weathered pinecones lay beneath a tree to one side of the road and capless acorns lay like loose bronzed pearls beneath an oak farther up on the other. His perceptions of his surroundings were stark and pure, and he could feel them to his core, an effect the city had never delivered. The landscape appeared to have been gently ladled into place by the hands of Providence while the skyline of Manhattan, the countless concrete monoliths he was so used to seeing, now seemed as though they had been jammed angrily into the ground. Merrill felt a foreign, yet benign sensation guarded with a quiet that was deafening. Raising his closed eyes toward the sky, he breathed deeply. His lungs took in the chill of the air, the sun not yet clearing the tree lines, and he drew an odd strength from it. Knowing there was no one living between him and the paved state road below, he began a slow climb up the gravel lane. Old Cricket would not be The Road Not Taken. About a quarter mile up the lane, he could see breaches in the tree lines to both sides of the road, where singular rays of the sun cut through the space of the openings. He hoped the gaps made way for a house or some other structure with electricity. As he cleared the greenery, his gaze was drawn to the right. The Windmill Hill Ridgeline, a series of small peaks 16 miles long, stretched out before him. His breaths shortened as the beat of his heart grew faster. It was more than his senses could take in, and his eyes become glassed with a thin veil of involuntary tears. It’s just so beautiful. Merrill wiped his eyes on a jacket sleeve and turned around to see Albert on his front porch, rocking slowly in his chair. A dog of medium build and questionable lineage, graying about the snout, lay at the edge of the porch, his paws overhanging the top step. The old man appeared stout, healthy and alert, sitting erect without any sign of frailty about him. His large right hand surrounded a coffee mug which rested on one of the chair’s wide arms. He wore overalls faded by use rather than any house of fashion, and beneath them was a pale flannel plaid jersey covering an undershirt that hung loosely about his neck. Albert nodded his head in the young man's direction, momentarily shading his eyes with the worn brim of his Southern States cap. Albert saw a fit young man in his early 20s, just shy of six feet with a backbone straight enough to lend him another inch or two in appearance. His hair was cut short and chestnut in color, his searching eyes a similar hue. He wore pleated pants and a collared shirt beneath a waist−length jacket. The boy looked like money to Albert and seemed certain of himself, but intent and a far cry from cocky. Merrill began a cautionary approach toward Albert’s front porch, as wary of the old man as he was his dog. Neither moved save for a feeble wag of the canine’s tail. “Good morning, sir,” Merrill said in a supplicative tone. Albert nodded again. Friend or foe, he had always believed you could learn more about either the less you said. Merrill gave the dog an anxious look. “Don’t worry about him,” said Albert. “He’s old, and there isn’t much that excites him anymore. Only barks at night when he can’t make out something that’s moving outside.” Merrill felt more at ease. “My car died just down the road, and I was wondering if I could use your phone to call AAA.” “Don't have one," Albert responded. “Really,” said an astonished Merrill. “How do you live without a phone?” “Well, I’m sitting here breathing and enjoying my coffee, so I seem to be doing okay without one.” Merrill couldn't argue with that and climbed the first few stairs of the porch. The dog sat back, up on his haunches, and Merrill gave his head a rub. “What’s his name?” “Silas,” answered Albert. Merrill nodded slowly, remembering the name from somewhere. “My wife passed away a few years ago, and my two sons thought it would be a good idea if I got another dog. The one we had when they were growing up died, and I couldn’t see getting another one with them so close to leaving home, but I’d got used to having one around, so I went to the shelter down in Northfield and picked up this guy.” “Is there a reason you named him Silas?” “Well, in a book I read once, a man named Silas Marner gets accused of stealing something and goes off to live by himself, but he wasn’t happy about it. A little kid shows up at his door, Silas adopts him and kinda feels reborn. My dog here looked pretty sad when I saw him in the pound, and I thought we just might help each other get a new start. Think it was something we both needed to do.” Merrill smiled at Albert and Silas as much as Albert’s telling of the story. “Now I remember that book. Read it in junior high school, I think. Merrill scanned the porch nervously. “Well if you don’t have a phone, I was wondering if I could plug mine into an outlet here on your porch just long enough so I could call for some help.” “Son, you ever ask a question you haven't wondered about first?” “Excuse me?” Merrill answered skeptically. “Well, the only two questions you asked so far you had to wonder about asking” Just ask your question or state your mind. No need to wonder about it. Wondering about an answer isn't going to change it.” Albert’s tone was calm and constructive, not intolerant, and that's just the way it struck Merrill. “If I can just use an outlet on your porch here for half an hour or so, I should be able to get enough of a charge, and I'll be out of your hair.” Albert smiled broadly as he removed his cap revealing small tufts of gray to either side of his weathered head. “Not a lot of hair left here to get out of. Besides, I don't have any outlets on the porch. Never saw the need for ‘em. I come out here to get away from anything that needs juice, but there's an outlet inside the front door there, just to your right. Help yerself.” Meryl climbed up onto the porch, a few of its floorboards creaking beneath his feet, and extended his right hand. “I'm Merrill Ryan, sir. Good to meet you." Albert stood from the chair using only his legs. He grasped the hand firmly, the strength in Albert’s taking Merrill by surprise. He returned the same firm grip, sealing the introduction. “Albut Hull’s my name. Likewise.” Albert felt good about the resolve he sensed in the young man's clench. Merrill opened the front door gingerly and found the outlet. Before plugging in his phone, he looked about the room. The long low-slung hi-fi, RCA TV with its bulbous screen, and an array of furniture reminded him of a display he'd once seen at the Smithsonian − the room felt like a time capsule. There were a few current newspapers on an end table next to the outlet, a copy of the Brattleboro Reformer at the top of it. But he noticed the word Times in a familiar font printed on a page sticking out from under the local paper. He lifted the Reformer to reveal a copy of the Sunday New York Times opened to the International page. The old man and his newspapers didn’t seem to add up. Merrill tapped the outlet, plugged into the USB port of his phone, and returned to the porch. “Have a seat,” Albert said. “There's a pot of coffee on the stove if you want some.” “No, thank you. I had a few cups on the way up from New York this morning, and I'm still a little wired. Your name, Albut, is that a local name?” “Been ‘round as long as I can rememba,” Albert replied. “Never heard it before.” “You telling me you neva heard of Albut Einstein or Albut Schweitzer? “Oh, Albert,” Merrill responded with a smile. He didn’t realize “r’s” were syphoned off from the speech of many Vermonters, converted to “ah’s” and shipped down to Boston where people made better use of them “pahhking” their cahhs” in yahhds.” “That name Merrill, where did that come from?” inquired Albert. “It was my grandfather's middle name. I guess it was just a matter of time before someone in the family had to make use of it again, and it found its way to me. Most people call me Merle.” Albert was grateful for the brevity of the answer − nothing bored him more than lengthy genealogies. “There's a whole bunch of Ryans down near Colraine, but you being from New York, I guess they're not any relation. “Not that I know of,” Merrill replied, almost apologetically. “It sure is beautiful here − the mountains, trees, the air − it's nothing I'm used to." “Well, that's the secret, Merle. You should never get used to beauty. Soon as you do nothing’s so beautiful anymore.” Merrill nodded his head in agreement, their mutual respect firmly established. The two sat silently for a few moments, Albert still enjoying the new day and Merrill letting the sage words of the old man sink in. “Don't you worry about not having a phone? I mean, if you needed help, how would you get in contact with anyone?” “Air horn,” said Albert. “Sorry?” Merrill replied. “I got a couple of ‘em around the house and in the barn, and I got neighbors just up the road. Somebody in one of those houses is always around, and the best neighbors are the ones you know are there but can't see. Keeps everybody friendly and just helpful enough.” Merrill thought about his own neighbors on the upper East Side of Manhattan, none of whom he knew other than by sight, certainly none he’d rely upon for help. People in the city tended to record developing trouble on their phones and only offered help when they felt comfortably clear of any liability. “I figure I can get to an air horn just as quick as a phone, and air horns don't bother you like phones. It's one-way calling if you know what I mean.” “I do. I do,” Merrill smiled. “Some days I just want to throw mine out of the window.” There was another long pause in the conversation as the two pondered the shortcomings of modern communication. Merrill had never given it much thought until now, the convenience of connection between people only serving to keep them further apart. To him, cell phones were just a part of life, but Albert didn't think so, and he hadn't been wrong about much so far. “So, the name Hull, do you have any connection with the conference center I assume is up the road?” “The mountain here is named after my family, but no, that mess up there was my brother Artha's brainchild.” (Another “r” converted to an “ah” and on its way to Boston.) He sold his piece of the mountain about 15 years ago and headed for Florida, Naples I think. We don't talk much anymore. Seems he can't hear my air horn from down there." Merrill laughed. “So, your family owned this whole mountain?” “I think it was about 1825, some grandfather of mine, I forget how many greats are in front of it anymore, had it in his head that if this area was to grow, it was going to need lumber. He bought this mountain, all 2400 acres of it, for a song, though nobody in the family ever knew what the tune cost him. He was a smart man, and most of the houses down in Brattleboro and around Putney here were built with lumber off this mountain. It was old growth, some of those trees dense as stone, not the crap you get in those big box stores these days. Aren't many of those houses still around though. When enough of the land was cleared, the family started farming, mostly corn and cows. They live real good off each other, ya know. Seems like God's first try at recycling.”

This is the start of the OPENING SCENE - Introduces the busy protagonist, her driving desire for better balance, and the conflict between that need and the pressures of her job. It also establishes the primary setting (large teaching hospital in Boston) and the competition between her and her OB colleague, Julie Wessler. CHAPTER 1 Sydney Monsango counts seconds inside the hospital elevator as she ascends from Ground to Roosevelt Rose 7. Her body angles towards the car’s smudged metal wall, her back to the other riders. 102. 103. 104. She shovels blueberry yogurt parfait into her mouth. 107. The granola is supposed to keep her balanced. Her life is anything but balanced. Behind her, she hears the doors open and feels the energy shift as one person gets off and new arrivals jockey for space. Can she pass Floor 3 just once without having to stop? The doors make a suction sound when they close. 123. 124. 125. Two minutes wasted. Two minutes she didn’t have to spare. The elevator doors part - she’s ridden this route enough to know it’s her turn to get off. She politely elbows bodies so she can exit before the metal doors slam shut. In the hallway, she dumps the unfinished parfait into a trashcan, blue goo splashing onto the off-white wall behind it. There goes balance. It’s what she craves most, that elusive ‘work-life balance.’ She strides down the corridor. How much longer ‘til that blinking overhead light gets fixed? She’d already bet on three weeks. Then, five. It’s not that Building & Grounds doesn’t have the skills or resources to replace a bad bulb. It’s that the unit staff don’t have the seconds to report the flicker. If she had to choose between eating breakfast, a woman dilated to ten centimeters, and reporting the rickety wheel on her rolling stool - delivering Baby would win out every time. Her priority now is getting through rounds. “Ramona Platt. Twenty-eight-year-old female,” says Regan Wallace, the resident assigned to her for the week. “Accidental fall down one flight of stairs. Twenty-two weeks gestation.” Sydney can hardly hear his words over the flush of a toilet next door. The 962 beds at Boston’s esteemed Warren Jackson Hospital may be intended for rest and recuperation, but the place is anything but quiet. “And?” Sydney prompts. He’s new to the obstetrics service. Give him grace, Syd. “And…probably needs a C-section?” “Probably? Put yourself in my shoes, doctor Wallace. As if you’re the attending. You need a definitive plan of care. Yes? Or no? What are you going to do?” “C-section,” he says, glancing towards the floor. Sydney pauses and nods. “Good. You made a call.” She smiles, “Not what I would do. But you’ll grow comfortable with ambiguity.” She enters Ramona’s room, Regan trailing her. It smells like ammonia, sweat, and day-old pizza. The battered blinds are down. The lights off. The patient is dozing, but she wakes at the sound of Sydney’s navy pumps clacking against the tile floor. “Dr. Monsango,” Sydney says, extending her hand. Most patients return Sydney’s handshakes, but Ramona drops her left hand onto Sydney’s palm, as if the nailbeds are up for inspection. “Oh,” Sydney says and gives the hand a squeeze, careful to avoid the IV. Ramona’s palm is damp. A man slouches in the only chair. He wears a white Boston Celtics jersey, with ketchup or blood smeared near the seams. Black hairs peek from the sleeveless shirt’s arm holes. Sydney forces the corners of her lips to turn up. “Tell me—what’s your name?” “MJ.” “And you are?” “MJ. I’m…suppose’ly…the fath-ah.” Interesting. Sydney turns back to Ramona. “How’s the pain?” Ramona shrugs. Not getting much from these two. Sydney turns to Regan, “Walk me through your thought process here.” “Fetal heartrate increases the risk…” “Yes, but I’ve seen higher. What’s the literature say?” Regan stifles a smirk. She knows he knows she can cite chapter and verse of every relevant publication. But this is the charade she plays in her role as doctor-turned-mentor. Yet another way she feels out of whack. Like she’s trying to keep a seesaw flat while she’s expected to rise to the position of teacher and sink back to earth in her capacity as doctor. “Mixed.” Ramona’s head ping-pongs between the two doctors as they debate the pros and cons of C-section versus observation. “Is it okay?” she asks. “I wazzan lookin’ to be knocked up, but…” “We’re still assessing,” Sydney says, touching a hand to Ramona’s shoulder. “You’re in good hands.” Sydney does the unspoken calculations. If they take Ramona to the operating room and do a C-section, the baby’s prognosis will be poor. Only a third of newborns born at twenty-two weeks survive, and those that do often have severe developmental disabilities. Lifelong problems with hearing, vision, walking, and talking. If she doesn’t intervene, she gives the fetus a greater chance to thrive. But she also risks waiting too long, missing a fetus in distress. Not for the first time, she wishes that babies could talk, or imaging tools were better. Sydney imagines herself in a courtroom, perched on a microphoned walnut stand, white coat worn as a symbol of strength. A crowd of one hundred obstetricians form the jury, each also shouldered in white. Half argue for C-section. The other half urge her to wait. She can pretend Regan has a say, but the fact is, it’s her call. She’s the attending physician. The buck stops with her. What would Julie Wessler do? Julie was hired by Warren Jackson Hospital in 2005, as was Sydney. But, somehow, Julie has eclipsed her. Granted, Julie doesn’t have a husband or kids like she does, but Julie was appointed as fellowship director, so she has those needy fledglings to juggle. Julie also was selected to run the high-risk program (a job Sydney would have loved), and last year, she won The Compassionate Caregiver Award. Honoring the best doctor not from OB/GYN but from the entire hospital. Damn Julie. “Cold hands,” Sydney says. She rubs her palms together and places them on Ramona’s abdomen. Ramona winces and runs her IV’d hand to her neck. Hands still on Ramona, Sydney glances at the computer screen and the emergency triage note Regan left open. Her eyes zero in, “scratch and bite marks.” Since when do patients get teeth marks ‘accidentally’ falling down the stairs? Sydney looks Regan in the eyes and points at the words. “Bingo,” she says.

Algonkian Pre-Event assignments Jennifer Gauthier ACT OF STORY STATEMENT After losing her job as a college professor, fifty-year-old mother of twins, Ginny Walker wants to reinvent herself as a writer. To succeed, she must survive an unexpectedly dangerous writing retreat, defy the retreat’s caretaker, Owen Slake, who wants to steal her work, confront her own demons, and placate the ghost of Owen’s dead sister, who is hell-bent on revenge. THE ANTAGONIST PLOTS THE POINT Owen Slake wants to be great. His desire for greatness was instilled at a young age by his famous parents and talented sister. But his early promise and dreams of becoming a successful writer are crushed when he suffers the trauma of a car accident in which his family is killed, and he is the only survivor. No longer put his thoughts into words, he remains determined to live up to the family name. Owen convinces himself that by surrounding himself with creativity, his own talent will return, so he befriends writers, older women writers, specifically. Charming and adept at flattery, Owen basks in their glory, all the while pretending to be working on his own novel. Eventually he opens an artist’s retreat at his family’s estate in rural Georgia, where he installs a surveillance system to make sure that the invited artists are using their time wisely. His first guest is Ginny Walker, who is reinventing herself as a writer after losing her job as a college professor. Owen beguiles Ginny as he closely follows her writing progress. When Owen discovers that long-buried Slake family secrets have found their way into Ginny’s writing, the retreat takes a dangerous turn. CONJURING YOUR BREAKOUT TITLE The Retreat Be Careful What You Wish For DECIDING YOUR GENRE AND APPROACHING COMPARABLES Gothic horror/suspense/women’s fiction Think Starling House (Alix E. Harrow, 2023) meets The Plot (Jean Haff Korelitz, 2021) bathed in the atmospheric tone of Sofia Coppola’s The Beguiled (2017). Driven by ambition and haunted by dark secrets from the past, two aspiring writers will do anything it takes to make a name for themselves. Ginny Walker has come to an artist’s retreat in rural Georgia to escape the demands of her family and work on her first novel. When the retreat’s charming caretaker, Owen Slake, a writer himself, takes an interest in her, she doesn’t suspect his sinister motives. In this Southern Gothic horror tale, secrets and seduction intertwine, leading Ginny down a dangerous path. When monstrous acts come to light, we are forced to consider, who is the monster? CORE WOUND AND THE PRIMARY CONFLICT CORE WOUND: Ginny’s doubt that she is unique. She has faked her way through life, done nothing special or distinctive. Her fear of mediocrity. CORE WOUND: Owen’s failure to live up to his family’s greatness. PRIMARY CONFLICT Ginny vs. Owen: At the retreat, Owen is secretly stealing her work, while also seducing her. SECONDARY CONFLICTS Ginny vs. her family/patriarchy/societal norms: Ginny chafes against her role as mother and head of household, which she has to balance with her full-time job. The expectations placed upon her by society’s gender norms are crushing her. She feels unfulfilled. Ginny vs. Lucy: The ghost of Owen’s dead sister, Lucy, visits Ginny at the retreat and tells Ginny secrets that the Slake family buried for years. Lucy wants the truth revealed. Ginny vs. her past: Ginny is haunted by a decision she made in graduate school. She took the idea for her Master’s Thesis, and subsequently her Dissertation, from an undergraduate student when she was a teaching assistant for an introductory art history course at Yale. Owen vs. Ginny: Owen wants Ginny’s work, but when he discovers she is writing about his family’s secrets, he is compelled to silence her. Owen vs. his past: The pressure from his parents to live up to the family name persisted beyond their death. His memories of his childhood are fuzzy, but tinged with guilt and shame. Lucy vs. her past: Like Owen, Lucy suffered from their parents’ high expectations, but her wounds are more extreme. She endured both physical and emotional abuse at the hands of her family and wants the dark secrets to be revealed. LOGLINE: A fifty-year-old mother of twins must confront past transgressions and overcome self-doubt to prevent a charming stranger from stealing her ideas and crushing her dream of becoming a writer. In the wake of a traumatic childhood, a man tries to fulfill his hunger for greatness by feeding off the creative ideas of others. The Retreat (Gothic horror/suspense/women’s fiction) After losing her job as a tenured professor, a fifty-year-old mother of twins attends a writer’s retreat in rural Georgia, where she must confront her own demons, defy the monster who is stealing her ideas, and manage the ghost of his sister, who wants their family’s shameful secrets exposed. INNER CONFLICT Ginny vs. her past. Ginny is haunted by a decision she made in graduate school. She took the idea for her Master’s Thesis, and subsequently her Dissertation, from an undergraduate student when she was a teaching assistant for an introductory art history course at Yale. She is also struggling with the societal expectations of women, chafing against the demands of being a wife and mother. SKETCH #1 In an odd way, Owen’s theft of her work was validating to Ginny. It indicated that her writing showed promise – that she excelled at something. He thought her work was worth stealing and he wanted to claim it as his. But she also felt violated in a way that she hadn’t before, even by the men (and boys) who’d used her body without her permission. Her ideas were more precious to her, more sacred, even than her body. Her body was the armor she wore to face the world – the public-facing shell that protected what was inside: her thoughts and feelings, her hopes and dreams. That part of her was real, private, whereas her body was just something she wore like a costume to make her way through the world. She thought of her own masquerade through life as a confident, self-possessed rule-follower, when she often felt possessed by someone else – someone who was determined to see her fail, to grind her into the dirt and then dance on it or crush her into dust and blow like a puff dandelion gone to seed. Ginny had been fighting this battle for years, trying to overcome her self-doubt and be proud of all she had accomplished. But what had she accomplished, really, and how much of it was truly hers? Standing in Owen’s cabin, contemplating his actions, Ginny couldn’t help but think about Isabelle. Ginny had paid for graduate school by cobbling together her meager savings, taking loans and working as a teaching assistant for an Art History survey class. She loved the work – it brought her back to her undergraduate days when she had first discovered her love of art. She graded exams and helped organize lectures for Dr. Archibald Mortimer, who was a big deal in the field of High Renaissance painting. One semester he asked her to grade his final papers because he had no interest in reading them. He was close to retirement, and probably close to death too – one of those venerable old institutions, much like Yale itself. “Virginia, I trust your judgment.” He had told her, when she demurred on the grounds that he had a much better sense of what grades the students should be given. “Frankly, the thought of slogging through all those banal observations about Mona Lisa’s smile or Pollock’s paint splatters makes we want to throw myself off the Harkness Tower.” Ginny ended up reading all the papers and assigning grades to the 30 students in Mortimer’s section. At the time, she had been struggling to come up with an idea for her Master’s Thesis. She knew she wanted to write about a contemporary woman artist but was at loss for who to focus on. Most of the women artists she encountered had been over-researched – Georgia O’Keefe, Frida Kahlo, Dorothea Lange. She wanted to discover someone new and introduce this unknown to the rest of the world. Her professors at the time were of little help. Yale’s art history program was still run by old white men, except for the lone woman in the department, Carol Bergstrom. Dr. Bergstrom was an expert in Dutch and Flemish Medieval art, so not exactly in Ginny’s proposed field, but Ginny sought her out as a mentor. She was as supportive as she could be, giving Ginny several research opportunities, but in general Yale’s was an old-fashioned approach to the discipline and Ginny longed to be on the cutting edge. It was the longing that pushed her to do it, probably. And a feeling of desperation. Her thesis proposal was due at the end of the school year, and Ginny hadn’t written a word. It was partly because Mortimer was keeping her so busy with his class: he’d frequently call her up the night before lecture and ask her to fill in for him. He joked that his chronic gout made it difficult for him to get to the 9:00 am survey class. Ginny knew it was more likely due to a massive hangover. Although he was usually generous enough to share his notes and slide list, Ginny often tweaked his prepared lecture to include more women artists and consideration of broader social issues like gender, race, and class. The entitled Yale undergrads needed to be pushed to think about these issues, and if she had the opportunity to lecture them, she was going to seize it. The students weren’t all bad: a handful were eager to learn and seemed passionate about art history. Isabelle Tholas, an exchange student from Strasbourg, was probably Mortimer’s best student, but he wouldn’t have known it. She kept quiet in discussion, lacking confidence in her English pronunciation. Ginny observed the lectures from the back of the room, taking note of who was engaged and who wasn’t. Although seated in the last row, Isabelle listened intently and took copious notes. Grading Isabelle’s exams and papers, Ginny noted that Isabelle’s composition wasn’t perfect, but her ideas were brilliant. With each essay Ginny was shocked anew at Isabelle’s creativity and wholly original insights. But it was her final research on Franco-Moroccan photographer, Leila Nejjar, that really stood out. An intricate fusion of ideas from philosophy, sociology, and feminist theory, Isabelle’s essay brought the work of this as-yet-undiscovered artist to life for Ginny. Deft in her use of logic and visual evidence, mixing in just the right amount of mystical insight, Isabelle wove these elements together to create a perfectly nuanced argument. Reading the paper, Ginny learned that Isabelle had been introduced to Nejjar’s work at a small gallery back home and had been following her work for a few years. She was obviously fascinated by the photographer’s radical take on cultural hybridity and the clash of Nejjar’s Moroccan and French identities. When Ginny read Isabelle’s essay, she felt its brilliance in her heart, and in the pit of her stomach too. It was a dark, hollowed-out feeling – like her insides had been scooped out, leaving the round emptiness, like where the green flesh of an avocado once was. And Ginny’s feeling was green; it was a powerful pulsing envy that pierced her self-confident veneer. When Ginny raided her memory of that time, she found it lacking in detail. The contours were fuzzy; she wasn’t sure what parts had actually happened and what parts she imagined, or only feared had happened. And when does something like that happen exactly – in the moment when you decide to do it, or the moment you go through with it? Or in a later moment when you are recognized for someone else’s ideas – lauded, feted, and praised? Or when you advance based on those ideas? When you achieve your dream and look around to find your whole career rests on a foundation that is as sturdy as a castle built on quicksand? Even if the exact moment was cloudy, Ginny could recall the feeling, and then the consequences, which seemed negligible at the time. Once she set the thing in motion it gathered its own momentum and became self-propelled. She had given Isabelle an A on the paper – there was no question that it was an A paper. Ginny had no reason to lie about that. When the semester ended, Isabelle returned to Strasbourg, and Ginny proposed her Master’s Thesis topic: “Feminism and Cultural Hybridity in the Photography of Leila Nejjar.” Ginny had never told anyone about Isabelle, not even George. She rarely thought about the incident, but when she did, she felt the ground loosen beneath her, a gaping maw open up and begin to suck her down into its dark cavity. In that moment of imagined consequence, she was the castle and its inhabitant all at once. Like a deposed Queen imprisoned within a crumbling fortress, she was devoured by the pit of guilt and shame. But nothing bad happened. She expanded upon the research for her dissertation and now she was a long way from that desperate, hollowed-out pretender she had been. Her subsequent work, though rooted in Isabelle’s idea, was her own. It earned her accolades and the respect of her colleagues in the field. It was as if what she had needed was simply a jump start to ignite her own creativity as a scholar. As she stood in Owen’s cabin it all flooded back into her mind. Were her actions any different from Owen’s? SKETCH #2 Ginny loved few things more than reading in bed on a weekend morning: the languid feeling of lying prone, propped up on pillows with sunlight streaming into her bedroom through the slats of the blinds, a book beckoning her to enter its world and become someone else. So, it was with no slight annoyance that she detected a faint burning smell in the air on a Saturday morning. Her instincts kicked in and she leapt out of bed, leaving George snoring peacefully in the space beside her. She grabbed her robe and dashed down the cold steps barefoot. “Boys?” “We made our own breakfast!” the twins crowed as Ginny appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Yes, you sure did.” The countertops were littered with bowls and spoons. Pancake mix coated everything as if the box had exploded. “Want some?” Jack held a spatula aloft piled with three slightly singed and misshapen pancakes. He grinned and tilted his head sideways, raising one eyebrow – Ginny knew this as his triumphant, self-satisfied look. Cooper sidled up behind him with a mouthful, “They’re great!” he managed to spit out, along with more than a few sticky crumbs. “Well, boys, it looks like I am officially obsolete.” Ginny feigned disappointment and popped a pancake into her mouth. “Yes, indeed they are delicious.” It was only a little lie – the pancake was tough, and it left a distinct carbon flavor on the palate. “Aw Mom, you know we still need you. Who’s going to clean up this mess?” “Not I. I’m making myself some scrambled eggs. Is there a clean frying pan?” Ginny grabbed the pan closest to her on the counter, not realizing that it held several inches of greasy water. The twins had attempted to soak the pan – she had to give them credit. But the force she used to lift it hurled the mess into the air, sloshing it across the counter, the floors, and the front of her robe. She tossed the pan into the sink and several loud expletives into the kitchen. “Mom –” “What the – ” The twins came running, syrup-faced and wide-eyed. Ginny didn’t often swear (not aloud anyway) and it shocked all three of them. “Can we do anything to help?” “Out.” Ginny could feel a rage pounding in her head. Now she’d have to mop the floor in addition to cooking herself breakfast, or instead of, more likely. She felt arms around her waist – George had been awakened by the kitchen commotion and snuck up behind her. “What’s all this?” Ginny wasn’t sure how much of the excitement he had witnessed, but her anger gripped her tightly and she didn’t care. Nor did she answer him. Instead, she shrugged out of his embrace and stomped to the closet to get the vacuum cleaner – she had to vacuum up the crumbs and pancake mix before she could mop. When she returned to the kitchen, George was making himself a bowl of cereal and congratulating the boys on their culinary triumph. Jack and Cooper were both on their knees swabbing the floor with paper towels – doing a great job spreading all that greasy water around, Ginny thought. She stood in the center of it all with the vacuum by her side like a silent partner. “Guys?” They all looked at her dumbly. “Everyone out. And don’t plan to come back into the kitchen for at least twenty minutes.” George hustled the twins into the den, where he proceeded to plop himself on the couch and watch ski racing, flanked on either side by a junior chef. Ginny fumed as she vacuumed – the one-sided conversation in her head more like a rant, the one she returned to often: if she didn’t do something, it wouldn’t get done; she didn’t eat if she didn’t cook; she was expected to do everything. Ginny imagined it was exactly what would have been going through Cinderella’s mind if the girl hadn’t been such an insipid dolt. Her relaxing Saturday morning forgotten, she mopped the floor to the sound of the boys cheering on the American skiers at Val d’Isere. SETTING Lammermoor – former plantation, so there are ghosts of the past, even before the Slakes lived there. Gothic – crackling with secrets, the history of the estate, Owen has fixed up the main house and the schoolhouse, but the barn and the caretaker’s cottage are still a bit rundown. Benign neglect, paint fading, maybe the cottage is partly fixed up – the front? Like a Hollywood set – the backlot is rundown, creepy. The woods surrounding the house – long leaf pines are tall like soldiers in an advancing army. Sentinels – watching over, guarding something. The lake – color of iced tea, lily pads, peepers, not clear – muddy. Develop the creepy factor – sounds of cicadas, owl, coyotes howling. Possums’ eyes glow in flashlight beam. Foxes, coyotes, weasels, big brown bats. Spanish moss dripping from Live Oaks Sub-Settings: Caretaker’s cottage – where Owen lives, it has not been completely fixed up, still bears signs of neglect. Old schoolhouse – fixed up, new wood, polished bell atop the roof. The barn – also not fixed up – it is a workspace, not a space for the retreat guests. Ginny notices the difference between the barn and the schoolhouse when she goes inside the barn to spy on Owen. Donkey (Igor) and goats. Some horses board there – not Owen’s. Farmer’s Market in Rebecca – World’s Largest Peanut. Turner County, Alapaha River, Flat, rural, just being revitalized, but still bears the marks of a neglected farming town, not even a town, but it is at a crossroads, so well-placed for a market. Hipsters from Macon love to drive down (1 ½ hours) because it feels “authentic.” GINNY’S ARRIVAL AT THE RETREAT “Here it is – Lammermoor.” Bobby’s cheery voice dragged Ginny up from the depths of her car nap. A newly-mended fence fronted the country road for miles in either direction, pristine boards shone here and there amongst their weathered cousins. An elaborate wooden sign dangled between two tall posts above a dirt road that wound its way into a thick stand of longleaf pine. Bobby turned into the drive as Ginny looked around taking it all in. The pines stood like tall sentinels on watch. Birds darted through high branches that offered a respite from the intense sunlight. The road was two parallel tracks with grasses growing up in between; they brushed the undercarriage of Bobby’s Toyota as he drove along, making a sound like whispers. When they came out of the woods, there it was, down a long straightaway, directly in front of them: Lammermoor. The pines had opened up and the road was flanked on either side by Live Oaks, ancient branches curving over the road to make a tunnel gave the entryway an aristocratic feel. Filtered through the branches, the sun dappled the gravel with dark contours. The trees dripped with Spanish moss, which Ginny always found beautiful but knew to be a deadly parasite on its host. A cloud passed in front of the sun, which had just begun to weaken in the early May evening. The scene was suddenly cast in shadow, but up ahead, the white house gleamed, its imposing presence presiding over the scene like a queen. Built in the antebellum Greek Revival style, it had matching upper and lower front porches, held up by eight square columns and a large staircase leading to the front door. Its large, evenly spaced windows were hung with black shutters. “Wow. It’s an old plantation. Looks like something out of Gone with the Wind.” Bobby’s comment betrayed an undercurrent of distaste. Ginny wasn’t sure how to respond. “These old trees are beautiful. I wonder how long they’ve been here.” “Since before the Civil War, I’d say. Tended to by who knows how many slave gardeners.” Bobby wasn’t wrong, and it made Ginny slightly uncomfortable. “From what I read, the Slakes bought the place in the 1980s when the last of the original family members had passed. Got it for a steal I think . . . must have taken a lot of money and time to fix it all up.” “Well, I guess if you have that much you can decide what you do with it. Can think of other things they might have done . . .” Bobby trailed off. “Speaking of time and money, I’d better get back to civilization if I want to pick up anyone else today. Is there someone here to meet you?” Bobby helped Ginny unload her things and bring them up onto the porch. The space glowed blue from the ceiling paint, which Ginny knew was meant to keep away spirits. Small tables and rocking chairs were scattered along its length. Propped against a sweating pitcher of lemonade on the table closest to the front door was an envelope with Ginny’s name on it. She ripped it open to reveal a short, handwritten note and a set of keys. Dr. Walker: Welcome to Lammermoor! I apologize for not being here to greet you, but please make yourself at home. This is your set of keys for the duration of your stay. Feel free to settle into your bedroom – it’s the blue room – last one on your left at the top of the stairs. There’s food in the refrigerator and I’ve chilled a bottle of rosé. Help yourself. I hope to be back later this evening. Owen Slake Ginny felt a tingle of excitement at the prospect of being in this gigantic historic house all by herself. It was like being in a movie – she thought of that Sofia Coppola film with Nicole Kidman and Colin Farrell. What was it called? Bobby was hovering at the top of the steps. Ginny could tell he wanted to get back on the road but also felt a sense of responsibility for her. Clearly, he was unsure about leaving her on her own. “Please, go ahead. I’m fine – the house is all ready for me, and I am so tired. I just want to crash.” “Well, if you’re sure. Here, put my number in your phone, just in case. I’ll call you – what’s yours?” It took a few tries to find a spot where the service was reliable. They ended up trudging up the drive toward the main road to get a signal. After they exchanged numbers, Bobby got back in his car. Ginny stood on the porch and watched the Toyota recede into the distance, kicking up a plume of dust all the way down the drive. The sound of tires crunching over gravel echoed across the silent lawn. She stopped watching when Bobby’s car was obscured by the shadow of the woods and the crunching was replaced by the insistent screams of a crow. Clouds floated languidly overhead, but she noticed that they were slashed with red like they had been stabbed.

The sound of gunfire echoed out just as the speaker had finished welcoming his audience with the traditional Muslim greeting “Assalamu alaikum” (“Peace be upon you”). Seconds later, Malcolm X lay dying on the stage of Manhattan’s Audubon Ballroom, his body filled with eight shotgun slugs and another nine bullets from .45 caliber and 9-millimeter guns. The murder 60 years ago, on February 21, 1965, was a shocking final chapter in the running feud between Malcolm and the Nation of Islam, the Black separatist organization he had helped propel to national prominence before declaring his independence from it. That part of the story — the split, and the fateful palace intrigue that followed — began a year earlier in a most unlikely place: Miami, where, in January 1964, the 38-year-old “Black Muslim” minister had traveled to see if a brash young boxer named Cassius Clay could wrest the heavyweight title from champion Sonny Liston. At the time, Malcolm had been forbidden by the Nation of Islam to speak publicly, after remarks he had made following President John F. Kennedy’s assassination in November 1963. Kennedy’s death, Malcolm had told the press, was blowback from the violence the U.S. had perpetrated throughout the world, an instance of “chickens coming home to roost.” To outsiders, the resulting firestorm over what was interpreted as Malcolm’s glee at the president’s demise had resulted in a rift between Nation of Islam leader Elijah Muhammad and Malcolm. In truth, there was much more to the conflict. Malcolm recently had learned that Elijah Muhammad had engaged in adultery — and fathered children — with at least three of his secretaries. Stung by Muhammad’s moral hypocrisy, he confronted the Nation of Islam leader and was told, essentially, that such behavior was a prophet’s prerogative. Malcolm reluctantly reconciled himself to that view, but raising the issue had created distance between him and Elijah Muhammad. There was also Malcolm’s growing discomfort with the Nation’s theology, a combination of Islamic teachings and Black nationalism, with a heavy dose of what some might call science fiction. (Among its core beliefs was that Wallace Fard Muhammad, who founded the religion in Detroit in the early 1930s, would return aboard a spacecraft to extinguish the white race and establish a utopia for his followers.) Most frustratingly for Malcolm, political engagement was not welcome. Malcolm, fueled by his personal disappointment in Elijah Muhammad and by his own expanding consciousness, was moving away from what he would later characterize as the Nation’s “strait jacket” version of Islam and toward Islam “as it is believed in and practiced by the Muslims… in the Holy City of Mecca.” In early 1964, Malcolm was a man, if not yet at a crossroads, certainly aware one was on the horizon. He was not the only one wrestling with questions of faith. Cassius Clay first encountered the Nation of Islam on a trip to Chicago as an amateur fighter. Now living in Miami, Clay had begun surrounding himself with fellow adherents and studying the Nation’s teachings in earnest. The only question that remained was when to go public with his membership in the Nation. To do so before the upcoming championship fight — given the Nation’s reputation as a radical organization and the fighter’s cultivated (and already polarizing) image as a show-off — might jeopardize the event. No, Clay grudgingly concluded, better to do it after the fight. Provided he won. Clay’s initial interest in the Nation had been encouraged by none other than Malcolm. “Malcolm’s thought [was], if we bring in someone who’s a mainstream celebrity, like the next heavyweight champion of the world, we can bring more people into the fold,” explains historian Johnny Smith, co-author (with Randy Roberts) of Blood Brothers, which explores the friendship between the two men. That, however, was in the beginning, when Malcolm served Elijah Muhammad without reservation. Now that his status within the Nation was in doubt — he was uncertain he would be reinstated when his 90-day suspension expired — he had begun to think differently. Cementing Clay’s allegiance to the Nation might serve to put Malcolm back in Elijah Muhammad’s good graces and even give him leverage to chart a new direction for the Nation. It was also the case that, if Malcolm split from the Nation, being able to take Clay with him would be very advantageous. If it came down to it, would Clay choose him over Elijah Muhammad? Malcolm hoped his trip to Miami, taken at Clay’s invitation, would produce an answer. Accompanied by his wife and daughters, Malcolm arrived in the city on January 16. It was the day before Clay’s 22nd birthday, and less than six weeks before the fight with Liston. “There’s all this personal conflict [and] religious conflict stirring inside him,” says Smith. “Malcolm X, a minister who worked every day of his life, who’s always planning his next move, thinking about his next sermon, his next interview, his next debate, how to organize the Nation; he doesn’t take vacations. But he goes to Miami to hang out by the pool with his kids and this loudmouth boxer? It tells us that, in this moment, he’s a desperate man.” For the next several weeks, Malcolm remained in Clay’s orbit. Nelson Adams, whose family lived next door to Clay in the Allapattah neighborhood, remembers Malcolm and his father — an elementary school principal, a deacon in the Baptist church, and, according to his son, “a pretty opinionated guy who believed what he believed” — engaging in lively, but “mutually respectful” theological conversations over the fence. Adams, 11 years old then and today a prominent physician in Miami, says there was a feeling “there was something special going on” when Malcolm was around, even if the significance of the visit seemed just out of everyone’s reach. When, on January 21, Clay went to New York to address a meeting of 1,600 Nation of Islam members at the Rockland Palace, Malcolm went with him. Though he himself was barred from speaking owing to his suspension, he likely would have been gratified to hear Clay tell the crowd that he was “proud to walk the streets of Miami with Malcolm X.” Whatever the Nation’s issues with its most famous minister, Clay seemed to be saying, Malcolm was still his friend. There was reason for Malcolm to hope. Now, if only the fight would go the way he believed it would. The run-up to a championship fight is filled with both anticipation and speculation. In this case, few gave the challenger much of a chance. Sonny Liston, an ex-con who had worked as a leg-breaker for the mob, wore a perpetual scowl and gave the impression of a man who might knock your teeth in for wishing him a good morning. Liston didn’t defeat his opponents; he dismantled them. By contrast, at this point in his career, Clay was seen as possessing more flash than substance as a fighter. His hands were fast, but few believed he possessed the punching power, the stamina, or, plainly speaking, the guts to hang with a fighter like Sonny Liston. The kid who spouted doggerel (“If you want to lose your money, be a fool and bet on Sonny!”), promoted himself as “the Greatest,” and, most incongruously for a boxer, was fond of telling everyone how pretty he was? He’d be lucky to last a round. The oddsmakers had him as an 8-1 underdog. The Nation of Islam was equally skeptical. “Elijah Muhammad and his entourage wanted to keep as far away from Cassius Clay as possible,” recalled the late Malcolm X biographer Manning Marable, in an interview for a 2008 PBS documentary. “They were convinced he would lose. They didn’t want any part of [that].” Malcolm, though, believed the young man had a destiny to fulfill. The night of the fight, February 25, Malcolm, sitting prominently in the crowd, watched as Clay entered the ring at the Miami Beach Convention Center and proceeded to do what almost no one expected. Round after round, he peppered Liston with combinations, his lightning-quick reflexes allowing him to avoid the champion’s counters and desperate lunges. By the fourth round, a frustrated Liston, throwing and missing with wild punches, began to tire. In the fifth round, there was some unexpected intrigue as Clay was temporarily blinded by (depending on who told the story) liniment that had been placed on Liston’s shoulder and had somehow made its way into Clay’s eyes or, more nefariously, a caustic solution used to treat open cuts that had been applied intentionally to Liston’s gloves. No matter. By the end of the round, Clay’s vision had cleared and he picked up where he had left off. When Liston, battered and looking defeated, refused to answer the bell for the seventh round, the fight was over. Clay had, in his words, “Shook up the world!” And Malcolm had won his bet. Afterward, Malcolm and Clay — with football star Jim Brown and singer Sam Cooke in tow — drove across the causeway to the Hampton House, a Green Book motel popular with Black celebrities, for an impromptu celebration. The most famous image from that night, taken by Life magazine photographer Bob Gomel, shows Malcolm and Clay in the hotel’s café. Surrounded by well-wishers, Clay sits at the café’s counter, lips pursed in a playful smirk. Malcolm, standing behind the counter, raises a camera to his eye to capture Clay in his glory. Photograph ©1964 Bob Gomel Four days later, Clay publicly embraced the Nation of Islam and announced he would henceforth be known as Cassius X. Malcolm, meanwhile, was already contemplating something like the initiative he would unveil that summer, the Organization of Afro-American Unity, a less dogmatic, more politically-oriented group than the Nation of Islam. “Speculation,” recounted Marable, “is whirling in Harlem that Malcolm, any day now, is going to be out of the Nation of Islam.” And possibly take Cassius X with him. To stop such talk in its tracks, Elijah Muhammad made his play, bestowing upon Cassius X the highest honor in the Nation of Islam: an “original name.” Cassius X would be known as Muhammad Ali; Muhammad meaning “worthy of all praise” and Ali meaning “most high,” as Ali explained to a curious television reporter in New York. It was an honor so jealously guarded that Malcolm never received it. Ali had been drawn to the Nation of Islam out of a desire to find his place in the world, to be seen as a consequential person. Now, he was second in importance only to Elijah Muhammad in the nation’s hierarchy. In Marable’s words, “This [was] checkmate — high-stakes.” Two days later, Malcolm severed all ties to the Nation of Islam. Ali stayed. With no one to intercede on his behalf, Malcolm found himself increasingly under threat of violence. On February 12, 1965, his home in East Elmhurst, New York, was firebombed in the middle of the night. Miraculously, no one in the house was hurt, but Malcolm knew his time was coming. “I have been marked for death in the next five days,” Malcolm told his friend and biographer Alex Haley on February 16. “The Nation of Islam viewed Malcolm as a hypocrite,” says Smith, “[as] someone who falsely declared that they believed in Allah and the messenger of Allah, Elijah Muhammad, and then turned their back on them. They took this very seriously.” [Three members of the Nation of Islam were convicted of Malcolm’s murder; two were later exonerated. A civil lawsuit filed by Malcolm’s family in November 2024 seeks to implicate the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the Central Intelligence Agency, and the New York Police Department in a conspiracy to commit the crime.] Following Malcolm’s assassination on February 21 (and the suspicious death of his former bodyguard, Leon 4X Ameer, three weeks later), a news crew knocked on Ali’s door in Miami to ask for his reaction. “Malcolm X and anybody else who attacks — who talks about attacking — Elijah Muhammad will die,” Ali offered. “ No man can oppose the messenger of Almighty God verbally or physically and get away with it.” It was a chilling postscript to the friendship he and Malcolm had once shared, and a sentiment that would haunt Ali’s conscience in the years to come as the full impact of Malcolm’s influence on his life registered and he too embraced traditional Islam. “If we all could predict the future, we would live our lives very differently,” observes Smith. “[But] that’s not how life works; that’s not how history works. ” Driving through Miami’s ever-changing urban landscape, it is striking to note how much remains of the city Ali and Malcolm inhabited all those years ago: Ali’s house, a modest two-bedroom, is still there; the Hampton House, now a cultural center in which Ali’s old suite, just off the pool, has been preserved for visitors; and the Miami Beach Convention Center, where Ali defeated Sonny Liston and where, afterward, Ali and Malcolm walked out into the night, their dreams glimmering in front of them like so many stars in the sky. –Featured image: Malcolm X and Cassius Clay, 1964; New York World-Telegram and the Sun staff photographer: Wolfson, Stanley, photographer. / Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division. New York World-Telegram and the Sun Newspaper Photograph Collection View the full article

Horror royalty Osgood Perkins was on board to adapt Stephen King’s short story “The Monkey” before his 2024 serial killer thriller “Longlegs” became a runaway hit, but that can’t have exactly lowered the stakes. King’s short stories have been adapted to film going back almost as far as his novels and, indeed, “The Monkey” itself was adapted in everything but name as a segment of the cheapie 1996 Mystery Science Theater 3000 target “Merlin’s Shop of Mystical Wonders.” But I’m waiting for it with particularly bated breath because the original story is one of King’s most effective, a dread-infused aperitif that works precisely because it’s too short to run on anything but no-time-to-explain nightmare logic. Stretching a story to movie length can sap it of this quality–witness another King adaptation, 2023’s “The Boogeyman,” which turns a what-the-fuck gut punch ending into yet another ghost or monster that, get this, is a metaphor for grief. Perkins, of course, has more than earned the benefit of the doubt, and an effective adaptation of “The Monkey” is entirely possible, even likely if early reviews are any indication. And if Perkins pulls it off, here are five other great horror short stories that could get the same treatment, and how to stick the landing. “The Terrible Old Man” by H.P. Lovecraft The premise: In one of Lovecraft’s shortest and punchiest stories, three burglars (all specified to be immigrants, so it’s not THAT atypical of Lovecraft) plot to rob the seaside home of the hermit of the title, and get much more than they bargained for. How to do it right: The pitch is essentially “Home Alone as horror,” and something similar was done very effectively and entertainingly in last year’s “Abigail.” There’s a tendency to add Lovecraft’s sprawling cosmic lore to adaptations and homages, but that would be a mistake here–to preserve the story’s power, it has to preserve the sensation that nothing exists outside the house. It could work as either a period piece or contemporary, especially since the titular man is implied to be centuries old. “The Whimper of Whipped Dogs” by Harlan Ellison The premise: In 1970s New York, a woman witnesses a horrific crime clearly inspired by the murder of Kitty Genovese (or rather the popular myth around it) and descends into paranoia and anxiety about her surroundings, only to seemingly discover a deeper and more disturbing truth behind urban alienation and decay. How to do it right: Despite its brevity, Ellison’s story has a lot in common with another horror masterpiece of the era, Roman Polanski’s adaptation of “Rosemary’s Baby,” purely by how adeptly it captures the feeling of something sinister going on in your peripheral vision within the big, anonymizing city, and the difficulty of investigating further without making yourself feel insane. Also like that classic movie, Ellison perfectly dramatizes the keys-in-the-fist paranoia that specifically keeps a modern woman alive (even if, like Polanski, Ellison’s hands aren’t exactly clean on that front). Despite its ties to the 60s and 70s, that vibe makes it timeless. “The Rider” by Tananarive Due The premise: In 1961, sisters Patricia and Priscilla are en route from Tallahassee to rendezvous with the Freedom Riders in Alabama, but on the Greyhound carrying them through the Florida hinterlands, things take a turn for the terrifying, even by the standards of the Jim Crow South. How to do it right: “Lovecraft Country” and Jordan Peele’s “Get Out” have shown how well it can work to explore America’s ugly racial history, and present, through the horror genre–indeed, Due’s story was published in the Peele-branded anthology “Out There Screaming.” And a short story exploring similar themes became one of the best story-to-horror-movie adaptations, with 1992’s “Candyman.” Due, meanwhile, is one of our finest current horror writers and writers period, and is itching for a film adaptation that does her justice, and meanwhile, the recent A24 hit “Heretic” showed just how to ratchet up the dread for a full movie with a minimalist cast and setting. “The Summer People” by Shirley Jackson The premise: It might be heresy but my favorite Shirley Jackson story about horror lurking beneath the veneer of the American small town isn’t “The Lottery,” it’s this 1950 story about an elderly couple that decides to stay in their beloved summer cottage after Labor Day for the first time, despite the townies’ increasingly aggressive suggestions otherwise. How to do it right: This is another one that would live or die according to how well it resists the urge to over-explain. Unlike “The Lottery,” the power of “The Summer People” is that it never reveals exactly what its protagonists are in for, only that something is wrong, and it’s getting more and more wrong. It would take a deft hand to sustain that kind of dreadful uncertainty for the length of a movie, but I’m confident it can be done. “The Nesting Place” by Emily Carroll The premise: After her mother dies, Bell spends her boarding school holiday in the country with her older brother and his fiancee Rebecca, a beautiful, charming woman who’s eager to make friends. But Bell can’t shake the feeling that there’s something wrong about Rebecca, particularly when she sees a mysterious figure walking into the woods surrounding the house at night. How to do it right: Canadian author Emily Carroll is the brain behind some of the scariest, most effective modern horror comics out there, many of them, like this one, collected in her book Through the Woods. This is the longest, and while many of her stories heavily rely on eerie unknowns and question marks, “The Nesting Place” also features some incredibly nightmarish body-horror imagery right when that’s enjoying a comeback thanks to “The Substance.” Carroll’s comic “Some Other Animal’s Meat” was previously adapted as an episode of the Netflix anthology series “Guillermo del Toro’s Cabinet of Curiosities,” so in the right hands a film adaptation is definitely achievable. View the full article

Jean Palmer HECK Algonkian Conference February 20, 2025 1. Story Statement In 1909, two Eastern European siblings, Viktoria and Petras Miskis, must earn enough money at the American Carpet Factory to save their starving family back home in Russian-controlled Lithuania. 2. Antagonist The antagonist for Viktoria, age 23, is her Boss at the carpet factory in Yonkers, NY. He is a power-driven, low-level manager overseeing a crew of immigrant women. Realizing Viktoria has no friends in the workroom, he targets her by offering her more pay if she works through the lunch hour alone. Boss also promises to teach her English and get her a promotion. At the climax of the book, he attempts to rape her. Petras, age 17, in his last conversation with their father, was given the task to make money quickly and to keep Viktoria safe in America. Petras’s several antagonists are forces (people and vices) that block those goals. • On the first ship leaving Europe (crossing the North Sea), a Russian thief steals their money and holds Viktoria at knifepoint, scarring her chin. Petras lunges at him and both men are arrested by the ship’s crew. • In America, Petras, joins his boarding house roommates at the bars after work. He is lured by back-alley conmen to try and double his pay by gambling. • When Petras learns of the attempted rape of Viktoria, he stalks the Boss, attacks him, is jailed and loses his job. 3. Breakout Titles • If I Could See Across the Ocean • Duty to Family • To Be Back Home 4. Comp Titles • The Shoemaker’s Wife by Adriana Trigiani Three Italian immigrants come to America, circa 1910. The young woman and her father must earn money for their large family back home. The young man, is banished from his small village and forced to emigrate. He works his way up through ingenuity, eventually finding his true love in America. My book will appeal to readers who like The Shoemaker’s Wife, but want a quicker read. • Brooklyn by Colm Toibin A young woman leaves her small Irish village, where there is little opportunity to make a living or build a future. She must adjust to a new culture, come to grips with duty to family and eventually learn where home truly is. My book, also with a young woman who must discover how strong she really is, deals with the same themes of duty to family and discovering where home is, but “If I Could See Across the Ocean” is set in 1909 America and a small Lithuanian town, under Russian domination. 5. Log/Hook Line with Core Wound Two Eastern European siblings, driven by duty to family, are scorned and exploited as illiterate outsiders in America, while they struggle to earn money for their starving family under Russian oppression, and they are torn between the promise of a new life and the pull of their homeland. 6. More Inner Conflict Viktoria is the oldest child in a family of 7 children. Uneducated and unmarried, she helps her mother with the family and household chores, as well as ironing the priest’s vestments and making communion hosts for the Catholic church in their small Lithuanian town. Nothing prepares her for the life in America, especially for being a lowly factory worker among thousands of people. Viktoria’s inner conflict: she feels stupid because she can’t communicate with Americans or other foreigners who don’t speak the same language. Even though she is a hard worker, her job of filling wool drums in a huge carpet factory is tiring and monotonous. She feels stuck (bound by duty in this low paying job), incompetent (because she doesn’t understand what’s being said), lonely (missing her boisterous family) and unfulfilled (hoping to return home, marry and have her own children). Her brother, Petras, who has a natural gift for languages, encourages her to learn English. “But why,” she asks, “ if we are going back to Lithuania soon anyway?” “Because if you can talk better to your boss, you can get a nicer job…maybe in the loom area,” says Petras. “Just try, Viktoria. Then we’ll have more money to send home.” In a later scene when her boss observes her trying to speak in other languages, he offers to teach her English during lunchtime. But his goals aren’t the same as hers — he uses her book to teach her names of different bits of clothing. When he begins touching her in explanation of parts of the body, she faints. Secondary conflicts arise in the social setting when she meets a fellow Lithuanian woman, Adrija, at work one day. Adrija has been in America 5 years and has married into a fun-loving Irish family, with a handsome cousin who is a widower. They enjoy both Irish and Lithuanian social events, and take in vaudeville shows. With Adrija’s help, Michael is learning Lithuanian and Viktoria, English. But Viktoria still thinks about her poor family and feels guilty for these decadent pleasures. An important historic event, The Hudson Fulton Celebration, takes place throughout the Hudson Valley in October 1909. It marked the discovery of the Hudson River, the invention of the steam engine, and the ingenuity of immigrant workers. It’s a 2-week party, for Viktoria, Petras, and all of Yonkers. During one event, the first electric lighting of a public building on the town square in Yonkers, Viktoria feels a stranger approach her in the dark and touch her. She realizes from the smell of the person, it must be her boss. She is humiliated and scared. Several weeks later, Michael proposes marriage. This conflict heightens her secret embarrassment about her boss’s untoward advances. She realizes she wants to be with Michael. This also raises her ultimate dilemma: Where is my home? How can I fulfill my duty to my family? 7. Settings A modest family farm in a small Lithuanian village, a steerage deck on an ocean liner, the inner workings of Ellis Island with the Statue of Liberty as a backdrop, the streets of New York City, a massive carpet factory in Yonkers and the beautiful Hudson River — all spell out a very cinematic backdrop for “If I Could See Across the Ocean.” Here is a list of places where the characters live, work, play, fight and hide in the darkness. Back Home 1. A modest home on agricultural land in Lithuania. Interior shots of the Viktoria reading to her invalid brother, as her mother sweeps the floor. A separate workshop where the father shows Petras the financial books revealing their meager earnings and dire situation. An exterior shot of the family crying goodbye to Viktoria and Petras as they leave on horse-drawn wagon. The Journey to America 1. A Russian train station. A large steam-engine pulls up. Interior and exterior shots. 2. SS Ivernia. On deck shots as the ship leaves the European continent at Bremerhaven. 3. Train from Hull, England, to Liverpool, England. 4. HMS Lucania, an ocean liner crossing the Atlantic. Steerage compartment filled with passengers. 5. Ellis Island. Interior shots of the Great Hall. Interior shots of the hospital. 6. Battery Park in NYC with immigrants meeting their hosts or families. Life in and around Yonkers, New York 1. The Kundrat’s house, a two-story house on a side street (Croton Terrace) in Yonkers. Interior and exterior. 2. A boarding house for men. Interior and exterior. 3. Company housing on Moquette Row, Yonkers. 4. The streets around various factories and places of work in Yonkers. Exterior shots. 5. The Alexander Smith and Sons Carpet Factory. Interiors of the wool transfer building, the looms, the finishing room, the offices, stairways, machine shop, shipping department. Exteriors when the workers enter and exit. 6. Riverside Park. Exterior shots 7. St. Casmir’s Roman Catholic Church. Exterior and interior shots. 8. St. Joseph Cemetery, Warburton Ave, Yonkers. 9. Getty Square, site of Hudson Fulton electric lighting display. 10. Various parade routes with ethnic bands performing. 11. Hudson River and Yonkers Pier. 12. Yonkers Theatre and Vaudeville House. Interior. 13. New York Zoological Park (now the Bronx Zoo) 14. County Jail. Interior shots. Cleveland, Ohio (or other location) 1. Modest home of newlyweds. 2. Terminal Tower (Cleveland train station). New York City 1. The Singer Building, 149 Broadway Street, New York. Interior first floor shots and views from the 47th floor viewing area. 2. The Cunard Dock at Pier 54, New York City, on the Hudson. HECK Algonkian pre-event assignments.pdf