Manifest

By Daniel M. Ross

DESTINY WAS CREATED EQUAL.
A worldwide energy race divides the nations of a war-ravaged globe by the greatest and the least. From the ruins of a forgotten empire, an under-qualified pair of adolescents set out to stake their claim upon Earth’s riches, convinced that destiny was created equal.

“A POWERFUL READ...HE CREATED A SOUND MASTERPIECE.”
—William Conrad, Author of Pushed to the Edge of Survival

Unlock Infinit’s Cinematic ReadingTM experience via the attached Screenplay Reading Guide.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Daniel M. Ross
• Release date: May 24, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005852962

Daniel M. Ross

Daniel M. Ross is the pastor of Eternity Chapel: a growing virtual-reality ministry dedicated to making church accessible all over the globe, and is also the founder of The Infinit Foundation: a global trust designed to dynamically impact the entertainment industry for good—producing and distributing theatrical content at no cost to the consumer.Years ago, Ross finally quit producing for his VFX company (rendering images for Hollywood studios and national brands in Los Angeles, California) in order to pursue writing full-time.Walk in the park, right?Many. Years. Later.Today, Ross has published several titles across multiple formats—paving the way for a new storytelling genre: Audible Screenplays. Ross’ work has topped and held leads on international bestseller lists for both fiction and nonfiction, while his sci-fi/fantasy book saga, The Infinit Universe, has entered development as a major motion picture while earning the trademark, FilmicAudioTM, for its audiobook release.Ross speaks one language and does not own a dog. However, he does have 4 beautiful children with his high-school sweetheart of a wife. He enjoys laser tag, baking, and repeating jokes until they aren’t funny anymore.

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This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, businesses, and incidents portrayed in this novel are the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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INT. DULL CLASSROOM - DAY

The annoying flicker of overdue fluorescents punctuates an aura of neglect, draped over a half-empty classroom. Empty desks line in rows, almost perfectly synchronized with ceiling tiles. Some collected in congregate socializations, some scattered as if shoved away from some class-wide exodus. This; is the DULL CLASSROOM.

BRKGM! The door flings open, as the subtle tip-tap of polished Sunday shoes dominates the now focused tension in the room. The AUTHOR has entered.

AUTHOR

(to himself)

Got some early birds in here...

He hangs his head, a little embarrassed at his tardiness. Sets a briefcase on the front desk.

CHKWZK-WZCH. He goes to writing on the board. Drawing figures, what looks like acronyms, or perhaps abbreviations, across the dry erase. It’s hard to tell, for the violence of his scribbling.

AUTHOR

Some of you might’ve taken this course before, so just treat this as a refresher.

He continues writing, scrambling across the board like he’s in a time trial. Filling it with foreign letter combinations.

Students all over groan and whisper at the sight of the scribbling. Whether it’s due to the foreign lettering, the chicken scratch of his handwriting, or both, it’s hard to tell. Sighs pepper across the room as some drop their heads into folded arms, exhaling one last confession of defeat. This could be a long one.

The Author stops his scribbling. Whips around, only to be met with a company, already fatigued by their discouragement.

He sniffs to himself. Squints his eyes a few seconds to roll them privately. He’s used to this kind of response.

AUTHOR

(to himself)

...Let’s get this over with.

He turns to grab his binder. Then,

A student catches his eye. He stops. They’re unlike the others; not whispering, groaning, nor do they even look daunted by the board before them. They’re just sitting there, hands folded like in the elementary school days, with an oddly expectant grin glowing upon their face. This; is the READER.

The Author raises an eyebrow. Points his marker.

AUTHOR

Well, looks like one of us is excited.

The Reader blushes. Unfolds their hands.

AUTHOR

Taken this class before?

READER

No, sir. Just wanted to understand what I’m reading...

AUTHOR

Well, ya come to the right place! And please, call me Dan.

The Reader’s eyes glint as they nod affirmatively. This is gonna be a good class.

The Author swings his marker to the other end of the classroom. Points it at a student, face buried in his folded arms.

AUTHOR

And how ‘bout you?

STUDENT

(muffled)

...It was an elective.

The Author smirks to himself. He’s in his element.

AUTHOR

Let’s not waste any more time, shall we?

He points to the far end of the whiteboard.

ON WHITEBOARD

INT./EXT.

DAY/NIGHT

CONTINUOUS/LATER

AUTHOR

So, I’m reading a screenplay and I see one of these—

SLAP. He points to the figure: INT./EXT.

AUTHOR

Anyone know what it means?

...Absolutely no hands go up.

AUTHOR

It’s part of what’s called a Scene Heading. Tells us whether what’s happening is going on inside—

PLAP! He slaps his marker on the lettering: INT.

AUTHOR

...Or outside.

He rolls his marker a few inches over to the next figure: EXT.

A chorus of Ohs echoes about the room. Heads, once lazily propped by elbows and arms, begin lifting all over the place…

The Author’s eyes gleam sarcastically.

AUTHOR

Day, night, we don’t really have to go over. I think we all have common sense.

A smattering of chuckles pepper about the livening class. He slides his marker over.

AUTHOR

Continuity!

TAP! Taps his marker next to the figure: CONTINUOUS/LATER.

AUTHOR

If I want my readers to know that there is no interval of time between two scenes, I write Continuous.

A hand goes up.

AUTHOR

Yes!

STUDENT TWO

So, if...like in this screenplay I’m reading, the scene starts inside...then it goes outside, but it says Continuous. Does that mean—

AUTHOR

—The flow of time is uninterrupted as we switch scenes? Yes.

The classroom goes quiet. Fascinated, confused, or both.

AUTHOR

...Any more questions?

Silence.

AUTHOR

Great!

MMRRRR. He drags the entire whiteboard along a railing within its housing, revealing yet more whiteboards, equally covered with chicken scratch scribblings...

A chorus of moans and groans echo across the room. The Reader shuffles in their seat, thumbs through a neat stack of papers on their desk...an unread screenplay.

A sullen exhalation escapes the Reader’s nostrils...

AUTHOR

Not to worry, almost done here.

(winks)

The Reader stifles a laugh...sensing that was directed at them.

TACK! The Author gestures to another set of terms:

SHOTS

TRANSITIONS

SOUND EFFECTS

AUTHOR

Capitalization counts people...and I’m not just talking ‘bout grammar.

The classroom collectively cranes their heads in thought...

The Author thinks a moment. Scratches his beard. Then,

DENKH! Broad jumps on his front desk—

AUTHOR

Exterior! Wall Street! Day! ... Rico and his friends decided to take a different approach to counter the bad bets they leveraged the day before...it was just at that moment—

He jumps down from the desk, making a show of it—

AUTHOR

BOOM! Something like an atomic explosion sends the once brilliant skyline to smithereens!!

The classroom freezes out of shock. This guy’s stone-cold crazy. The Author drops his arms, defeated.

AUTHOR

(out of breath)

And every—everybody...everybody dies.

Some of the students shake their heads...disapproving.

AUTHOR

Don’t ever read my work.

(turns back to whiteboard)

Listen, we’re gonna capitalize shots—

He circles the word SHOTS upon the board.

AUTHOR

Transitions...

...Circles the word TRANSITIONS.

AUTHOR

That’s gonna be your Fade to’s, Cut to’s...and occasionally Smash to’s

STUDENT TWO

Smash to?

AUTHOR

It’s like a Cut to, but it interrupts the action mid-shot. More emphasis on the cut!

The student slouches in their chair. Sorry they even asked.

AUTHOR

...And my personal favorite, sound effects.

He circles the words SOUND EFFECTS an unnecessary number of times. He must really like those.

AUTHOR

I really like those.

The classroom gapes at the whiteboard like deer in the headlights. Only a few of them still seem to actually be engaged. The Reader twiddles their brand-new screenplay upon their desk. Still preoccupied with the wonder of the unknown tales inside...

The Author eyes this. Gnaws his lips.

AUTHOR

Alright, look everybody. It’s 1:30 now. We’re gonna take a ten-minute break so y’all can grab some water—

SKKRR. Seats squeal and shove out the way before the Author can even finish. A roaring chatter explodes from what was dead silence as the class suddenly finds its voice.

The Reader lets out a melancholy sigh...

The Author takes notice. Suppressing the emotional dagger that that was.

The Reader folds their arms...

The Author turns to face the whiteboard, eyeing his scribblings for no apparent reason, in a space he can call his own...he failed his star pupil.

Demoralized, the Reader lays their head onto the desk. Nestled in the cradle of their arms. It’s all over.

INT. DULL CLASSROOM - TEN MINUTES LATER

The classroom bustles like a cafeteria as students settle back into their seats. Lively chatter peppers across the room, as the once strange students find they have something in common.

...The Reader lays their head upon their desk in that once proud first row. Now a lonely place where only the nerds are sitting.

AUTHOR

Settle...settle!

The chattering calms to a whisper. The Reader raises their head. The Author scratches his neck...

AUTHOR

I know I’ve been a bit long-winded...and some of you are waiting to get out of here...but...

VRRRRR...he drags the whiteboard one last time. The Reader’s eyes...brighten.

AUTHOR

I wanted to show you guys my favorite thing of all...

He unveils the final whiteboard. This time it isn’t scrawled with the ravings of a madman, but instead hosts an enchanting mural, made up of countless little descriptive adjectives...there must be hundreds of them. They align to form the larger text: CHARACTERS.

AUTHOR

Characters!

The classroom resonates in awe with the declaration... Then,

VRRRR...the Author drags the whiteboard again. Revealing yet more chicken scratch.

AGHH...the room seems to moan in dread. The Author hides his face against the whiteboard, unable to hide a smirk...he’s on the homestretch.

SWACK! He taps his marker upon the board, gesturing to three figures:

DUAL DIALOGUE

OFFSCREEN/VOICEOVER

PARENTHETICAL

AUTHOR

Alright listen up, cus ya need to know these, people!

He hovers his marker over the first one: DUAL DIALOGUE.

AUTHOR

Dual...dialogue. Real simple. It’s used when two characters are talking at once.

The student leers.

AUTHOR

...See what I did there?

SWACK! He slaps the next one: OFFSCREEN/VOICEOVER

AUTHOR

When a character is speaking, but they’re not on screen, say behind a closed door, the writer will place an (O.S.) by their character name for that line of dialogue. Same for voiceovers.

He writes out the examples:

(O.S.), (V.O.)

AUTHOR

We good so far?

Deer in the headlights.

AUTHOR

And now for perhaps the most undervalued screenwriting device of them all...

He shuffles through his desk. Rummages through his briefcase. BRUFLGK!

He yanks out a worn paperback, holding it up to the sky...

AUTHOR

(accomplished)

...Parentheticals.

STUDENT TWO

Parenthe-who now?

AUTHOR

Parentheticals! Oh, come on, don’t tell me I’ve gotta take it from square one.

He flips the book open.

AUTHOR

(hopeful)

But soft! What light through yonder window breaks?

Classmates all over writhe in their seats. He’s doing Shakespeare.

AUTHOR

(tender)

It is the east, and Juliet is the sun...parentheticals allow a writer to describe the tone of dialogue,

(clears throat)

or describe minor action within a block of dialogue. Any questions?

They all gaze blankly...

FLAP. He slaps the book closed.

AUTHOR

Class dismissed.

RUMMA-MMAA...the class rumbles with students, backpacks, and sliding chairs. They’re finally free.

A herd of students stampede towards the door, rushing past the front row, where the Reader sits, head down, buried in a book...

AUTHOR

...What’cha got there?

The Reader glares up at their teacher. Jaded by his antics.

READER

...The reason I had to take this class.

AUTHOR

(extends hand)

Here, let’s see it.

The Reader hands him the book. He flips through it. Scans his way to the back. It lists his name, as The Author.

The Author inhales, taken aback.

READER

I signed up for this stupid class...because I wanted to read your work.

The Author’s eyes drift from the pages, still in disbelief...studying the marvel of a student sitting before him. His Reader.

AUTHOR

Betcha don’t wanna read it anymore, huh...

READER

...No, actually I just folded my arms and read it with my head down the whole time.

The Author’s eyebrows raise...

AUTHOR

...Ah.

READER

Most of that stuff’s common sense, ya know?

He sighs, exhausted...

AUTHOR

...Some folks don’t know that.

The Reader packs their things away. Takes their book back. Heads to the door. A long class, finally over.

AUTHOR

Hey,

The Reader looks.

AUTHOR

...How’d you like the class?

The Reader eyes him, a solemn weight descending between them both.

READER

...I’m gonna read my book now.

BLACK SCREEN. The dark ether of infinity scales leagues beyond, taunting even the most terrifying portrait of the vast unknown. A curtain of shadow remains a solitary companion before an ever-expanding obscurity...

A dissonant wailing trembles through the air, sung by the screaming of multitudes—intensifying by every second.

KRICK-AAMM! The vengeful crack of an earthquake splits across an invisible horizon, as an innumerable chorus of souls plead amid a crumbling catastrophe...the earth is folding.

...WHUUVVMMM!! A violent tide devours the rising mayhem, smothering all noise by every crashing wave.

WWRRRRBBRMMM!! As another thunderous wall of water asserts its lethal dominance...

...Silence.

A PAIR OF EYES OPEN.

Gleaming in the brilliance of midday, and chasing through a bluster of wind...a blue horizon shimmers across their pupils.

————————————————

MUSIC: Roll Away Your Stone, Mumford & Sons. The delicate twangs of a four-string banjo punctuate an uncanny lightheartedness to the darkness abound. A melody rings out, amid the blackness...a song.

———————— ❦ ————————

EXT. CLIFFSIDE VISTA – DAWN

A crystalline azure of endless breadth shimmers just beyond a cliffside rice field, blanketing into infinity. The seven seas lay dead ahead.

PCK-KOHCK! A mother hen, exuberant as she is quick, scuttles by as her little chicks tail close behind through golden tall grass, rimmed by the morning sun. The sky is equally blue as the ocean.

Then—

WHOOOM. Something like an airborne surfboard—propelled by dual rocket engines, shoots into frame from below, just beyond the edge of the cliff.

Its rider twists and flips by several degrees, letting his arms hang loose, in the calm and weightless exchange of gravity. A gleam of youthful vigor flashes across his visage, accompanying a daring edge. This; is JASON.

VVVUUUMMME. Camera follows close behind as Jason flies down the cliffside, picking up speed.

WHOOM-WHAA! He jets past massive rocks and roots, weaving between them with expertise—hugging the edge of the cliff like a daredevil.

JASON

Whoooo-hoo-hoo-hoooo!

FFFSHH! A spray of salty mist occludes the frame as Jason dances within the ocean waves below...he’s a natural.

WHOMMM! A tidal wave forms, curling right over Jason’s head...

He eyes the wall of water, raising an eyebrow—KCHK-ZZRGG! He kicks a lever on his rocketboard, launching it into high gear—challenge accepted. FLUUUMME. Ultramarine embers blast from dual thrusters as he spirals through the tunneling wave.

WHOOM...VOOOM! Jason zooms past great plateaus of concrete and steel, jutting out of the ocean; an ancient metropolis...the forsaken ruins of a time long forgotten.

Overgrown with plant life, these curious highlands seem to form lettering, perhaps by a trick of the eye. A title, laid between the colossal angles and serifs left behind by fallen skyscrapers along the crashing waves.

EXT. NUEVA COLOMBIA - VILLAGE SQUARE - LATER

A bustling country square animates with the constant chatter of villagers...haggling eggs for skins, trading lumber for turnips.

PCH-KOOHCK! The mother hen and her little chicks run wild across the dirt road. It’s a mad house; but hey, it’s home.

Jason pushes through the mayhem, gripping his rocketboard in arm.

JASON

‘Scuse me...watch it!

A butcher from across the way eyes Jason scurrying by; he abandons a negotiation, pointing a large cleaver knife—

BUTCHER

¡Oye, Jasón!

Jason startles, looks.

BUTCHER

¡Amigo! You still owe me for those chops I cut you last week! ¡No soy estúpido, hombre!

JASON

¡Mañana, mañana!

The butcher shrugs in defeat, turns back to his client, tossing the blade behind his back—KACHK! A shriek echoes offscreen.

Jason continues pushing through—

MAYBELL (O.S.)

Rocketman!!

Jason skids to a stop—slaps a hand across his