Dear Mr./Ms. (uh..wtf?)
I am seeking representation for a recently completed 100,000 word, dark fiction manuscript titled Shadows at Twilight.
As one nightmare fades, another arises. Shadows at Twilight is one man’s descent into a nightmare from which he cannot wake. In the spring of 1945 the Second World War nears an end and Thomas Reibech, an officer of the shattered German army, leads a small band of soldiers on a journey home. The journey, through a land upended by war, takes a fateful turn as Reibech and his men collide with the fanatical disciples of a deviant Christian faction, known as the Second Advent. The mysterious sect gradually reveals their true nature in a quest for purity of blood, a desire to eliminate the impure of both race and faith and their grim ritual casts Reibech in a struggle for survival. But he finds an unexpected ally in Gisela Biehl, daughter to the leader of the sect. She is an attractive, yet perplexing young woman with an agenda of her own. Reibech must place his trust in her and the bond they form, as Gisela becomes his only hope for freedom and an end to the torment of his nightmare.
I believe this story is marketable across many genres as it blends elements of horror, supernatural and gothic, as well as historical fiction. To research the historical aspects of the novel I traveled to Germany during the writing process. Visiting the countryside that forms the predominant setting helped me add authenticity to the details. These exact elements, combining dark fiction with an historical backdrop, are at the core of anotherfreestanding novel that I currently have in outline form.
Please let me know if you would like to see the manuscript. I have enclosed an SASE for your reply. Thank you for your time and consideration and I look forward to your response.
Is there a plot?
and the hero is a guy from the German army?
good luck selling that in the American market.
Through the door and into darkness, pure and eternal. A simple notion. For Reibech it was almost laughable in its simplicity yet he was unable to shake the depth of his own premonitions. The waking dream, drawing him into its grasp. Its gravity luring him ever nearer. So that every inexplicable occurrence or image became cryptic, a mysterious symbol of the threshold opening before him. But the concept became more conflicted. Perhaps it was no entrance at all, but the way out. The world enveloping him was already that of utter darkness. Long ago unwittingly crossing into its uncharted fold, its implied underworld. And now, the channel of his salvation was before him. Through the door.
A day long course of frantic motion and disordered progress came to momentary rest. Finding shelter in the cover of thick woods, overlooking a rutted farm lane. Water pooled in the craggy mud. Across the lane, an old woman wearily picked through the pieces of her shattered home. Her face smeared with the greasy residue of dust and smoke, she resembled the blackened picture frames and underclothes and broken dinner plates and shredded books blown into the field adjacent to her home. The house that had two stubborn walls left standing and the balance in a pile of jagged rubble. She carefully sorted through belongings amid smoldering debris that glowed an angry red and then did not glow and trickled wisps of coal black smoke.
She did not see Reibech standing at the edge of the woods directly across the muddy road. Silently watching without acknowledging her, merely a part of the picture before him. Like the cool wind on the back of his neck or the damp air on his cheek, she simply existed.
He reached for his cigarettes. Habit. His pocket was empty, had been for days. Closing his eyes he could taste the smoke in his mouth, the warmth coiling against his nostrils. A handful of dried roots pilfered from a turnip shed had served as his last meal. Gnawing on that and his last crumb of bread was hardly a meal, but enough to trigger his urge for a smoke. Now he had neither cigarettes nor food.
well, you open with something I literally can't make sense of , then shift the action to a guy standing in the mud and the rain. Standing in the mud and the rain works if we have an emotional connection (think Bogart at the train station in Paris reading the note from Ilsa) but opening a novel this way sounds like a first draft from the writing team Dark and Stormy Knight.
Mostly I'm kidding about setting people on fire, but you gotta give me something to look at here.