Writing Samples
By Eboni Sharp
The Right Kind of Love
Michelle Hart’s days were measured in back-to-back meetings, emails stacked higher than the Cleveland skyline, and glass-walled boardrooms where she always had to prove she belonged. She was thirty-one, Vice President of Operations at a Fortune 500 company, and everyone around her whispered about how she was destined to be CEO by forty. Love, on the other hand, had been… convenient. Adam, her fiancé, looked perfect on paper. Handsome, polished, the heir to a pharmaceutical fortune. Their dates were spent in Michelin-star restaurants where conversations circled stock portfolios and luxury travel plans. To everyone else, they were the golden couple. To Michelle, it felt like wearing a tailored suit two sizes too small. One rainy Thursday morning, Michelle ducked into a corner coffee shop to escape the downpour. It wasn’t her usual place — too small, too local. But the rich scent of espresso and baked scones tugged her in. “Rough morning?” the barista asked with a warm grin as he wiped down the counter. His name tag read Thomas. Michelle smoothed the water from her blazer. “You could say that.” “Well, you’re in luck. My caramel latte is life-changing.” He winked, and Michelle couldn’t help but laugh — an unpolished, unguarded laugh that hadn’t slipped out in months. That day became the first of many. At first, it was small talk over lattes and croissants. Then it became conversations that stretched until Michelle was late for her meetings. Thomas was nothing like Adam. He listened. He teased her in a way that felt playful, not performative. He asked about her dreams instead of her deadlines. And he made her laugh — the kind of laugh that made her cheeks ache and her heart flutter. When Adam began pressing her to set a wedding date, Michelle stalled. “The timing isn’t right,” she’d say, hiding behind vague excuses. Deep down, she knew the truth: with Thomas, she felt seen. With Adam, she felt… managed. One evening, after yet another polite dinner with Adam’s colleagues, Michelle sat in Thomas’s café long after closing. She leaned across the counter, smiling despite herself. “You know,” she said, “if my father knew I was spending this much time here, he’d lecture me about wasting hours in a coffee shop instead of planning my wedding.” Thomas chuckled, sliding a mug toward her. “Then don’t tell him.” “Too late,” she sighed. “I think he suspects something. He’s very… invested in Adam.” “What about you?” Thomas asked, eyes steady. “Are you invested in Adam?” The question lodged in her chest like a stone. “I thought I was,” she whispered. “But now… I’m not so sure.” When Michelle finally broke the engagement, Adam was blindsided. “I don’t understand,” he said, his voice sharp with disbelief. “We’re perfect together.” “No, Adam,” Michelle said gently, tears brimming. “We’re convenient. There’s a difference.” Word traveled quickly — faster than she’d anticipated. Her father called her the very next morning. “Michelle, this is foolish,” he snapped. “Adam is stable, successful, everything you need. Do you want to throw your future away for some coffee shop owner?” Her mother’s voice softened through the phone later. “Baby, your happiness matters more than money. Don’t lose sight of that.” The battle lines were drawn: her father on one side, Thomas on the other, and Michelle caught in the middle. For weeks, she tried to appease her father, even going so far as to entertain Adam’s half-hearted attempts at reconciliation. But every time she looked at him, her chest felt heavy. Every time she looked at Thomas, her chest felt light. One evening, Michelle stood outside her parents’ home, rain misting her hair. Her father waited in his study, stern and disappointed. “Why are you so determined to throw this away?” he demanded. “Don’t you see what’s best for you?” Michelle straightened her shoulders. “What’s best for me is a man who makes me laugh. A man who listens. A man who makes me feel like me. That’s Thomas, Dad. Not Adam.” For the first time, her father had no rebuttal. He looked at her — really looked at her — and saw the certainty in her eyes. Slowly, his expression softened, the fight draining from his shoulders. “Your mother always said I was too stubborn,” he muttered. “Maybe she was right.” Months later, Michelle walked into Thomas’s café, the morning sun pouring through the windows. He looked up from behind the counter, surprise flickering across his face before breaking into that easy smile she’d come to crave. “Michelle,” he said softly, almost like a prayer. She crossed the room, her heels clicking on the hardwood, her heart racing. “I tried it their way,” she whispered. “Now I want to try it mine.” Thomas leaned closer, his hand brushing hers. “And what way is that?” “The one that makes me feel alive.” He pulled her into his arms, and for the first time in a long time, Michelle wasn’t thinking about boardrooms, deadlines, or obligations. She was thinking about butterflies, laughter, and the sweet taste of possibility. The kind of love worth fighting for.
Romance
When the Sky Burned
The first attack came without warning. James Holloway was monitoring satellite feeds deep inside the Pentagon’s Situation Room when the screens went white. One moment, a routine sweep of the Black Sea — a tense but familiar ballet of U.S. and Russian vessels circling like sharks — the next, static, and then fire. “Jesus Christ,” someone muttered as the screen resolved. A Russian destroyer split apart like a toy cracked in a child’s hands, molten metal raining into the sea. No missile launch detected. No heat signatures. Just… annihilation. James’s stomach tightened. He knew what the generals would assume. “It wasn’t us,” he said quickly, his voice low but firm. He wasn’t even sure who he was trying to convince — the men around the table or himself. Across the ocean, in the cockpit of a MiG-35, Captain Elena Kovalenko had the same view — only hers was firsthand. She was screaming into her radio, demanding answers, demanding targets, but there were none. A flash of light in the sky, then another destroyer gone. The sea boiled, black smoke clawing upward like a warning written across the horizon. “This is not America,” her co-pilot whispered, disbelief trembling in his voice. “This is something else.” He was right. The sky tore open. At first, Elena thought it was thunderclouds — but no storm moved like this. The air shimmered, and then vast shapes emerged, dark silhouettes with angles that hurt to look at. They descended without sound, without exhaust, blotting out the sun. Dr. Aisha Rahman had predicted this moment. Months earlier, she had begged the UN Science Council to heed the irregularities she found in deep-space transmissions. The patterns weren’t random. They were coordinated, deliberate. “They’re not just signals,” she’d said. “They’re instructions. Movements. Formations.” No one listened. And now Cairo burned. She watched from the observatory roof as the first alien vessel hovered above the city, a leviathan casting shadow over the Nile. Lights pulsed along its underbelly, rhythmic, almost beautiful, before a single beam lanced downward. A marketplace vanished in an instant, replaced by scorched earth and silence. The invasion had begun. In Washington, chaos exploded in the Situation Room. Military advisors shouted over one another, maps lit up with red. Russia had scrambled its fleet. NATO was mobilizing. But James could see it clearly: they weren’t fighting each other anymore. “They’re not here for territory,” he said, his voice carrying despite the noise. “They’re here for us. All of us.” The room fell silent. Even the generals knew he was right. In Moscow, Elena landed her jet on a battered strip as alien drones scythed through the air above. She ripped off her helmet, sweat and smoke stinging her eyes. Soldiers shouted orders, anti-air batteries lit the sky — but it was like firing arrows at gods. Her commander grabbed her shoulder. “We fight!” he barked. Elena shook her head. “No. We survive.” She wasn’t sure he heard her over the thunder of another explosion. By nightfall, the aliens had struck twelve major cities. New York, Moscow, Cairo, Beijing, London. The message was clear: humanity was not safe anywhere. And yet, in the ashes of fear, something unexpected began to form. The first clandestine meeting was held in Geneva. Leaders who only days before had sharpened knives against each other now sat at the same table, their faces pale with the weight of extinction. James was there, representing the intelligence corps, his youth making him invisible among the brass. Elena was there too, her uniform torn, her face set in stone. And Dr. Aisha Rahman — the scientist no one had listened to — now the most important voice in the room. “They are not invincible,” Aisha said, standing before the table. “Their ships use frequencies. Patterns. The same ones I detected months ago. If we can disrupt their signals, even briefly, we can fight back.” A Russian general scoffed. “With what? Our guns bounce off their armor like stones.” Aisha’s dark eyes sharpened. “Not guns. Cooperation. Every nation, every resource, every mind. Otherwise…” she glanced at James, then Elena, then the map smeared with red. “We will not see the next generation.” For a moment, no one spoke. Then James said, softly but firmly: “She’s right. The only way forward is together.” And for the first time in history, the room did not splinter into arguments. For the first time, silence meant agreement. Outside, the sky burned. But inside, humanity’s last hope had begun to take shape.
Science Fiction
The Ember in the Snow
The first time Lyra saw the fire, it was burning in the middle of the frozen lake. No wood. No kindling. No source at all — just a flame, steady and bright, dancing against the winds that scoured the tundra. She tightened the wool around her shoulders and stepped closer. The elders of Frostvale always warned her kind to stay away from wandering lights. But something about this flame tugged at her bones, whispering of warmth, of power, of belonging. And Lyra had never belonged. She knelt beside the fire, her breath pluming in silver clouds. The flame flickered once, then stretched toward her as though it recognized her. Behind her, boots crunched across the ice. “Don’t touch it,” came a sharp voice. Lyra spun. A tall man in a dark cloak approached, his features shadowed by the hood. His presence rippled across the air like a storm about to break. “Why?” she asked, defiant despite the tremor in her voice. “Because it’s not a fire,” the man said. “It’s a sentinel.” The flame flared, a surge of orange licking across the ice. Symbols appeared beneath it, etched in light — an ancient script Lyra had never seen. The man hissed under his breath. “They’ve found us already.” “Who’s they?” Lyra demanded, but the man seized her wrist, hauling her back as the fire split open like a wound. From the light stepped figures of ash and smoke, their hollow eyes glowing embers. The air froze around them, and Lyra’s heart stuttered. The man pulled a curved blade from beneath his cloak. “Run, girl.” But Lyra couldn’t. Not when the fire’s glow was still reaching for her, wrapping her in warmth that didn’t feel like death — it felt like home. And then she heard it. A voice, soft as a breath: Child of flame… awaken. The ice cracked beneath her feet, light bursting upward, and Lyra’s world shifted.
Fantasy
Shadows Between Us
The hospital waiting room smelled faintly of coffee and disinfectant. Fluorescent lights hummed above, throwing pale shadows against the sterile white walls. Naomi sat with her coat bunched in her lap, twisting the sleeve between her fingers. Across from her, her brother Marcus scrolled on his phone like he had all the time in the world. The silence between them was louder than the heart monitors down the hall. “You could at least pretend to care,” Naomi said finally. Marcus didn’t look up. “Don’t start.” Her throat tightened. “Mom’s in there, hooked up to tubes, and you’re—” “I’m here, aren’t I?” His voice snapped sharper than he meant. He sighed, lowering the phone. “Look, we deal with this differently. You pace. I scroll. Same thing.” Naomi shook her head. “No, it’s not the same. You disappear, Marcus. Just like you always do.” That landed. His jaw tensed, and for a moment, the room felt smaller. “She asked about you, you know,” Naomi continued softly. “Before the surgery. She wanted to know if you’d come. I told her yes. I told her you’d show up when it mattered.” Marcus finally met her eyes. There was no anger there now, just exhaustion — the kind that ran deeper than the sleepless nights. “I didn’t know how to walk back in,” he admitted. “Not after Dad. Not after I left.” Naomi’s breath caught. She’d waited years to hear that. To hear him say what they’d both carried like a ghost in the room. “You don’t have to explain,” she said, her voice breaking. “Just… don’t leave again.” The announcement speaker crackled overhead. A doctor in green scrubs appeared in the doorway, calling their mother’s name. For the first time all night, Naomi and Marcus stood side by side. Not as enemies, not as strangers — but as family, bracing for whatever came next.
Drama
Love, Actually… Late
The first time Maya met Jordan, she was thirty minutes late to yoga. She stumbled into the studio, hair half-up, phone buzzing with reminders she’d ignored, and tripped over someone’s mat in her rush to find a spot. That “someone” happened to be Jordan — six-foot-something, easy grin, and apparently a saint, because instead of glaring, he laughed. “Careful,” he said. “They charge extra for acrobatics.” Maya’s face went hot. “Sorry, I—uh—traffic, alarms, life—” “Hey.” Jordan shrugged. “Late is better than never.” The instructor shushed them, but Jordan’s smirk lingered. Maya tried to focus on her downward dog, but her brain was stuck on his voice. Deep. Teasing. Distracting. When class finally ended, Maya grabbed her bag and bolted, determined to avoid further embarrassment. But outside, rain poured in sheets, and of course she’d forgotten her umbrella. “Guess fate’s giving you another shot,” Jordan said, appearing beside her with an umbrella big enough for two. Maya blinked. “What if I’m allergic to fate?” “Then I’ll tell fate to take a number.” He tilted the umbrella toward her. “C’mon. Walk with me. Worst case, I get to hear more of your excuses.” Maya laughed — a real, unfiltered laugh — and for the first time in weeks, being late didn’t feel so bad.
Romantic Comedy
THE SILENT DEAL
THE SILENT DEAL Written by Eboni Sharp INT. CORPORATE OFFICE – NIGHT A single desk lamp glows in the otherwise dark office. The skyline beyond the glass walls glitters coldly. At the desk, JASON HART (40s, calm, calculated) sips his scotch. Across from him, MAYA REED (early 30s, sharp, nervous) clutches a flash drive like it’s a weapon. JASON You came alone. That was brave. Or stupid. Still deciding which. MAYA I didn’t come here for games. You know what’s on this drive. Jason swirls his drink, unbothered. JASON I know what you *think* is on it. Whistleblowers always believe they’re holding the match. MAYA This isn’t a match. It’s gasoline. And I’m not afraid to light it. A tense silence. The hum of the city outside. Jason leans forward, his smile razor-thin. JASON Let me tell you how this works. You go public, you disappear. Quietly. Permanently. Maya doesn’t flinch. MAYA Then I guess you should know something. She slides the flash drive across the desk. Jason’s hand hovers over it, but she pulls it back at the last second. MAYA (CONT'D) There are three more. Hidden. With instructions. If anything happens to me, the world finds out. Jason’s smirk falters — just slightly. JASON Clever girl. MAYA No, Jason. Desperate. That’s what you made me. Their eyes lock. Predator and prey. The question is — who’s who? FADE OUT.
Script Excerpt
Episode Outline Sample
Topic: Frank Ocean’s “Thinkin Bout You” and the Rise of Vulnerability in Modern R&B Episode Title: “When R&B Learned to Whisper: The Vulnerability of Frank Ocean’s ‘Thinkin Bout You’” Key Points to Explore 1.Context & Release (2012) o“Thinkin Bout You” as Frank Ocean’s breakout track from Channel Orange. oReleased during a time when mainstream R&B was still dominated by bravado, club anthems, and polished pop sounds. 2.Lyrical Themes oExploration of longing, heartbreak, and unrequited love. oLyrics use conversational intimacy (“a tornado flew around my room…”) to capture a deeply personal emotional space. oIntroduces queerness and nontraditional love narratives into R&B in a subtle but powerful way. 3.Musical Arrangement & Production oMinimalist production — falsetto, sparse beats, atmospheric synths. oContrast to the lush, full-band arrangements of traditional R&B, showing how silence and space can create intensity. 4.Cultural Impact oFrank Ocean’s open letter about his first love (a man) shifted conversations about sexuality and vulnerability in Black music. oExpanded R&B’s audience by normalizing vulnerability and queerness, paving the way for artists like SZA, Daniel Caesar, and Steve Lacy. 5.Broader Theme oMarks a generational shift: R&B moving from performance of strength to performance of honesty. oShows how vulnerability became a new kind of power in the genre. Why This Resonates with R&B ONLY’s Audience •Frank Ocean is already beloved and revered among modern R&B fans. •This topic blends music analysis + cultural commentary, which is exactly the format of this series. •The episode would resonate with younger listeners who see vulnerability as part of identity, while also educating older fans on how the genre has evolved. Potential Guests / Archival Material •Guests: Music journalists who covered Frank Ocean’s rise, LGBTQ+ voices in R&B, or producers who worked on Channel Orange. •Archival Elements: oFootage of Frank Ocean’s Tumblr letter. oEarly live performances of “Thinkin Bout You.” oClips from artists citing Frank as inspiration (Tyler, the Creator; Solange). Creative Elements •Visual motif of whisper vs. shout — contrasting older R&B performance styles with Frank’s subtle, intimate delivery. •Sound design highlighting the stripped-down production — isolating falsetto, synth layers, and silence. •Integration of fan reactions and cultural think pieces to show how his work changed conversations.
