A fantasy novel I am working on...

Where dense forest joined water on the outskirts of Forest Blakt, I crouched. I stared unblinking out into the Waterfalls of Lake Neb, focused on any movement among the cascades. Lined with jagged rocks and algae that waggled beneath surging water, the Skyggen prince Azrayh stood motionless under the deluge, his lean and pale body almost luminescent under the glow of the moon. Frightened that any movement could scare away my prince, I watched him carefully, as I had since he’d surfaced when the sun disappeared beneath the horizon some hours ago. I’d been waiting for the young Skyggen to lift his head and take a breath, but Azrayh remained as he had, a drowned water statue.

‘Azrayh,’ I whispered finally, desperate for my lover’s return. Impossibly, he snapped to attention, his amber eyes finding mine in an instant. He dove into the water and surfaced just metres away. I could almost touch him. I edged closer but he stayed just out of reach, his wings slowly undulating the water, gazing vacantly at me. His eyes, once bright and filled with curiosity, were empty and hollow, devoid of the passion he’d once had. I could have sworn there was a faint blue tinge to his skin, he’d never been quite so pale, his scars transformed into translucent purple veins about his flesh.

Stepping into the muddied edges of the lake, viscous darkness engulfed my legs to the ridge of my black boots as I waded further into the water – closer to Azrayh. I reached out to collect him into my arms but he frowned and backed out of reach with a flick of his wings. In the water he was faster. He smiled at me, as if this was a game, lifting a svelte arm and holding it out for me.  I grasped it before he could change his mind. With a strength I had never imagined he dragged me down into the water, laughing as I was doused up to his chest, soaking my clothes through.

I threw my arms around his naked waist for an instant before recoiling so violently I smashed backwards into the surrounding banks of rock. His skin was ice cold, even in the tepid water. The void that embraced me when I held him was endless. Desperate I pressed my hand against his chest. ‘What’s happened to you?’ I withdrew. ‘How long have you been out here?’

‘Swim with me pretty,’ he cooed, ignoring my questions. ‘I will show you sights of this world unknown to the—’

‘Azrayh, do you know who I am?’ He wasn’t there.

He laughed delightedly and for a moment I allowed myself to indulge. That laugh. But it wasn’t him. He wasn’t there. ‘Of course I do… You are beautiful…’ He ran a finger down my cheek. I could see the green tinge of algae collected in his long nails, and he reeked of the depths, of coral and darkest caverns. All familiarity I once knew – gone. ‘I would show you a world that mirrors—’

‘Come with me!’ Angered at the unfairness of life, I hauled my lover from the water. 

Azrayh shrieked as he hit the rocky banks, water running in rivulets down his torn and scarred leathers – last remnants of the proud armour he’d once donned.

I collapsed next to him, my hand on the Skyggen’s chest holding him against his will, with strength and incantation. ‘Your heart is not yet cold,’ I warned. ‘You are not yet of the deep. Please fight it Azrayh. Please.’ The fear of losing my lover was too real.

She'll kill me when she reads this...

My best friend is an avid gardener. In a few short years she’s turned a once barren backyard into a wonderland for native birds and insects. She is macabre with a penchant for gore and surgery and a love of nature and native propagation. She is androgynous with a shaved head and large green eyes. She has body piercings, scarification, and a pair of gargoyle wings tattooed on her back which she wants extended into a xenomorph tail down her legs. She has the chemical elements for psilocybin mushrooms and DMT tattooed on her neck but tells people who ask that they’re dopamine and serotonin. Other than this half-truth she is incapable of telling lies, shy, somewhat anxious (especially with phone calls), hates conflict, super intelligent, gentle, meticulous. She can’t make decisions and is often sad. She doesn’t like social gatherings, prefers to be alone or with close friends, loves to cook with fresh ingredients from her garden, and abhors clutter. Her home is minimalist – everything in it has purpose. If there is artwork it’s dissected bodies or true-to-life medical illustrations. She’s building an anatomically correct piñata from skeleton up, to bash away personal demons, for an upcoming birthday. She works in an indigenous plant nursery and has plans to one day own her own business selling native plants, homemade food and handmade wares. She just needs to banish self-doubt to enable her plans to come to fruition. She has lots of acquaintances and few true friends, but those she has know her worth and adore her completely, even though sometimes she doesn’t have the confidence to see it herself. She’s spiritual and believes that this is only one of many lives lived.

Clues to her personality (some truth, some fiction):

1. Can’t lie but hates conflict – so when she tells people her half-truths about her neck tattoos, saying they’re ‘feel good’ elements, she can’t keep eye contact and fiddles with her lip piercings. She doesn’t trust that people will be reasonable with the truth.

2. Shy – She doesn’t like to meet new people. If there’s a stranger in the house she will linger in her bedroom until they go away.

3. Anxious – She will sit at her desk for half an hour staring at her phone in preparation to make a phone call.

4. Intelligent – Her words aren’t casual and every one is thought out and planned ahead. She lives in her head most of the time. She won’t casually respond to a question – her answers take time.

5. Gentle – She holds her budgerigars in her hand while they happily nibble on seed.

6. Meticulous – Everything in her house, bag, and mind, has a perfect place and a perfect order.

7. Sad – Her smiles are rare and take some effort to form.

8. Self-doubting – Compliments from others are often shrugged off, or excuses found to discount them.

9. Doesn’t like making decisions – She often becomes frustrated if she has to make a decision, something like what to order for dinner can have her in tears and without food.

10. Macabre – She rejoices while watching real-life TV shows about surgery.

My friend is meticulous (Latin meticulosus from metus ‘fear’. Is she afraid of what might go wrong if things aren’t so perfect?) In everything she does, she has an extreme attention to detail. She cares about the small things and getting things exactly right every single time and won’t stop until they are perfect. She thinks before she talks and creates structure, order and compliance. She is organised, graceful, hates making mistakes and writes lots and lots of lists. She needs space, quiet and sensitivity. I don’t know why she is like this but it’s helpful to me because she edits my work, organises our trips away, and cooks awesome meals. I think she likes to be in control. She doesn’t thrive on chaos, can barely function in it. When she is in my kitchen she gets frustrated because I don’t have the perfect tool for a certain requirement. I’m a ‘many uses for one thing’ person. Any cup will do for a measurement, if indeed I even measure. She needs precision. She likes to produce things of a high standard and as such she needs to be meticulous.

MY BEST FRIEND TURNED CHARACTER

The child looked upon the needle in wide-eyed horror. Azha trapped his attention in her placid green eyes and only then was she was able to pick up the needle without him flinching away. It was a large needle – far better at closing wounds on a warrior, not a small child who’d fallen from a tree – but it would have to do, it was all she had.

‘Do you have any sister’s Tobin?’ She asked as her fingers deftly threaded the bone needle with a braided silk suture. Quietly she blessed the needle and pointed it east before shifting her attention to the boy. As she worked she hummed a barely audible enchantment that soothed Tobin’s mind and dulled his senses. His anxiety flittered away and Azha was able to stitch the wound closed. Drunkenly the boy blathered of his family and life in general until she had finished.

‘Done,’ she said simply. The boy’s mouth dropped open a little before he dared look at his arm. Where moments ago it had been a red raw gash now nine neat little stitches disguised the wound. His face changed in an instant. Forgotten were the moments of intense distress that had penetrated Azha’s afternoon nap. Forgotten were the streams of blood he’d thought he’d lost and never recover from. Now it was a warrior’s wound, one he’d survived, one none of his friends had… He beamed.

‘Thanks Healer Azha!’ He jumped up, restless to be back with his friends.

She flinched at the title he’d named her, but he was already off with barely a nod. The villagers had dubbed her their healer, and though she didn’t refute it, she disliked the dependence it gave them. They respected her for her knowledge of medicine but were wary of her solitary life and use of magic. Despite the fear, Tobin’s mother was sure to come by later to offer thanks. They were diligent with their thanks and continued to remind her of her worth to them. Azha would conveniently be out picking herbs or collecting water when they came by. A gift basket of dried meats and fresh fruit would be left on her porch as always. Many times the villagers had offered her services or insisted she allow an assistant into her home, but every time, she refused. She enjoyed things as they were, however hard chores were becoming.

Azha rose with a sigh and rinsed her hands and instruments in the stream. Cold water jarred her joints. The cramps were getting worse. How long until she could no longer wield a needle, plant a tree, hold a cup of tea? Banishing the thoughts she unfolded her instrument wrap and replaced the tools carefully into their assigned places to be sterilised later that evening.

She wandered home stopping to admire the seedlings that had sprouted in the recent rains. She discovered a cluster of rare purple herbs and breathed in deep the sedate mint aroma.

Her home was small and offered little in the way of creature comforts, but it offered all she needed. To a casual gaze it was invisible in a copse of fallen trunks and dense bush; spider webs lined the porch protecting her from negative energies.

A large black bird cawed at her from a tree top, its beady yellow eyes judging her for being away so long. ‘Oh shush Worm, it was hardly an hour!’ It cawed again and landed gracefully on her right shoulder, instantly fussing with her scarf to make more room for its oversized body. ‘You need to cut down on grubs.’ She said as it unhooked her scarf and pitched it to the ground. Worm croaked and looked away. Azha smiled and poked the bird playfully.

Come Away With Me.

A review I just found for one of my short films, 'Come Away with Me'. 

From the MRC (Media Resource Centre) Lipsync magazine HERE. 

Review by Emily Brindal: 

"Come Away with Me is a dark tale of love between two selfdestructive gay men. While there is no rock ‘n’ roll, there is sex, drugs and self-harm. If there were a nice antonym for ‘light-hearted’, I would insert this word here. It is intense and unashamed in its intensity. The cinematography is beautiful and really engages the viewer in the story. It also adds tension which is at times lacking in the performances. Although overall the film is more serious than some may prefer, it achieves what it desires to – it confronts the viewer and asks them to consider the line between love and self-destruction."


You can watch my film HERE.

A taste of my novel to come...

I see body bags every day, this one, no different. That same plain blue becomes so monotonous, so easy to forget the contents; negating countless lives. The unzipping always takes me back to childhood days spent camping; that early morning surfacing from the tent, tearing the fly screen open to eagerly set out for a new day of adventure and exploration. Easy, care free days.

Inside this body bag was a dead girl.

It should have been no different, but seeing her tore a rusty nail through my heart. She was one of mine – one of the ‘freaks’.

Her tattooed body displayed bands I loved, logos I knew, artists I admired. She could have been my friend.

She could have been me.

Seeing her made the pain fresh, brought me to that moment, those final seconds of desperation as she stretched her neck into that noose. It was the most common way these days: hanging. So easy, almost everyone was doing it.

Through a latex barrier, I caressed her cold flesh, rippled by years of self-harm. A pain I was intimately familiar with. She was younger than me, by five or six years, but she was here. She was one of the ones who hadn’t made it. I’d tasted that pain almost every day and felt how easy the way out could be. Not the act, the temptation. How it grasped at the darkest part of your mind and suffocated you with it. No kind deed or happy face or friendly grin made its way through that jumbled web of grey: hatred so intensely self-destructive.

Her life, reduced to a report and a photo in a file. Her organs sampled in a pot with a label. Her, just a body on a trolley – a statistic on suicide.

World, meet the Taraketh.

The Taraketh is a genetically designed being.

From his neck down he has biomechanoid blue and silver scales/body armour – part machine, part flesh. These are powerful enough to protect him from most ailments though pliable enough to twist and contort at his need.

He was created on Inquest – a massive research facility on a small, otherwise inhabitable, planet. Taraketh, though he doesn’t remember his past, was a prototype. He was engineered by the most powerful scientists in the Universe, to be used as an indestructible weapon of war. An infiltration saw the facility razed in a vicious battle, Taraketh escaped and found his way out onto the planet where no one else could survive. He wandered seemingly aimless for weeks until he discovered his Prowler.

Like him, the Prowler was designed to perfection. The small ‘living’ ship was engineered from the same biomechanoid material as Taraketh. They are two halves of the same being. It is controlled by Taraketh’s will, and when he is in the Prowler, their link is unbreakable; they are one.

Taraketh doesn’t have an understanding of traditional human values like pleasure, achievement, conformity, tradition, or benevolence. He values life over death, freedom over capture, and survival at all costs. He doesn’t understand human emotion. All Taraketh lives for is freedom from the Sentinels (government), and Shade (leader of the Skintraders: the bad guys), who have been tracking him. The destruction of the Skintraders motivates his life.

Taraketh’s mannerisms are animalistic. Though very intelligent, he is awkward in conversation, and often naïve to basic human interaction. His foibles include his inability to think things through before rushing into dangerous situations. He doesn’t consider the risk in a situation – it is life or death, fight or flight. He has never thought about anyone but himself, and he’s never had to think about protecting others, or the consequences of his actions.

He has spent his life in crisis; he knows no other way. He is always on the run, or in the midst of battle. Unwillingly, he finds solace in a rogue pair of human outlaws. Taraketh finds himself in situations he’s never been in before, struggling with the human emotion component. He sees emotion as weakness, dismissing them as childish, and often shuns his human allies because of it. His character development comes with one of these allies, Rain, who is weaker, and often reacts with strong emotions. He sees the consequences of his actions and behaviour through Rain’s reactions/emotions, and through this exchange, he learns to become more ‘human’.

Taraketh hates talking. His voice is androgynous, almost electronic and he struggles to speak as if language is hard for him, though this is mostly due to his animalistic intuition where words mean much less than behaviours. He finds human language infuriating, time consuming and wasteful. He prefers using his behaviour, body language and actions to communicate.

He loves being with his Prowler. He loves the connection and peace of being in sync with another being, and he can’t understand how others fly ships without this. Taraketh treats his Prowler like a lover, sharing a language only the two understand, and others look upon in confusion. It’s where he feels most at peace. He loves his life and freedom.

Gévaudan Rhymes

Gévaudan Rhymes is a fantasy/horror television series (1 hour episodes) similar to Being Human, American Horror Story etc. This pilot episode will revolve around the blossoming friendships of our three main characters, and debunking werewolf fiction from fact. It is aimed at an older teen/young adult audience and will be based more on werewolf legend than pure fantasy.

The main setting of series one is at university where our characters are studying anthropology, but this will only be the setting that unites the characters; the lessons will not feature unless they have direct relevance to an episode.

The narration is a study of human nature, with everyone having some side of their personality they are ashamed of, and want to hide from society. At the start, this is shown with Kal (werewolf) and, gender nonconformist, Blue. Throughout the series this flaw will be evident in everyone who features; including Tuesday and her ego, somewhat more sinister than the werewolves.

Kal is an introverted, socially awkward guy, displayed by stuttering, mumbling, limited eye contact, and at times, rambling. There is a subdued attraction he has towards Blue. He shows empathy towards the werewolf/killer. He thinks he understands him, as does Blue. This is their first instance of attraction.

Blue is sceptical, and almost asexual because of his gender dysphoria, but mutually curious towards Kal. Blue is very quiet and distrusting of new people and his personality grows with the developing story.

Tuesday is confident, bordering arrogant, vain, and you wonder why she is hanging out with these misfits. She can’t have Kal, so he’s all she wants, but she also wants to belittle him for refusing her. She is flirty, judgemental and jealous.

Dialogue in this section is mainly the characters learning about themselves and each other. I think I succeeded with showing the characters personalities, but not enough with Blue. Blue’s personality is too big to fit into a small section as he has many facets yet to explore. At the moment everyone is being overridden by Tuesday, who is the more outspoken one of the group.

GÉVAUDAN RHYMES © 2014

Episode 1: As the Wolfsbane Blooms

 START EXCERPT:

2.  EXT. UNIVERSITY GROUNDS. DAY                         

Androgynous BLUE sits against a River Red gum, as TUESDAY approaches, dropping the Advertiser beside him.

TUESDAY

Did you see this?

BLUE

(picking up the paper)

Local Werewolf Killer Strikes Again! A werewolf, seriously? What next, Dracula Rises?

He throws the paper back down and picks up the remainder of his lunch.

TUESDAY

(sitting down)

You know all the killings have occurred on a full moon—

BLUE

Coincidence.

TUESDAY

—And, all the victims have said to be mauled by something “resembling a large canine”.

Tuesday air quotes with long, slender fingers, topped with beautifully maintained hot pink nails. She raises her eyebrows, encouraging belief.

BLUE

You’ve been doing your research, I see.

TUESDAY

Alas, no. Subject’s taken. I just find it incredibly interesting that Kal would be following that train of thought. Did you hear, he’s proposing this guy is an actual werewolf, not just replicating the killings in a “wolfish” manner?

Tuesday swoons, collapsing down across Blue’s lap.

TUESDAY (CONT’D)

I think it’s sexy; the ultimate expression of power over another person.

BLUE

By eating them? I’m sure.

Blue yawns, his sight shifting to a young morose guy, KAL, wandering in their direction, oblivious to the attention.

Tuesday rises, and growls, noticing her prey.

TUESDAY

Gosh, that boy is awfully tasty.

Blue giggles and only then does Kal’s attention shift to the couple. He attempts a half smile which does nothing to lighten his brooding demeanour. He’s looking at Blue as he approaches – his grey eyes sheen unnaturally silver, like an animal caught in headlights.

BLUE

(rising to his feet)

Hey Kal.

Kal nods in response, shifting his gaze to his shoes.

KAL

Hi Blue.

TUESDAY

We were just talking about cannibalism…

(standing)

And speaking of, Kal, how’s your thesis coming along?

KAL

C-Cannibalism?

TUESDAY

I heard your character description of that murderer suggested something more mythological, say, a werewolf?

KAL

Werewolves cease being human once they’ve changed, so cannibalism is hardly fitting.

TUESDAY

Ahh, but you don’t doubt he may indeed be a werewolf?

KAL

This guy is real. He struck again last night, as you saw.

He nods towards the discarded paper.

TUESDAY

(grinning)

So it’s a ‘him’?

KAL

My character profiling suggests it’s a man, yes.

Kal is speaking to Tuesday, but his grey eyes flick over to Blue. He too is studying Kal curiously. Catching one another out, they both grin awkwardly.

TUESDAY

You know, Vore is a completely valid fetish. Perhaps this guy wanted to step it up from imaginary role playing.

KAL

(back at Tuesday)

V-Vore?

TUESDAY

It’s a sexual fetish where a person fantasizes about eating people, or watching people being eaten… I studied sexual fetishes first year. I can hardly believe that you’re not including this as a possibility though.

KAL

I—I guess I never thought of it like that— I don’t think it’s a sexual thing. I think he’s struggling with something inside himself that he has no control over, like, fighting a society that says it’s wrong to be who he is. It’s, well, I think I know what that would be like, if I was him, if… um, if you know what I mean…

BLUE

The wolf part is irrelevant.

KAL

(smiling at Blue)

Exactly.

Tuesday watches the two carefully, her eyes narrow.

TUESDAY

You want to join us for lunch?

KAL

N-No, I can’t. I have a lot of work to get through. I have a stack of texts by my bed I haven’t looked at yet.

TUESDAY

(elbows him playfully)

I’d like to see that!

KAL

(to Tuesday)

Yeah. Okay, see you.

(to Blue)

Bye Blue.

Blue waves briefly at him and smiles. Kal wanders off as awkwardly as he had approached. Tuesday sighs and looks at Blue.

TUESDAY

Damn. Must be gay.

BLUE

(raising his eyebrows)

A guy who doesn’t find you the 'be all and end all' certainly must be gay. Jeez Tuesday, for someone who studies human beings for a living, you really have no idea do you?

He snatches his bag up and moves off.

END EXCERPT.

Publishing Idea - Book Proposal

16.06.2014

Re: Wild Cards (edited by George R. R. Martin).

The 12 initial volumes were originally published by Bantam Books (1987 – 1993), Baen Books published the next three (from 1993 – 1995), then (from 2002 – 2006) ibooks Inc., released two new volumes, and reprinted the first six.

The current publisher (from 2008) is Tor Books (Tom Doherty Associates, LLC), who have released four new books and re-printed several, with a new volume due in September 2014.

Wild Cards is a science fiction/superhero series set in a shared universe. It tells the alternate history of Earth after an alien virus is released. The virus rewrites human DNA, killing 90% of those who come into contact with it. The remaining 9% mutate into deformed jokers, while 1% become aces with superpowers. Aces that acquire useless/ridiculous powers are deuces, and the unaffected human population are nats (naturals).

These books employ a naturalistic approach to storytelling; characters generally don’t have ‘secret identities’; and, modern pop culture references and celebrities are referenced to give a better sense of the world. Book titles and terms commonly represent card playing expressions.

So, I have developed a cure for the Wild Card virus.

While previous chapters have employed a variety of genres, the Wild Cards Universe has never explored horror. Horror has never been as popular as it is now, so I propose Drawing Dead, my cure for Wild Cards:

A Wild Card ‘cure’ is announced by a mysterious foreigner with a penchant for world domination, while closer to home, a formidable killer stalks the streets of Jokertown.

Backed by multi-million dollar pharmaceutical corporations, mainstream media declares Xenovirus Takis-A, a danger to the ongoing survival of the human race. With increasing force behind their campaign, nats soon force ‘immunisation’ upon the ‘infected’. Celebrity aces are the first easy targets.

Meanwhile, Mica, a deuce rejected by nats and jokers alike, struggles to find belonging. Burned by his former life, he finds solace in the mysterious joker, Talon. But Talon has secrets that will change their world. In his struggle for acceptance, has Mica allowed the biggest monster of all into his bed?

DRAWING DEAD

Based on Wild Cards (edited by George R. R. Martin).

Mica stumbled from the pub into the damp alley, morning still hours away. Above him, a weathered neon sign illuminated random letters for a shop, long since abandoned. He coughed, exchanging stagnant air for the sickly sweet odour of rot, and swiped at fresh blood that trickled down his chin. Even in the poorly lit backstreet he could see silver staining his fingers, and he knew the glitter would be everywhere. Using the back of his sleeve to wipe blood from his fractured nose, he glared at the predicted residual flash.

Pointedly ignoring his sinus ache, he glanced around, suddenly comprehending the danger of this location. He didn’t fear Jokertown, but Wild Card murders had been on a recent rise, and at night, violent gangs prowled unpoliced streets. The darkness slinked in, claustrophobia gripping his chest. Adrenaline replaced his alcohol-fuelled buzz and his stomach clenched. Buildings and streets he’d become familiar with in daylight hours became looming towers hiding nameless dread. Winds caused unlatched doors to creak and bang. Noises in the distance became pursuing footfalls.

His stride lengthened as his mind fought threads of terror through deserted backstreets. Shadows, or shrouded creatures, melted into darkness before his eyes. He stared into the gloom, fearing to blink, his eyes stinging with strain and sweat, his heartbeat in his throat.

The anticipation became too much. Losing all direction in the maze of alleyways, he fled directly into a dead end, and an incarnation of his terror, as if he’d willed it into being. 

Mica stopped dead, staring at the eviscerated carcass before him. The horse’s disembowelled organs and severed head spanned several metres. In any other place, the presence of a horse might seem absurd, but not in Jokertown, where freaks found solace.

Mica blinked, the colour draining from his face. His palms were clammy, and his clothes drenched in cold sweat, giving his whole body an otherworldly shimmer. On the ground, inches from the mutilated head, sat a single three-foot-long horn. It had been hacked from the horse, nay, unicorn, and lay tangled in bloodstained hair. Mica enjoyed horror films. He found the cheesy storylines and excessive blood amusing. Here, now, with the smell of viscera thick in the air, he staggered.  

Since moving into town, he’d familiarised himself with The Jokertown Boys. He’d planned to see them live, curious about their advertised, ‘unique twist’ on gothic rock. Knowing as little as he did about the local rock stars, he still recognised the horn from the lead guitarist, Alec ‘Alicorn’ Harner, who’d donned an impressive spiked blonde mohawk to disguise it.

Tearing his eyes from the slaughter, he finally noticed the tall, slender man staring at him. The man clutched a bloodied machete, a weapon that looked enormous in comparison to his slight frame. Mica couldn’t look away, possessed by the man’s soulless eyes. His vision distorted, and white noise filled his head. Cold hands clamped his throat. As they tightened, the white noise amplified, until the only thing Mica could comprehend was the static. It spoke. It told him he must die. It said that all those infected by the Wild Card virus would die. And he would be next. He understood, and it made sense… so he allowed it.