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.

Short Story Writing

We were tasked to re-write the following short story, A Story from 19th Century Japan, author unknown. It had to be from Tanzan's point of view, after a significant amount of time had passed, and new information had emerged.

A Story from 19th Century Japan

Tanzan and Ekido were once traveling together down a muddy road. A heavy rain was falling. As they came around a bend, they met a lovely girl in a silk kimono and sash, unable to cross at an intersection.

"Come on, girl," said Tanzan at once. Lifting her in his arms, he carried her over the mud.

Ekido did not speak until that night when they reached a lodging temple. Then he could no longer restrain himself. "We monks don't go near females," he told Tanzan, "especially not young and lovely ones. It is dangerous. Why did you do that?"

"I left the girl there," said Tanzan. "Are you still carrying her?"

My Re-Write, as told from Tanzan:

I wish I could recall it now; the smell of the mud as it crawled its way into our socks; the rain as it twisted rivulets down the path Ekido and I had travelled. To feel the sodden cowl swathed heavily over my shivering body would be a blessing over the creeping dread that filled me now. What I wouldn’t give to experience that evening over, to walk that journey with my friend again. I would turn back, just the once, to see clearly what we hadn’t.

The girl was lovely in the midst of the pouring rain. Her helplessness played flawlessly, perfectly executed in silk kimono and sash purity, untouched by the buffeting elements – ethereal with foresight. I remember the impact her allure had on me, the flush of warmth, soothing as it rolled through me, like melting into a hot bath.

I’d left her there in the soaking rain, but Ekido hadn’t. He’d tried to warn me. He hadn’t been fooled by the pretence of innocence. He’d seen the demonic shadow hidden in the girl. 

I felt it, days later.

It started as a niggling irritation in the back of my mind; frustrations towards brothers, nerves snapping over small mistakes. I found my spiritual path maddening, wanting instead a life of indulgence. Ekido recognised it. He whispered stories of the man-eater, Manushya-Rakshasi, a demonic spirit who could possess and commit evil deeds through men. He stood by me while others distanced themselves. Trying to explain the absurd, he’d been ridiculed and we’d both been driven out.

Through isolation and insanity, the demon rejoiced. And as the blood of my friend coagulated in the pouring rain, the twisted blackness in my brain found corporeal form, its feminine likeness far from lovely. The kimono she wore – once silky and flawless – hung limp and filthy with blood and mud. The Rakshasi stared me down finally freed from its spiritual curse.

HAPLESS JORGE AND THE MILK INCIDENT

08.04.2014

No milk. Staring into the empty cavity of my fridge, barren contents stare back, mocking me. An overturned jug of cream with its monochromatic bloodstain, laughed aloud, pitying my predicament more than its own lingering death. Fat, green, gherkin fingers jiggled in their juices, the gag not lost inside the sealed jar, nor on the box of pizza; the few surviving slices of a drunken Saturday night, crisp on the outside and curling through the middle.

I slammed the door, shutting out the mockery. Of course this was the sort of morning with no milk because it was exactly the sort of morning I needed the damn milk. I needed it like I needed breath; cool, delicious thickness soothing a night of too much cigar smoke and straight whiskey, pacification of the lingering hallucinations still stabbing the edges of my sanity.

I sank onto the kitchen counter; cold, gripping skin with prickly goose bumps. The shock welcoming and real, so very real, unlike muffled giggles exuding from the refrigerator. The milk had run off. I couldn’t be bothered going out to collect more. Not now, I was too involved here.

Punching on the kettle, I glared, challenging, as the red light flickered before stabilising. I grabbed a mug; brown stain of coffee thick around the inside. A quick splash of water would rectify. Rusty, blood smelling syrup spewed from pipes. Walls around me rattled. I gagged, growling at the faucet. Slapping the spout away, I slammed mug on bench. Coffee stain and rust-rinse be damned! I fished for a spoon in the drawer, to be answered only by forks and knives; steel reflecting misery and self-loathing. Not a spoon in sight.

‘Damn you milk!’ I cursed the heavens. The kettle hissed a response, steam rushing the spout, refusing to disconnect the boil. Of course! I flicked it off, half expecting resistance, or electric shock. I snatched up the jar of coffee. Spoon be damned too! I erupted into hysterical laughter, as I unscrewed the lid and poured black gold straight into the cup. Granules disintegrated in rusty muck at the bottom, expanding to thick brown puddles. More granules gushed over the rim, pursuing freedom. Sugar joined coffee; a pair that complemented best when hot and milky, measured precisely, one spoon and two. Not today. Boiled water liquidised ingredients, uniting lost loves, entwining dissolved succulence forever. Forever for them was not long at all.

I hauled the fridge door open. A gasp cut short as occupants beheld my wrath: top lip curled, nose turned up exposing a murderous canine, eyes narrowed and readying for revenge. I cackled maniacally, gathering the cream. Rogue globules jumped free but entrapped remnants were too late. Thick blobs plopped unwittingly into black coffee, melting in pools of curdled liquid. Black and white mingled into the perfect salvation of a morning near ruined.

Retrieving a knife, I stirred the coffee. No longer lamenting absconded milk, but praising my problem solving brilliance. Basking in the genius of me, I guzzled my masterpiece, caffeine slamming my senses with electric buzz, hurling my brain from the veil of hangover and delirium. A moment of surprise for a new development… Gummy chunks of chewy coffee rolled over my tongue before acrid taste became horrendously clear. Misfortune backed by a burst of amusement from within the fridge. Hilarious.  

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.