Tyler Weaver's Blog, page 69

The Three Jesi(i?) Turn Water Into Wine (A Short Story)

The light haloed around his head, buzz buzz bzzt. His hair glistened. His white robe reflected the light, buzz buzz bzzt. He raised his arms, palms up.

My sons, he said.

Siddown, falsie, said Ted, rising from his chair, all-orange-rock-Ben Grimm clobberin’ time. He bumped the table bearing the cups of water and banged his head on the low-hanging light, buzz buzz thunk.

Blaspheme! said Phil. He kicked his slipper, the one with the faded red stain, at Ted. The slipper smacked the far wall, the one with the  decades-old coagulated driblets of baby-puke green paint. Ted wrapped his hands around Phil’s throat, gurgle, gurgle my son, gurgle.

Now Ted, said the Voice, you have to let Phil go.

Gurgle, gurgle, said Phil.

Ted, you should be glad that The Boys are on break. We don’t want a repeat of yesterday now do we? said the Voice.

No, Fathah.

Then please let Phil go.

Yeah Fathah, said Ted.

Gurgle hack, said Phil.

They returned to their metal chairs. Phil rubbed his throat.

Ted hated this shit and he hated having to prove the capital-T Truth and he hated the metal chairs and he hated the stupid fucking low-hanging light with its buzz buzz bzzt and he hated the mirror because that meant he had to stare at those two assholes twice as much: Phil, fucking falsie with his Richie Havens-wannabe bullshit beard and Roger with his hands in that weird egg-holding thing and his omms that popped out between pack-a-day retired-but-not-really-hooker breaths.

Omm.

Please continue your discussion in a calm and civilized manner, said the Voice. We can do that, right? Now please. Deep breath. In. And out. There. Now, continue.

I–, said Phil.

–I, said Ted.

Roger said nothing.

Roger, why don’t you start? said the Voice. You’ve been very quiet today.

Roger said nothing.

Yeah, comeongetonwiddit Rogah, said Ted. Settling shit today. Got work todo.

Like what? said the Voice.

Cahpentry stuff, Fathah, said Ted.

Mahpentwy schtwuff, Fafah, said Phil.

Ted rose. The chair squeaked. He bumped the table. The water rippled.

Gentlemen, said the Voice. I think we need to take a minute here, to reflect.

Ted sat. Pause button on clobberin’ time.

Dr. Steve stuck his thumbs into the corner of his eye sockets and rubbed. In the weeks since “The Discussions” started, he hadn’t slept, save for five minute flashes during the two o’clock hour on his office couch, the TV volume low. He worried about reverse mortgages, his testosterone level and if the future version of the Hoveround would, in actuality, hover. He wasn’t sure about the physics of it all, but he doubted that his low-volume afternoon commercials would answer, or for that matter, do anything to allay his futurist suppositions and he knew, he just knew, that Janice was fucking one of the guards. The big one. She stopped returning his calls and he had tried oh how he had tried to play it cool. New approach, new approach, he reassured himself at least once every 45 seconds. New approach. Play it cool. Play it cool while this was going on, the most important work of his life, closing the Three Jesi(i?) file. Close Jesi(i?); get Janice; Hoverround into the sunset at the Grand Canyon. He had the workflow worked out.

Dr. Steve leaned into the microphone.

OK, gentlemen. Why don’t we try the water exercise again?

I like that one, Phil said. He stared at the cup of water. He moved his hands, all late 19th-century conjurer. If he had a poster, he decided, one of those big ones that Mike and Frank paid the big bucks for, it would say Phil the Magnificent and feature a lovely female assistant named Roxy; Roxy with a y, very important that y. No -ie’s for Phil the Magnificent.

Falsie, Ted said.

Come on, pick up, pick up, the Voice said

Ted looked at the mirror and at the heavens and said, Fathah?

Nothing, nothing. Please continue.

Phil threw the water at Ted. Clobberin’ time unpaused.

The Boys burst in, chests puffed out, nightsticks at ready. Flush-faced Numero Uno–that’s right–Numero Uno and don’t you forget it–punched Phil in the nose. Number Two wrapped his arms around Ted and pulled him to the chair. Numero Uno picked up Phil. The chairs squeaked.

Phil rubbed his nose. He looked down. He noticed that both slippers were gone. That disturbed him. The floor was cold, like metal, and Phil didn’t like having cold feet because Phil didn’t like robots, not one bit, and robots had cold feet. The notion that Ted and Roger could be robots had crossed Phil’s mind more than once. He decided that was ridiculous because robots couldn’t talk, at least as we understand the concept of “talking.” The ridiculousness was reinforced when sparks didn’t emanate from Ted, because robots, as everyone knows, do not like water, not one bit; robots, in fact, disliked water as much as Phil disliked robots. He was sure, however, that Roger was a robot. He was in stasis mode. That hand thing. But then again, he didn’t want to say anything. Didn’t want them to think he was crazy.

Speaking of which.

Right on his desk? said Number Two.

Right on his desk, said Numero Uno.

The Boys sat under the bulletin board, the one that had birthdays and Photobooth pictures of the inmates. Birthday hats and balloons. The edge of the bulletin board bothered Number Two when it dug into the spot behind his ear but he wasn’t going to admit that in Numero Uno’s presence. Because, you know, guy stuff.

Wow, said Number Two.

I know, right? said Numero Uno.

Where was he?

Where you think?

No.

Yep. Right in that little room of his. Little Dr. Steve in his little Dr. Steve room.

No.

Right there.

On break, like just now?

Numero Uno put his hands behind his head.

Wow, said Number Two.

New approach, new approach. Wut we hve meens wl7d 2 me, typed Dr. Steve into his phone, the one he’d had for two years past the upgrade date, the one with the cover smashed and the flippy part that squeaked. He hit send and stared at the purple screen. Janice loved it when he said things like that. He knew it.  New approach, new approach.

Phil the Magnificent rubbed his nose. He made sure that Roger was still omming and in stasis mode. He was. Phil grabbed Roger’s untouched flowery Dixie cup. He closed his eyes. He waved his hands. He sniffled. He scratched his nose. A plop. The water turned red, rosé-red. Phil’s eyes burst wide.

Look! he said. Look!

The buh-deep came through the air and the Voice said, No, no you can’t. Not now. Can’t live without you.

I did it, I did it! said Phil the Magnificent. He waved the cup of wine-water in Ted’s face. Who’s a falsie huh? Who’s a falsie?

Ted punched Phil in the gut.

C2nt live wo u, typed Dr. Steve. Send. New approach, new approach.

Numero Uno and Number Two burst through the door and grabbed Phil and Ted. Water spilled to the floor. It soaked into Roger’s slippers, schlurp schlurp. Roger didn’t move. Stasis mode.

I did it, I did it I-! said Phil the Magnificent before Numero Uno’s nightstick offered its salutations.

Buh-deep.

A rage scream choked by sniffles and snot through the speaker. A chair through the mirror. Shards scattered across the floor. Dr. Steve climbed through the broken window, his eyes bloodshot and wild. New approach, new approach. He lunged at Numero Uno and pulled him off Phil. Dr. Steve and Numero Uno’s feet went into the air, crash splash, they landed in water and mirror shards.

I did it, I did it! shouted Phil the Magnificent.

I knew it, I knew it! shouted Dr. Steve. He punched Numero Uno*. Again and again.

Roger rose from his chair. Squish squish went his rosé-red-water-soaked slippers. Buzz buzz bzzt went the light that haloed around his head.

You guys are fucked up, said Roger.

* and don’t you forget it.

 

TW

Stories I Love: GRAND THEFT AUTO

 

Freedom of choice in any medium scares people and makes them say that games like the GRAND THEFT AUTO series have no redeeming value. Here’s another take: GTA has as much value as you bring to it. What you choose to do with the freedom is, as in life, a statement of your values and your projections into that world.

What is consistently glossed over in the outrage and rants and raves over the series is the growth of the Houser brothers’ storytelling. In GTA III, the first game I played in the series, and the one that launched a fascination that only grew through my twenties into my thirties, the story is one of simple revenge, without any characters that rise above archetypal parody.  In VICE CITY, the story centered around greed. Characters became more than silent avatars of senseless violence, they became active protagonists in their own downfall, though still wearing their inspirations on their sleeves. SAN ANDREAS expanded to the idea of family discovering itself through being torn apart, of worlds colliding, from the ghettos to the silicone glitz across the bridge, from the trailer park countryside to the snobbish hills of San Fierro, from the desert of James Woods’ CIA agent to the OCEAN’S 11 insanity of Las Venturas and back to where it all began, the Grove Street cul de sac in Los Santos.  And then came GTA IV, a newly-realized version of Liberty City, a story of immigrants and family with a revenge story thrown in, and finally, the branching, multi-protagonist narratives of the expansions,LOST AND THE DAMNED, about the destruction of brotherhood and THE BALLAD OF GAY TONY, again, like VICE CITY, a tale of greed from the top down, all the while retaining the sense of humor, head-shaking disbelief, and freedom of exploration that is a staple of the series.

My favorite stories are set in well-defined worlds that make the best use of their medium to grant me a deep peek inside that world, be it a world in prose or a world I can freely explore. The GRAND THEFT AUTO series takes the best of what video games can offer – unfettered exploration and “you are the protagonist” immerson–and marries it with the potential to choose between our worst impulses. For the thoughtful, it forces an examination of violence that goes beyond censorship and political outrage: it forces us to ask what’s inside all of us… and that’s a dangerous thing for any medium to explore.

 

Stories I Love: HORROR OF DRACULA

It is beyond a reinvention of Dracula from the staid and sanitized versions that graced cinema screens from Lugosi through the 50s, it is a call to arms, a reinvigoration of horror into action and adventure, where those caught in the vampire’s web had no choice but to rely on their primal insincts, fight or flight, not discuss or convince over cocktails or creep about in the early daylight shadows, but to pounce from the dinner table and rip the curtains down, flooding the room with sunlight and transforming the object of their pursuit to a pile of grasping ash, his bony skeleton fading into the tiled floor.

HORROR OF DRACULA, Hammer’s bold and action-packed retelling of the Dracula story removes it from the gothic horror of its epistolary source material and stage-play rebirth and transforms it into lurid pulp, the screen oozing with bright red blood and the heaving cleavage of Dracula’s brides, no longer the chaste polygamistic denizens of a nobleman’s castle, but the seductive harbingers of unspeakable evil and destruction.

While Christopher Lee’s performance as Count Dracula–his commanding frame, bloodshot eyes and razor-tipped teeth barely containing the animal that lives inside–is a defining one, it is Peter Cushing’s Abraham Van Helsing that makes HORROR OF DRACULA special.  After Cushing, Edward Van Sloan’s 1931 portrayal of Van Helsing was exposed for what he was: a dinner party academic with a bag of sharp sticks and an intellectual curiosity for vampire bats. Cushing’s Van Helsing was an academic, yes, but he was as much Indiana Jones (Cushing’s Van Helsing had to have had some influence on the creation of Jones, if not overtly, then in the recesses of their minds) as a cold and clinical theorist. No longer was Dracula wrought by a real estate deal gone bad, he was wrought by Van Helsing’s own obsessive hunt for him; Harker, in this film, was an agent of Van Helsing’s, and Cushing’s every scene is awash with guilt for bringing this on Harker’s family-to-be, particularly when he has no choice but to kill his old friend and later when he wraps his coat and cross around young Tania before descending into Lucy’s crypt to dispatch the evil he was responsible for unleashing.

The “horror” in HORROR OF DRACULA  is not only the surface horror of Dracula’s evil, but the horrors that one’s own obsessions can unleash on those only tangentially involved.  It is a slam-bang thriller of horror with heroes haunted by their demons, seeking only to slay the evil released by those demons.

The poster hangs on my office wall and is a reminder of the power of storytelling that pushes the emotional boundaries of its characters, taking them to their primal state and thereby delivering a story with emotional weight, heft, and power. 

Stories I Love: THE RITE (Riot) OF SPRING

 

OK, so THE RITE OF SPRING  isn’t technically a story.  Stravinsky (or Iggy, as I enjoyed calling him, which led to me being thrown out of a music history course), considered Rite “a musical-choreographic work representing pagan Russia… unified by a single idea: the mystery and great surge of the creative power of spring.” So there’s that.[[MORE]]

The story I love about the RITE OF SPRING is the story of its premiere. On May 29, 1913, at Paris’ luminous Theatre des Champs-Élysées, the RITE caused a riot. A riot. Not an “I say, dear sir, your golf clap is too loud” guffaw. A riot.  Some loved RITE, with its dissonant sounds and tribal, primal rhythmic drive.  Some hated it. Neither side loved each other, much to the consternation of the orchestra, whose members became the target of any projectile the audience could get their hands on. Fistfights, duel challenges, hoots, hollers, profanity-laden tirades and more spilled out into the street. Passion was not lacking in the hall.

Nonetheless, the performance went on. Iggy later said that “I have never again been that angry” when laughter erupted during the opening bars of the introductory bassoon solo (one of the most legendarily difficult passages to play well, pushing the limits and breathing capacity of even the best bassonists). The RITE has gone on to be, in the hundred years following its uproarious premiere, heralded as a defining work of 20th century genius. The story of THE RITE‘s premiere is one that should define all of our works: never middling, never keeping people in their seats. It should provoke a reaction, positive or negative.There is nothing I dread more than a polite golf clap. RITE is a perfect melding of a work of an uncompromising genius with the perfect audience and place and time. It is a work of beauty. It is a work of primal rhythms and innovation. It is a work of infamy. It is an inspiration.

Stories I Love: DEUS EX

In a shed just off my mom’s driveway, alongside a wood chipper, a lawn mower, more shovels than any normal human would require (maybe the wood chipper and shovels go together, I don’t know), and a shelf-full of ancient motor oil, rests a second-generation graphite iMac. Its been with me since 2000 –– from Boston to home and back again –– ever since my torrid affair with a Gateway laptop came climaxed in a plethora of profanity and blue screen rages.

During that summer of 2000, with the graphite iMac my trusted computing companion, I discovered a game unlike anything else I had experienced: DEUS EX, a first-person shooter / RPG hybrid in which you unravel a global conspiracy in the not-too-distant future as augmented (meaning you can do really cool stuff) UNATCO (United Nations Anti-Terrorist Coalition) agent J.C. Denton.

When it comes to noughty (those most active or relapsed in the first decade of the 21st century) gamers I believe there are two camps. Those who will stand on the DEUS EX side of the line, and those who will stand on the HALO side of the line. Both are gargantuan feats of video game storytelling that push the limits of what a video game is.

I love you HALO, but while you were an astonishing feat of first-person awesomeness that filled my early years in Boston with neighborly camaraderie over XBox and Dominos pizza, DEUS EX was a storytelling evolution that offered something far beyond HALO’s amazing graphics, far-reaching mythological underpinnings, and fun as fuck gameplay: choice.

You have the choice as the protagonist: go as deep as you wanted into the augmented dystopia of DEUS EX –– dig deeper into the lives and emailed minutae of Paul Denton, Bob Page, Walter Simmons, Nicolette DuClare,Tracer Tong, or Joseph Manderley to uncover all of the plots, motivations, double crosses and plans for world domination. Alternatively, you could go as shallow, blasting away terrorists and “the man” with equal aplomb. Deus Ex was a lengthy game, begging you to sink more hours in as you uncovered everything; it sucked you in, bit by bit,  a sandbox of playability as much as a sandbox of world. It was a game that was decisively “of” the medium in which it was created.

Twelve years [edit: thirteen years] later, my favorite level in DEUS EX remains J.C. Denton’s Daedalus-aided breakout from the underground UNATCO prison. Upon learning of his brother’s defection to the NSF and his motivations for the action, Denton turned against his previous employers and became a wanted man. Hunted down and thrown in prison underneath the UNATCO headquarters, Denton eventually broke free and escaped through the very halls where he received mission orders not three missions before. I think it’s that very transformation of location by purpose that appeals to me; in earlier missions, the UNATCO building was a home base, a place to begin a job among colleagues. In the breakout mission, that same map was transformed into a do-or-die death trap where motivations were turned on their head, dark secrets were revealed, and I had the opportunity to blast away my former boss with a rocket launcher. I’m clearly not the corporate type.

The game was about rebellion, about rising up and becoming more than you knew you were capable of being. It’s that undercurrent that no doubt contributes to my love of the game. I’m a firm believer that stories that stick with us are ones that come to us at times in our lives when they strike an emotional core.  In 1998, I had a seizure while playing video games. Never had one before, never had one after. But from the fear of death imbued in me by the medical incompetents sticking needles in my arm for two years, I abstained from playing video games. I was forbidden. When I purchased DEUS EX with my money earned from making pizza and spinach pies two years later, it was my way of saying, “I’m back and I’ve woken up.”

Though I’ve stayed awake in the twelve [edit: again, thirteen] years since, the graphite iMac still rests in the shed, a reminder of the fun I’ve had, of the story experience that contributed to my growth and fascinations as a storyteller, and of the personal experience that reawakened me to the brilliance of the video game medium.

Stories I Love: THE THIRD MAN

In post-World War II streets overflowing with inky shadows, greed, and hapless bureaucracy, pulp novelist Holly Martins (the brilliant Joseph Cotten) arrives in Vienna and promptly gets himself wrapped up in a plot that would rival any of his own novels when he finds that his friend, Harry Lime (Orson Welles at his most charismatic) has died. But, as with any great crime story, the onion is peeled back to reveal the layers of deceit and evil Lime inflicted on the people of Vienna, the woman he loved, and ultimately, on Holly.

It is the encapsulation of “the perfect film:” a brilliant craftsman – Carol Reed (THE FALLEN IDOLl, ODD MAN OUT) – in the director’s chair; a screenplay penned by a novelist of wonderful invention and wit – Graham Greene – that featured memorable characters embodied by Joseph Cotten (CITIZEN KANE, SHADOW OF A DOUBT), Alida Valli, Trevor Howard, Bernard Lee (who would go on to be the first film “M” in the James Bond series, playing the character in 11 films, occasionally featuring direction by THIRD MAN assistant director Guy Hamilton) and Orson Welles as one of the great screen villains of all time, Harry Lime. Alfred Hitchcock once said:

For me, suspense doesn’t have any value unless it’s balanced by humor.

Humor abounds in THE THIRD MAN and is used precisely as humor should be used in any genre: to add a dose of natural human reality and deepen the audience’s emotional investment in the characters. Little touches here and there add  humanity to the inhumane: Martins’ stumbling and mumbling lecture on faith to a Viennese book club; his derisiveness in calling Sgt. Calloway “Callahan,” (“Calloway. I’m English, not Irish”); Lime’s desire for more antacid tablets; the famous cuckoo clock speech:

Orson Welles’ Harry Lime is one of the great screen villains: utterly charming, fully convinced of the righteousness of his non-convictions. He is mentioned throughout in passing in his death then seen in shadow, alive and well – his death faked to get him out of trouble. But, as with all the best-laid plans of mice and men, Lime’s plan goes astray by his discounting of the one x-factor in his life: the conscience and broken heart of his childhood friend. In 1951, two years after the release of THE THIRD MAN, Orson Welles returned as Harry Lime in a radio series, The Adventures of Harry Lime (THE LIVES OF HARRY LIME  in the US), a prequel, telling of Lime’s adventures prior to the events of the film. The radio show was a marked tonal shift from the darkness of the film, focusing on the charming con-artist aspect of Lime as opposed to the wanton villainy and evil of his scheme in the film.  It was a radio show narrated by a dead man to the tune of Anton Karas’ brilliant score to THE THIRD MAN:

That was the shot that killed Harry Lime. He died in a sewer beneath Vienna, as those of you know who saw the movie The Third Man. Yes, that was the end of Harry Lime … but it was not the beginning. Harry Lime had many lives … and I can recount all of them. How do I know? Very simple. Because my name is Harry Lime.

Yes, THE THIRD MAN went transmedia – additive transmedia, fortunately, not crap transmedia – in 1951. THE THIRD MAN is everything I love about film, the perfect marriage of talents, of storytelling, both written and visual. It is its own language, a language of zither music and friendships torn asunder, of faith and love gone wrong. It is a world constructed from the debris of a World War, one that I revisit again and again, each time finding something new and wonderful in its inky streets of greed peeled back and revealed, layer by layer.  

@Script Magazine

I recently started a new gig as a columnist at SCRIPT magazine. My initial column focuses a laser beam on topics discussed in my book, COMICS FOR FILM, GAMES AND ANIMATION: USING COMICS TO CONSTRUCT YOUR TRANSMEDIA STORYWORLD, specifically on the eponymous FILM in the title. My first two posts  are now available at SCRIPTs website:

More Than Storyboards: Comics & Film #1 – On Writing Comics
More Than Storyboards: Comics & Film #2 – Finding the Gutter

On a personal note, it’s sorta wild to be writing for a website/magazine that I devoured when I first became interested in this thing of ours.

 

Whiz!Bam!Pow! – The Farewell Tour

Starting in May of last year, I released the first installment of WHIZ!BAM!POW!, BOOK ONE: OLLIE  in weekly episodes. Over the course of last summer, the entirety of BOOK ONE was released, including three radio show episodes, THE ADVENTURES OF THE SENTINEL. It was a joyous – if insanely busy – time.

And then, my brain exploded and couldn’t wrap its head around BOOK TWO: FRANK. It had ripped and pulled at me for over a year. Finally, in February (February 24, to be precise, a day etched forever in my brain) of this year, I finished the sonuvabitch and released BOOK TWO as a complete novelette, with the promise that BOOK THREE would be coming shortly.

Well, that didn’t happen, and, I fear, the momentum was gone. I moved onto other projects like MYSTERY ILLUSION THEATRE, my current work in progress, a narrative non-fiction piece, and a novel. I was burned out on the story, and was worried that I had nowhere to go.

I was wrong.

Now, I’m back to work on Book Three, and it’s already led to a retcon in BOOK ONE. It’s the end of a journey, and I’m ready to let these characters who have been with me for years, go. WHIZ!BAM!POW! is all about connections and gaps, and letting you bridge those gaps. It’s about bringing people together around one fictional work of fiction. For the story to have the maximum impact, it has to have the right momentum.

Memory is a fickle bitch–unless you’re writing the story–so I’m going to take a page out of summer television and do something I’ve never tried:

RE-RUNS. 

That’s right. Starting this SUNDAY, July 28, and on every Sunday afterwards, I will re-release the entirety of WBP in order: A LINEN FORCEFIELD, BOOK ONE, BOOK TWO (serialized for the first time) and finally, the new stuff: BOOK THREE, a Coda (the final episode), and, after a seemingly endless time, the comic book at the center of all of it, WHIZ!BAM!POW! COMICS #7,  August 1938.

Now, I’ll preemptively answer a few questions:

You’ve already run BOOK ONE as a serialized story. Why are we going through it again?

I’m never satisfied, and I made numerous edits between the original serialized version and the collected edition. I see no reason to not continue that trend. I’ve grown as a writer, and now I’m taking advantage of the “update” function of Internet storytelling. A story is never finished, just abandoned. Now, it doesn’t have to be abandoned. Yet.

But most importantly, it goes back to something I said earlier: WBP is about people and connections, and without the proper context or momentum, it won’t have the same impact. Plus, it may pick up a new audience that wasn’t there for version 1.0. Or 2.0. Whichever.

What about the collected editions of BOOK ONE and BOOK TWO that are on Amazon for 99 cents? 

They’re not going anywhere. BOOK TWO, for that matter, was never conceived to be serialized, which, in retrospect, was probably a mistake. If you want to read ahead, go ahead and buy them. Think of those like the season box sets of television shows, available at the same time as the show goes into syndication. But the free collected editions? They’re going away. In fact, they’re already gone.  Adios, sayonara, gesundheit.

What about the website? Everything’s already available there? 

It won’t be for long. It’s going to get a shiny new re-design. PDFs will be gone, replaced with a new, Medium-inspired design. All of the vestiges from the past will be scrubbed and overhauled. For the rest of the week, I’m going to strip whizbampow.com down and rebuild it, get it ready for the final end-run. A lot has changed in a year, and I want WBP to take advantage of it.

When will this finally end? 

There’s the prologue, A LINEN FORCEFIELD, that’s one chapter. BOOK ONE  is eight chapters plus three radio show episodes. BOOK TWO  is eight chapters. Book THREE will be (most likely) another eight chapters. The Coda will be one chapter. The comic book will be released simultaneously with the Coda.

If everything goes to plan, the final installment will be released on February 16, 2014.

Thanks all for your support over the years. Starting this Sunday, WHIZ!BAM!POW! will begin its end. Hope you come along for the farewell tour.

TW

 

Black and White

Last week, when I received an invite to post on Medium, the new publishing platform from the company that created Blogger and Twitter, I jumped at the chance. The site is absolutely beautiful and its discovery engine fascinates me. So, below, is an excerpt from my first original piece on the site, BLACK AND WHITE:

Black and white is a beautiful color palette. It grants a fictional world a gossamer haze, a feeling of unreality, a dream-escape hue with unparalleled transportive power. It can hurl one back to a time when the world was simple, the cars beautifully curved and neon flickered dark to light; Hopper in trilby-ed dreams, the inhabitation of a romanticized past existing only in the screenplays of Hollywood’s Golden Age.

Black and white implies starkness, a grim demystification of the vibrant color palette of life. It implies a yes/no worldview, a fight or flight. It can push you into the darkest recesses of your most dire nightmares, a Nick Cave Murder Ballad with Kylie Minogue.

Read BLACK AND WHITE at Medium

 

bedtime (a short story)

He closes the door.

Face plate against strike plate. His fingers grip the cold metal, cold sweat coats the doorknob. He tugs. One two three four. It doesn’t open. It doesn’t sway. The words come out in the whisper of his exhale: the door is closed. He releases the doorknob. He steps forward, one step, two. His hand brushes the corner, his fingers fall into the indentations in the drywall. He stops. Her reading light illuminates the way to end the day; the sound of pages turning invite the escape.

He steps backward, two step, one. His fingers grip the cold metal. He tightens and tugs. One two three four. Left hand right hand. He breathes. The door is closed, he exhales. He releases. He steadies himself.

He grips the doorknob.

One two three four five. Five will set him free. Five will let him sleep. One two three four five. Cold sweat. Cold metal.

She calls for him, come to bed.
Coming, he says.

One two three four.

He opens the door.
He closes the door.

Face plate. Strike plate. Fingers and cold metal.

One two three four.

Forget something? she asks.
Light was on in the hallway, he says.

One two three four. He releases. Hand against the corner. Cold sweat seeps into drywall.

Come to bed.
Just a second.
Pages turn.

He opens the door.