Continuation from a previous fictional posting--"The Visitor"

My heart began to pound in chest and I felt a pain in the front of my throat. I had to see my aunt. I knew there was little I could do at this point to protect mysel from the stranger--other than give him a very wide berth.
So I fled to the stairs beyond him. Leaving him behind.
As I passed him, and I cannot ever forget this, he did not move, but I caught his personal aroma. He smelled of sweat, that was evident, but my brain, in that gleemin moment, caught a sweeter smell. I would later use the word 'flowers, but I realized that wasn't the case. I only grasped 'flowers' becuase of his look of a greensman. I guess I could say 'honey' or 'sugar' and have the same idea.
I glanced over my shoulder but all I remember was the sunlight hitting his sweat and shining at me as I took the stairs two by two. I was panting before I started the dash.
At the top of the stairs, I saw that my aunt's bedroom door was open slightly.
"Aunt GRACIE! GRACIE!" I howled, boosted by my pounding chest. I guess I had hoped that someone next door would have heard and called someone or, at the very least, my visitor downstairs would vacate realizning my occuring anger.
"Aunt Gracie, Aunt Gracie, Aunt Gracie," I chanted into the room throwing up the door, making a mark on the far wall.
She looked asleep, as the cliche as says, but it works for this moment. I exhaled sharply using the moment of hope to stablize myself. I'm sure my armpits were glistening with sweat from the bolt up the stairs with a tie on, I do recall some sweat clogging around my collar.
I seated myself gently to her left in direct contrast to my anger and nerves from outside. I looked again to the door.
The stranger had not followed me.
I looked back to my Aunt. Her oxygen was across the bed from me, out of reach, but it was on.
But she was not breathing.
I realized then someone had entered the room behind me. The hairs stood up on the back of my neck. I turned to face him, thinking of what I could grab to hit him with.
"It's okay, Gary, you know it is okay. She's better now. I know she is."
"She didn't, who, the heck..." I felt a surge go into my head, a thought of reason in this moment of madness.
I realized the young man was no human at all.
My heart, having slowed down some, sped back up. I'm sure something registered on my face for he smiled the face of recognition.
I stood up slowly and permitted myself a glance at my Aunt. My new friend might be on to me should I allow my thoughts to waver in any manner. I've no idea if he could read minds, throw fire or grow fangs.
Strangely, as frightened as I was, I did not want to leave the area. His presence equated an intrusion on my family and, no matter what form, it was not to be accepted. I willed up the courage to speak to the fetch before me.
"Leave. Disappear. Do whatever it is you do. I have no need of you. She has no need of you-:"
"-now," he finished my sentence.
I closed my eyes slowly and thought of what I would have to do next to survive the next few minutes.Not that it mattered. An inventory came up in my brain. What was I running home for? To feed a dog--a dog that could easily live in my friend's home with his canines. To my friends? They all had jobs and partners, what need would my existence continue for them?

Movie Review: Paris, Je t'aime

Love is a many splendored thing.
Love brings us up where we belong.
I'll be loving you...always.
All clichés, I'm fully aware of that. But the facts of the matter all are correct. See love is a very complicated topic. Very. For every artist I've seen capture a glimpse of this elusive emotion, great many fail. I'm stuck thinking of Whoopi Goldberg as Gianaan on Star Trek: TNG. After ensign Crusher lost his first love, he informed her that he'll love again. He insisted he'll never feel that way again.
She says he will, for, "every time you feel love, it will be different."
So this emotion, this thing that everyone feels at some point in their loves--sometimes multiple times with multiple forms--is as imperative to our lives on earth as breathing or eating.
And as complex as quantum physics.
But why is it so difficult to capture in poetry, lyric or film?
Because, like Whoopi said, “every time you feel love, it will be different."
I might love this movie or that--you might not, but such is the nature of this beast called love.
I bring this up because love is the definitive theme of my most recent movie, Paris, Je t'aime. I know of not the reason why urban locales play to our romantic sensibilities. There's "I Love New York," there's "I Love L.A." There's something about a city like Paris that invokes concepts of love in all of us, culturally.
Which is surprising, considering how rude the French are supposedly.
However, playing on that theme, a few filmmakers got together and decided to make several very short films about this grande dame of a city. An interesting film festival, each movie is no longer than ten minutes about the concept of love, in some form or another plays out--even if it's familial love, sexual love or comedic love. It's there, and the format, apparently works.
I guess we all know some kind of love.
The format is particular good in this ADD world of ours. When we can be sold a 46,000 dollar car in less than 30 seconds in an auto ad, I think an audience has what it takes to understand these quick tintypes.
Several years ago, a move was created to rid the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences of the short film division. They were tiny films, all under 45 minutes, made by college film students. You could vote on them by attending special screenings. Many voters would not go for whatever reason. Many felt that these movies were too tiny to notice. Why drive all the way out to see a movie of someone who might not be worth it next week?
They obviously did not rid themselves of the division--why? Because some of the greatest filmmakers in Hollywood history has gotten their teeth cut on such short movies. Martin Scorese and Steven Speilberg come to mind. So it's great that the medium lives on--like Picasso having to go back to art school.
Paris has several incredible directors returning to their film school past and making a direct, short story movie.
The results are amazing. However, given this format in the first place--sometimes inconsistent. Some directors’ auteur sensibilities (Gus Van Sant, excellent at creating visual acuity of young, nubile men) shine through, but so do their faults (Alfonzo Cauron uses a long one shot to build tension of a man and woman speaking of a coming up meeting--but the payoff doesn't match the tension).
Because of this up and down of 18 short movies of love, it is difficult to say, this is good/this is bad. It does not work for a movie like this.
For myself? I found the lack of extravagance invigorating. The fact that these famous directors are willing to experiment further in their medium is terrific. Same with the performers. Because of so many, no one person's performance can be listed on the marquee. And since I love Paris already, I was good to go.
I am in love and have been in love before. I might not have agreed with what some of the artists were saying, but I could understand, merely by proxy. This is a wonderful little film (s) that I think should be seen by those, those who can understand the many facets of love, who would appreciate such an art.
I, for one, loved it.

Movie Review: 28 Weeks Later

Not only has summer arrived---I've been on a writing kick, if you've not noticed. I treated myself to the "On Writing Horror" text from Writer's Digest and getting back into the swing of things that go bump in the night. So it comes to be that I wanted to see this horror flick, to kinda rekindle a zombie story I had worked on two years ago for my partner.

I suppose I could should have picked up Brooks' "World War Z" instead.

I really wanted this movie to be good, I really did. A recent conversation with my better half renewed in my mind something of an alarming trend in summer fare--bigger special effects and lesser storylines. It seems that Hollywood keeps thinking that if they dazzle us with the lighting, we won't see that we really don't give a crap about what's happening.

Which is interesting. Callium Murphy (yeah, I spelled it wrong, you have an issue with that?) powered us into the first part of this tale, way back in Danny Boyle's "28 Days Later" (to which this is a sequel)--his strong presence emphasized a real individual unsure of what to do in a zombie-filled England. He goes from geek to killing machine by the end of the movie. And we cared about him. We cared about him and his desires so much that when his friends were threatened, we were too.

But again, the imagery of horrific red-eyed monsters took over, and that movie too, sank under it's own weight. The terrific first act ends up in a locked manor house in the second act and removes us from what scares us--the flesh munching zombies. Sure, the message was there, THANK GOD, to keep me watching. For that manner house was filled with sex crazed military types.

But really, don't we already know that the real monsters are ourselves? I watch the news enough.

This movie keeps that theme going. Most of the zombies are dead, having starved to death and, of course, the repatriation of England has begun. A small green zone (hmmmm, art imitating Iraqi life, perhaps?) has been estabalished in central London. Prior to this moment, a small opening flashback has the terrific Robert Carlyle literally abandoning his wife to be zombie-kibble while he hightails it out of sight. See? We're still evil.

But why? Why leave your wife? Well, golly gee, there's the first of several loopholes this film decides we're too stupid to worry about.

And begins to prove--the storylines are STILL thin.

But the movie looks great!

I just realized this is the opposite of Pirates 3. Too much story there.

But not Robbie's character. He left his wife. The wife he was more than willing to go all Frenchie with in the kitchen not two minutes earilier.

Men. The wife is devoured, or so it seems, and Robbie's character is carted off to London. Seems his kids were on vacation when this nasty RAGE virus broke out and now are allowed to come back into England to live with dear old turncoat dad.

Ooooo. Folks, we have a Character with a Secret that will effect every action he has for the rest of the movie. The weight and motivation has been added, so we, the audience can watch and see if this burning secret, this non-effect murder of his own wife, will do something.

But alas, it's not to be. So what we have here is another great start but zero payoff. The kids are a bit of enignma too. They are permitted in with the statement that, "you are now, quite possibly, the youngest kid in all of Britian." In other words, they weren't letting kids in. But they let this one in.

How nice. Why aren't you letting the kids? I know they are a bit of a problem controling and everything, but why not?

Loophole? Anyone?

Okay, so forget the loophole--those two kids escape, see, and, well, without listing the spoilers, bring the zombies back into London with renewed vengeance.

Including dear old mom. See, she wasn't dead. Or she was, sorta. Or well, LOOPHOLE.

And our characters? Who cares? The writers, producers and director didn't, so why should we. They are treated like chessboard pieces, required to make their moves in standard horror fashion at the right time.

Which is sad, really. They really had potential here. Yes, the imagery is perfect too. There's a scene of carpet bombing London! LONDON! There's excellent performers, even tho they are being forced to slog through this, who are really giving it a go.

But without the characters being filled out--we began to lag in caring. As my "On Writing Horror" book illustrates numerous ways, we, as an audience will not encounter vampires (or ghosts or werewolves or what have you) so we have to give protagonists to parallel. The more 3-D those characters are, the more we want them to live through the perils before them.

I'm tended to think of Kathy Bates' character in "Misery." She was such a good actress and it was so well written, she made a villain that we, in the end, felt pity for. We knew what she would do--and the horror was we understand why.

In the end, I was rooting for the zombies. They looked better and at least had motivations for their actions.

In the end, it is sad. We have all of these sequels before us and they are falling flat.

Maybe I need to move to Hollywood. This many loopholes; this much talent wasted, well, it is not like I can do any worse.

Sure, there were times during the movie I said to myself, "what would I do in a similar situation?" Of course, my answer would be that I'd start writing a better reality.

Recent fiction

Dear all,

I'm unsure what this is borne from--but here is the beginning of a tale I've been working on for the last two days. It is unedited. Feedback, as always, is welcome.

I suppose I remember the moment like some people remember where they were when Kennedy died or the second plane hit the World Trade Center.
See? Your brain immediately clicked into that moment as I mentioned them. For me, it was no different that sweltering day. I knew something was amiss as I drove home to change my clothes from work. You see, I had elected to use the alleyway to arrive at my Aunt Gracie’s house instead of the front as I had been doing for several months now. When she had moved into her home before my arrival into this world, it was on the edge of town, quite solitary. She could build her gardens and run her dogs without another neighbor in sight.
The city caught up with her. Down the street a Home Depot and a Walmart had taken up residence and the once quite location was now subject to traffic at the strangest time. Like that Thursday afternoon. The cars were lined up before I had reached them, making the exit to her alleyway not only a time chomping option, but an open invitation to get a move on with my plans for the afternoon.
As I glanced at my watch as it rounded the top of the steering wheel, I realized that I had removed more time than fate hate originally allotted. I could possible indulge in a cup of coffee at my Aunt’s house before hitting the gym. The pick-me-up of caffeine would do me clear me of the traffic and the heat outdoors.
I cranked the air conditioner one last time before stepping out. The blue of the sky did not huddle close—instead choosing to permit the warmth of the sun direct access to the yellow lawn. Green arcs of grass held to the corners of the yard, the result of short sighted sprinklers. But the rest had gone to ruin—and I did not have time, again, today to nurse it to health. Normally, if my partner had still been around, I would have found some creative way to bribe him into action on behalf of the grass.
Alas, he had moved on to his own greener pastures.
And I had to take care of Aunt Grace. Her gardens had weeds taller than the flowers that had still found time to sprout, her walkways were clear of plant life and dirt for some reason.
No wind blew. The heat was palpable and swarmed about my dress shirt, pressing inwards. I looked to the swamp cooler a few yards away and realized it had breathed its last life. The cord was bright red in competition with all around it; it should be doing its job.
Another thing my partner should have handled.
Having come around the back of the house, I could see more of the mixed disrepair. Sure, the windows were clean and shiny, the walkways swept and visible, but, along with the garden, high plants held the ground between the concrete and the base of the home, the yellow patches had outweighted the green. The dog house had cobwebs thrown around where the wind could not touch it, the red of the dog bowls warn out to a dead gray.
The doorknob glinted from the light of the sun and warmed my palm.
I was very aware all of a sudden. I would later describe it as that feeling you have when you lie awake at night—thinking you heard something, but, for some reason, you cannot identify. Your senses become acute; every other noise is bold and clear.
I had forgotten about work; I had forgotten I was on a schedule.
Something was wrong.
I opened the door and looked up. The temperature was different-proof the swamp cooler decided to move on sometime recently. I threw the keys down on the empty counter, knowing full well that there had not been anything on them for some time, only the garbage was full of the silver tins that carried meals from a central kitchen. I made a mental note to clean them out when it struck me.
I have no idea what makes me recall this now. It does not jibe with my memory until this very moment. I knew, I guess, that something was wrong exact at the moment I turned from the kitchen to face the dining room with the living room beyond. But as I recall it now, I had the sensation that one would have, I suspect, before lightning strikes. As a boy, the tales of the ‘tingling’ going down one’s neck before electricity fell from the sky always made me wary—I would be playing outside before a hateful of rain and would feel that sensation—and now that I think about it, it had returned.
I darted to the living room, heading to the stairwell with Aunt Gracie’s room at the top.
I stopped and ran a hand to my chest, under my tie.
A young man was standing in the living room.
I cannot recall driving home from work today; I cannot remember which papers still need to be graded.
I remember him.
“Hey,” he said as if waiting to be discovered in my entrance. He had removed his trucker cap and was wiping his forehead, as if he had completed some very important heavy lifting. His eyes were away from me as he moved his head to the side, but his hair was damp and had a rim from the hat. Moisture glistened on his Adam’s apple and insulted his t-shirt with a dark yellow splotch. The shirt had similar discolors under each armpit, exposed by the motion of wiping his brow.
A farmer tan highlighted his removed sleeves, long tears crossing each shoulder. The white of the shirt clamped to his chest due to wetness and tightness; his shorts, a modern pair of cargos sawed off above the knees, gave off some more evidence of a young man who was hard at work.
My thoughts wound up tight; I suspected something wrong.
A thief stood in my living room.
I had no weapon but my wit. I used the moment to look back at the kitchen. Surely there was a knife in one or two of the drawers.
The thought must have resonated, the youth swung back to view me full-shoulders, as if I had yelled his name.
“Name’s Ulee,” the young man smiled, showing teeth that had the same patch of yellow to the side of his mouth. “Ulee James.”
My nose lowered and my chin aimed for my throat.
“And you are doing what, exactly?”
The youth was nonplussed.
“Work. With your aunt. No worries, Gary, no worries at all,” he picked at the center of his chest and waved his shirt back and forth trying to bring his body temperature down.
I swallowed, fearful of his definition of ‘work.’
“Are you done? With this work?” I looked beyond him to see the front door was still bolted and all the windows closed. The cold air from the recently deceased swamp cooler banished quickly as this encounter endured.
“Yeah, I guess you can say I am? You think she has any lemonade? This summer heat is a killer,” he said and looked to the kitchen.
“I doubt it.” I raised both of my hands parallel to the floor in a calming gesture. “Look kid, I don’t know who you are and why you’re here, but I don’t want any trouble now, do you understand?”
“Trouble?” the word illustrated confusion on his high cheeked face. He was flushed and had the brown markings of a tan that had begun to fade. The outdoor work, whatever it was had caused segments of his lower arms and legs to become freckled with dead skin that gave the illusion of being unclean. His blue eyes matched his blonde streaked hair that had returned residence underneath his cap.
“Trouble. I just need you to step back, if you could please,” I withdrew my cell phone like a gun at high noon.
Ulee contorted his face as if watching a foreign program with great distaste. He looked to the floor and wondered what he was standing on. The humor of his reaction calmed me enough to exhale. I began to wonder if he thought me the intruder.
“No, no, ah, no, there’s no trouble Mr. Joyce, no trouble at all. I was just leaving and…” his conversation stopped as he watched me hold the phone up to my ear.
“Good, then this should be painless,” I dialed emergency.
Ulee’s expression settled and he blinked while he angled his head to the side. “You probably should ask how I know your name at this point. Works in all the horror movies.”
The phone did not connect, instead sending a warning bleep that the call failed. I blinked too. How did he know my name?