Short Weird Tales: Curtain

I don't know how long I've been here, yet I've just noticed where I am. It's familiar, although I feel like I'm noticing details for the first time. I can't see the ceiling, the room is darkened and that's too far up. Dim lights surround. House-lights? A theatre? Maybe. Oh. There's a stage in front of me, so yes. Can't get a good look round. So many people surrounding me at exactly my height. Can't stand, mustn't draw attention. They all look the same. Brothers? Robots? Monks, I think. Brown, featureless robes. Shaved heads. Beaming smiles. They love it here. Do I love it here? I shouldn't be here, I'm not like them. They don't seem to notice I'm not like them. How long have I been here? Can I leave? How long do I have to stay before I can leave?

The buzz, the hubbub, the ride, it doesn't seem like this is just beginning, but I can't remember what happened before this. The show is starting again. Yes, again. I know that, even though I don't know what the show is. Red velvet curtains part dramatically, a spotlight glares down and a figure takes the stage. The crowd around me go wild.

Huge red bow tie, white gloves, conductor's baton even though I can't see an orchestra. A frayed, straw boater hat atop a huge, misshapen head as the figure lopes, crab-like, across the boards. The accompanying smile and piercing eyes surveying the room, taking in the entire audience and yet feeling as if they single out every one of them. Is... is it a he? Yes, the high-pitched, cracking voice sounds like a he. Just. Without pause or introduction, he begins.

In a sly mockery of vaudevillian delivery, a musical question to the audience. And an answer, returned unthinkingly after only a beat, by everyone gathered here. Heads thrown back in perfect unison. I don't know what they said, it was too loud. I've seen this before, been here before, but I can't remember. On the stage, hands wave frantically then clasp together in an ecstatic plea as another question is asked. It's clearly one which requires the same answer, boomed around me deafeningly once more. Although I can't see anyone turning their head, I can feel eyes on me because I didn't respond. Not from the stage. From the seats around me, above me, behind me. They know.

The third line of the song isn't even a question, but the pause at its end elicits the same response, as does the manic re-statement of the first line as the fourth. Is this a ritual? Some obscene parody of Eucharist as the figurehead above me demands recital and fetishises... what is that he dances on, some discarded, accumulated foodstuff? Are we to eventually eat and become one with this force he exalts from the theatrical altar?

Not yet. The host demands the incantation begins again. The congregation complies. The same question. The same answer. The same eyes on me because I don't answer. My ears ring and my vision blurs and I don't know why I'm here or how I get out and the... man? No. The whatever-that-is on the stage gleefully poses his second riddle, the answer to which is already known by all but me. And they know. The floor is shaking now and a cracking sound splinters above. Suddenly the roof seems to collapse but only onto the stage. The entertainer is engulfed in... I don't know what that is, not plasterwork, not stone. Light, flaky brown rubble of some sort? It must be light because his hand juts up through the newly arrived pile. This won't stop him, won't stop the show. The thing's massive head heaves triumphantly through the morass as it bellows its final prompt. The throng around me are at fever pitch. A response expected.

And I know.

Of course I know. I know I belong here. I don't remember, but I remember I belong here. These people, these brothers, they are me. They are not me-me, but I have been them and they have been me and this happens from time to time. My head is shaved, the cassock hangs from my shoulders just as it does thousands of times around me. We are here. How could I forget this?

I am home. And I throw back my head for one final, first clarion call. Of course I know what to yell. How could I have forgotten? This is why I am here. This is why we are here. For the affirmation. For the show. Always the show. And so we scream:

"TOPIC."

---

DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• Short stories © WorldOfBlackout.co.uk, all entries are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Y'know, mostly.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.

Short Weird Tales: Crack

It's the crack. The scuffling across the battlefield, the tearing open of body armour and flight suits, the snuffling around the torsos and even the sound of their proboscides puncturing days-old dead flesh are all disgusting enough, but it's easy to force your mind to not recognise those.

It's the sound of the cracking which goes through me every time. When filthy pincers at the end of sinewy limbs lock around some poor sap's ribcage then pull briskly outward, exposing everything they're about to... to eat. The snap and splinter of bone, barely muffled by the congealing mass of blood and skin, a mess that's already begun to decompose. Maybe they leave them this long in the way that a pheasant is hung in a cellar until maggots start to appear?

Even that slurping, chewing noise which follows the cracks, accompanied by excited clicking and a dog-whistle whine - that's easier to discount. Somehow. The battlefield is huge and the sheer number of bodies must act as some sort of baffle, yet at ground level I can hear every single one. It doesn't even sound like they're spitting out any shrapnel.

And through all of this, I'm still here. Do they know I'm alive? Leg too broken for me to move, too scared to try anyway? I've been waiting for them to finish up, to either move on or to finish me off and add me to the menu. But none of them have even been close, they're too busy... feeding. Feeding on the others.

I haven't heard a human voice for two days. Well two rotations, at least. Comms went down almost immediately. I can't remember how long the days are here. But light or dark, they're there. The scuttling, the clicking, the tearing. The cracking. I smell like I've been laying in my own filth for two days of course, but so do all the dead ones. They don't care about that. They haven't come near me, they must know. If they're waiting, there's plenty to keep them busy in the meanwhile. I don't know if that's a good thing. I can't have long left. If the infection doesn't get me, dehydration certainly will.

Why aren't they off at the next checkpoint, tearing through another battalion? Maybe they're there, too. We were hopelessly outnumbered here, overtaken by the swarm. Incapacitate, move on, repeat. Feed later. We were never going to win and it was stupid to even try. No chance of rescue, only a moron would wade back into this.

Too late for analysing now, though.
This is where we are.
Where I am.
Meat.

---

DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• Short stories © WorldOfBlackout.co.uk, all entries are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Y'know, mostly.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.

Short Weird Tales: Cold

- Vampire’s back.
- What’s that?
- I said that vampire’s back. In the garden.
- The same one? Beryl doesn’t come through from the lounge, although she turns the television down.
- Yes, the one with the black hair.
- Well just ignore it, Brian.
- That’s a bit hard when it's staring right at me.
Brian goes back to the washing up. The volume from the living room goes back to its previous level.

- JESUS!
- What’s happened?? Beryl comes pacing through to the kitchen. The vampire is at the window, nose touching the glass six inches away from the sink.
- It's interested in what you’re doing, that’s all. It’s the activity, the movement.
- Is it interested in making me shit myself, Beryl?
- Oh don’t be dramatic, it’ll wander off in a moment.
- Have you been feeding it again? You know it only attracts others.
- No Brian, we’ve had that conversation. It’s cold out, it’s probably just looking for somewhere to shelter.
- But it lives round here somewhere, why can’t it just go home?
- Look, you know they can’t come into the house, don’t worry about it.
- Well I’ve heard them in the passageway at night, shuffling around.
- Because you insist on leaving the door ajar, yes.
- If you close it the air doesn’t circulate and the mould comes back.
- Well which is it Brian, mould or vampires?
- We’re not having this conversation again. If this keeps up, I’m putting the traps back down.
- That’s inhumane, Brian.
- It’s my property, Beryl, I’ll do as I damn well please.
The vampire is back in the middle of the garden now, staring over at the neighbour’s house. Brian dries the dishes, looking out of the window long after the vampire has gone.

Later than night.
Beryl comes downstairs.
She takes a saucer from the cupboard.
Opens a vein. Opens the patio door.
Leaves it outside, out of view from the kitchen window.

Well, it’s cold out.
You’ve got to think of the little ones.

---

DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• Short stories © WorldOfBlackout.co.uk, all entries are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Y'know, mostly.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.

Short Weird Tales: Note

Jim sprang bolt-upright on the sofa. How long had be been lost in thought? His cold coffee partly answered that, staring unflinchingly from the low table in front of him. Rising sharply, he headed for the front door, grabbing the closest jacket on the way. He patted himself down as he stepped over the threshold, auto-piloting through his idiosyncratic routine: phone, wallet, keys.

And pocket. This time, the shirt pocket.

Closing the door behind him, Jim became a part now of the frantic, yet emotionless, metropolis that neither knew nor cared about his newfound urgency. Everyone out here was sealed in their own bubble of concern, both banal and otherwise. This was as it always had been, of course, and Jim was no exception to their rule, but it made the slip of paper buttoned into his pocket feel suddenly trivial. It wasn't until he was safely ensconced in he back of a black-cab that Jim forced himself to read it again, lingering for fewer seconds this time, he hoped, on the bloodstain...

---

DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• Short stories © WorldOfBlackout.co.uk, all entries are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Y'know, mostly.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.

Short Weird Tales: Promise

There was nothing there, she could see that now. No recognition of her face; no memory of the all-too-brief time they'd shared; no trace of the promises they'd made every night since this began, to protect each other no matter what.

It was all gone, scraped roughly away and replaced by a feral, desperate hunger. Those pale brown eyes, glazed yet alert; darting around like a rat being backed into a corner, searching for only one thing: food. Red, wet sustenance that wouldn't replenish the body no matter how much was consumed. A downward spiral, only the hunger remained; nothing else.

This was the moment they'd talked about, the situation that they'd both prayed was avoidable. A memory flashed into her mind, lingering with sarcastic appropriateness. "God answers all our prayers" her Sunday School teacher had often chimed, "but He doesn't always say yes". Indeed.

So be it.
She closed her eyes and squeezed the trigger.

---

DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• Short stories © WorldOfBlackout.co.uk, all entries are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Y'know, mostly.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.

Short Weird Tales: Claret

It was the feeling against my face that woke me. Not quite cold, yet it certainly couldn't be described as warm. Sticky and overpoweringly clammy, drying into a crust where my cheek met my nose. It had already sealed closed the corner of one eye, and I rubbed it with a too-wet hand as I gradually and painfully blinked it open.

Somehow, throughout all this, I didn't notice the coppery stench until my sight adjusted to the gloom. Even then I didn't take in the details for God knows how long. What I thought at first to be black, was in fact a deep, cloying red. Blood… everywhere.

My blood? Undoubtedly not, given the sheer volume alone, and other than a throbbing nausea I felt little in the way of physical pain. Certainly not the pain (indeed, oblivion) that would follow bleeding on this scale. There must have been at least half an inch of blood on the floor, still wet, stinking, and only congealing where it met the walls.

The walls. The blood was smeared, splattered, and in some places scratched into them, up to, and in some cases on, the ceiling. I couldn't imagine what had happened in this room prior to my arrival, and I didn't want to start trying. The silence of the room screeched an untold terror of how it had came to be. Blood. Everywhere.

In the absence of an obvious exit, I began to look for the one which must exist, by virtue of my very presence in the room. Finding the door took less time than I'd feared, although what lay on the other side of it would redefine what I'd call 'fear' forever...

---

DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• Short stories © WorldOfBlackout.co.uk, all entries are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Y'know, mostly.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.

Review: Dark Harvest - A Night of Short Folk Horror Films

Dark Harvest:
A Night Of Short Folk Horror Films
Cert: 15 / 120 mins / Event Trailer

This special evening of independent shorts in Reading’s Biscuit Factory cinema was a sold-out screening, which is always a delight in this day and age. Although it soon became apparent this was may have been because the cast/crew from a number of the films were present (fair play though, who doesn’t want to see their work on the big screen?). Not only did this mean Polite Applause™ after every short (fair play, still), it also meant pre-screening speeches from the front of the auditorium from people who - quite ironically - seemed not to realise that they were speaking at a normal conversational volume in a room scientifically designed to deaden all sound that’s not coming out of the auditorium speakers*¹. In short, I have no idea what you lovely people were saying, but you looked delighted to be there and that’s what’s important...

Black Samphire
14 mins, 2023, Dir. Alexander Vanegas.

Set in the present day as two young women check into an Airbnb in the fenlands, this is a fairly minimalist take on forgotten folklore reaching across the centuries through a forbidden herb, mixed with an environmental awareness mesage. Enthusiastically produced and solidly performed, it’s nevertheless a little too abstract to get the most out of its short runtime.


The Corpse Road
12 mins, 2023, Dir. Joseph Daly.

A 16th century story of a peasant dragging the body of his mother-in-law across hills and fells so that she can be buried in consecrated ground, this is a truncated study of obligation, guilt and madness which suffers from barely-intelligible, shouted dialogue (and in middle-english with heavy northern accents, to boot) and black humour being trowelled on before the audience has had any chance to warm to the main character. Oh, and watching this on a cinema-sized screen, you can clearly see the ‘corpse’ breathing. The rest of the audience appreciated it more than I did, to be fair.


Silvanus Park
1 min, 2021, Dir. Laura E. Hall.

A very compact retooling of the found-footage genre, presented as a 60-second Instagram story complete with flash-cuts, on-screen captions and the portrait-mode aspect ratio. Zippy and to-the-point, what the film lacks in suspense if more than makes up for in style.


The Estrogen Gospel
16 mins, 2024, Dir. Robyn Adams.

Ah. It gives me absolutely no pleasure to say this was Dark Harvest’s very own horrific elephant in the room. Looking like it’s been filmed on smartphones from a decade ago, The Estrogen Gospel features no non-ambient lighting, a script which feels like it was written by one person in a 2am insomnia haze then not re-read in daylight, delivered by non-actors apparently seeing the lines for the first time, that audio recorded on the phones’ in-built microphones, and so many shots out-of-focus to varying degrees that it cannot possibly be deliberate. Considering this is actually the title which had me attending the event to begin with and how much I wanted to be on-side with it, it’s evidently unwatchable to the point where it was hands-down the entry of the night where the most people decided to have a toilet-break within its duration. While the aforementioned applause did still occur over the credits, the previously enthusiastic patron to my right just sat and firmly shook her head.*².


My Dreams Have Been Dark Of Late
3 mins, 2023, Dir. Joshua Warren.

A short and faintly comedic story of guilt and regret, this is nonetheless a fascinating effects-piece as a medieval knight is slowly crushed by his own imploding armour. Interesting to watch play out, but ultimately its brief runtime means the film doesn’t leave the viewer with much to dwell upon…


Blackthorn
18 mins, 2023, Dir. Chris Ratcliff.

A present-day study of the anxieties of moving into an already close-knit neighbourhood and the paranoia behind drawn curtains, Blackthorn skips along well enough, but mumbled dialogue with a single-mic setup often works against its effectiveness. The film wants to feel like an episode of Inside No. 9, but ultimately comes off more like the ‘new neighbours’ sketch from Fist Of Fun. That said, it’s well paced, entertaining and builds its atmosphere deftly.


The Blighted Crown
2 mins, 2023, Dir. Bianca Diana Ines Olingheru.

This blink-and-you’ll-miss-it fairytale parody is an object lesson in rescuing a faintly drab set with superb post-production design. However, this is a wry effects-reel and little else.


The Sin-Eater
17 mins, 2023, Dir. Kelly Holmes.

Essentially the headline feature of the evening, this tale of a young 19th century mother in rural Wales trying to absolve the soul of her baby who’s died before he could be baptised has immaculate performance and production, as well as flawless dual-lingual scripting, with fully measured commitment from its very first frame. When the effects-work finally comes into play, it’s complex but comparatively unobtrusive. Everyone involved in The Sin-Eater should be incredibly proud.


Blight
24 mins, 2022, Dir. Craig Sinclair.

And to finish, the overtly comic story of a Middle Ages subsistence farmer who’s cursed with hiccups by a witch in the woods. Every bit as silly as that sounds, the careful pacing and deadpan delivery make for a darkly intriguing watch. Blight is effectively a drawn-out sketch, the likes of which would have peppered one episode of a half-hour sketch show on BBC2 or Channel 4 in the early 2000s. Presented as this one-piece it’s slightly too long, although once suspects that’s also part of the joke.

And there we have it. A thoroughly enjoyable evening, and it's great to see short independent films accessible to people not attending a dedicated festival, in the environment which they were meant to be viewed: the cinema. Thanks and congratulations to all who organised Dark Harvest and to all whose work was exhibited (yes, even if that work Wasn't For Me). See you for the next showcase!

*¹ Hand on heart, the sound setup at the Reading Biscuit Factory is not ideal, with speakers situated solely behind the screen and apparently no complementary surrounds. This means for the whole room to hear, the volume has to be cranked up to the point where individual dialogue becomes almost unintelligible (and as much as I complain about clarity for at least one of the films here, the Biscuit Factory's arrangement is really not anything that the production's sound designer or mixer can take into advance account). And while I’d normally think this might be a by-product of the independent nature of the evening’s programming, the bottom line is that Timestalker suffered from exactly the same problem earlier that day, and in a different screen. I dread to think what a noisy blockbuster would sound like in there… ^{[ BACK ]}

*² You’re absolutely right of course, The Estrogen Gospel is still quantifiably better than the *zero* films I’ve made. ^{[ BACK ]}

DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.

Review: Timestalker

TIMESTALKER
Cert: 15 / 90 mins / Dir. Alice Lowe / Trailer

Nigh-on impossible to track down on the multiplex circuit comes Alice Lowe's Timestalker, a surreal anti-romcom where the central character of Agnes (Lowe)*¹ is a hapless romantic who falls head over heels for precisely the wrong man (Alex, Aneurin Barnard), while being unhappily married to definitely the wrong man (Nick Frost), to the exasperated support of her best friend Meg (Tanya Reynolds). The problem is that she does this in the Scottish highlands in the 1680s, the English home counties in the 1790s and New York in the 1980s (plus more, besides). The pair are destined to never be together, and reincarnation it seems is just a chance to make the same mistakes, only better.

A British, independent film about memory, fatalism and crushing ennui is either the last thing we need in 2024, or the only thing. And since Alice Lowe’s lightness of touch means that Timestalker never wallows - even in its most introspective moments - I’ll go for the latter...

CHARMING

Laugh-out-loud funny, charming and never less than completely watchable, it’s a shame then that the final product feels so uneven. Mainstream sensibility would dictate that each of the film’s timeframes be given roughly equal, episodic, screen time, and from there the rhythm of Agnes’ inbuilt neuroses and repeated follies would be methodically built-up, like a meeting point somewhere between Blackadder and Groundhog Day if you will. Timestalker is far from mainstream, however, and takes no small amount of pleasure foxing audience expectations in having some era-segments play for over half an hour, while others last for less than five minutes. In fairness, this is narratively due to the fact that in some lives Agnes fixates over Alex for months/years, while in others she sees him mere moments before her own death, but the arrhythmic presentation can feel off-putting when all the viewer wants to do is root for our heroine.

It also gives way to the repeated suspicion that outside of the 90-minute runtime there’s about another hour which was filmed and never made the edit, and that there’s at least another two hours which were written but never filmed. On a structural level, the story seems more suited to six half-hour sitcom episodes, each fully presenting their own era with flashbacks (/forwards) to the others. Because ultimately, Agnes’ story is certainly something I want to see more of.

AND THE NEW POWER GENERATION

The scripted gags and cast interplay are superb and Lowe doesn't under-write any of the parts, but the slightly ponderous nature of the film’s pacing means these are more like interludes than the driving force of the plot. That said, Ryan Eddleston’s cinematography means the piece works perfectly as visual storytelling anyway, supported as he is by a wonderfully expressive cast. Especially notable is the 1980s ephemera which envelops the longest segment of Timestalker and almost acts as a companion piece to Lowe’s short story Carnival. This is certainly the timeframe which feels the most fully realised here, and bodes well for future projects from the creator.

But ultimately the film ends up feeling faintly unsatisfying, although I readily admit this is more down to my own hopes, expectations and presumptuous baggage than anything lacking in what was (beautifully) presented.

Not as compact as Lowe’s Sightseers, not as intense as her Prevenge, but also not as freewheelingly silly as her classmates’ Mindhorn, there’s much to be said for Timestalker, even if the final product never quite achieves its potential. But when everything else at the cinema is a sequel, remake or franchise entry, this is still a perfect example of actually getting something new onto the screen. Which is also a never-ending quest which can seem to take lifetimes…

*¹ A quick note here to say that under normal circumstances, the same person writing, directing and starring in a movie would raise more red flags than a parade in Tiananmen Square (proof, if it were needed). As a genre, comedy seems more open to this however, and Alice Lowe has previously shown her credentials to be utterly sound. While I'll go on to list some of the issues I had with Timestalker, none of them feel like the result of one person hogging control of a project; if anything, the film feels impacted by the compromise that directors have to deal with on a daily basis. ^{[ BACK ]}

DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.