Writer-producer, and co-founder of UK production company Seraphim Pictures. Welshman scratching the Hollywood itch since 2005. Interests include film, travel and fitness, so will be writing about them, plus occasionally bipolar disorder...
My 2021 Writing Goals
Covid, lockdowns, and pandemic aside, 2020 turned out to be a good year for me. When not worrying about things I couldn't change in the wider world at large, I spent a great amount of time writing. At the start of last year I set myself the goal (NOT a resolution!) to write short film screenplay every month, and then towards the end of this year, spurred on by the prompting of a Vocal+ competition, I aimed to write and self-publish a short story compilation.
It was a sad day for all involved. The Willard family crypt welcomed another two family members into its cold marble embrace - victims of an apparent murder-suicide that had left little Jenna Willard orphaned, and unable to speak about what she had witnessed. People paid their respects, told her they were sorry, and left. Someone had suggested that, given the circumstances, a wake would be inappropriate.
The Poet's Chair
Henry inherited the house on Derwen Avenue from his mother, or rather, his mother had been unable to sell it to pay for her care so it had lay undisturbed for years, whilst his mother had whiled away her twilight years in the best care home that Henry could afford. It wasn't a bad house, no bad things had happened there, but there was something about the place, some feeling, that had prevented it from being sold.
The Golders Green Golem
Mordecai couldn't believe his eyes. His daughter had brought his grandson Hugo home crying and bloodied after being beaten by bullies in school. Hugo was besides himself and was adamant that he would never be going to school again.
Robbie was down on his luck. As he sat on the front porch surrounded by streamers and balloons, he reflected on his choices that had brought him to this very spot. He had always loved magic and performance as a child, and had been a member of his local magic circle as a teenager. He had dreamed of one day being a great magician with a stage show of his own in Vegas, but he had sadly never progressed past the children's party stage. He was getting on a bit now, and his act was getting old. He had performed at the birthday parties of most of the neighbourhood kids for almost a decade, and they were tired of the same, stale material. What he needed was a shot in the arm, a new routine - something special, something magic. What Robbie needed was a gimmick.
As usual, Sister Maria Grazia sensed the evil long before she could see it. As the black sedan car rolled through the Tuscan hills, she could feel the pressure weighing down on her head. She closed her eyes, pinched the bridge of her nose, and counted three slow breaths. Ordinarily she would have prayed, but she needed to save her prayers for when she got there.
The coach entered the forest road just as the sun began to slink under the horizon and day gave way to night, pulled by four black horses with wild wide eyes, and white foam at their mouths. Their top halves sweaty and their bottom halves flecked with mud, they looked like they had seen better days, yet they pressed on as if the Devil himself were chasing them. Those with full possession of the facts who would have said that this was indeed the case. Urged on by the cries of the driver, and the crack of his whip, the horses pulled the coach into the gloaming made all the more dark by the trees reaching up on either side of the road.
The House on Juniper Lane
The House on Juniper Lane stood apart from the others, alone on the edge of town. Trapped somewhere between civilisation and the wilderness, the old and unloved house had been home to a Miss Montfort at one point, but no-one had seen or heard from the old lady in years. It loomed over the single-track lane that ran between high hedges and over-grown trees on its way up to the moors. People went to the moors to disappear, and it was said that some of them really did - following the false-lights and corpse-candles until they were welcomed into the cold, earthen embrace of the moors.