Super Deflation
Spielberg’s anywhere USA, the signature Mid-West suburb, appeals to most moviegoers. It’s the cinematic white picket fence or the generic accent-less radio voice. It offers the easily consumable wares of comforting predictability, generational nostalgia and wholesome sentimentality. But the rushed final moments of the faux sci-fi mystery Super 8 void the film of meaning and derail an otherwise credible summer hit. The principal conflict is an internal one: Joe Lamb misses his mother. He overcomes sorrow by focusing his energy on hobbies, such as model making. He also finds solace in his friends, who he assists as they scramble to prepare a submission for a film contest. But when Alice Dainard wins his attention, Joe recognizes that what he misses isn’t...
Black Cloud
A spiraling stairway to nowhere, a sea of pessimism, limbo, death. She races skyward, absentminded leaps of faith off one step, to the next, feather feet weighed down by arduous gasps for air. To escape, survive the oven of insulated boardrooms suffocating in noxious smoke seeping through crevices from the floors below. Sweltering claws swiping at the singed backs of prone bodies clamoring on, fingers dug deep into cheap, flammable rugs. It’s close, the imminent last step before her flight ends, where she’ll stare out the windows on the world, an open palm atop fractured glass, invisible to the paralyzed witnesses beyond. Locked. No point in pushing, pulling, pounding on unforgiving steel. Locked. Maybe if she knocks, politely, a gentle rhythmic tap, by some...
Subway Blue
A motionless body in a sea of progression, submerged in the unspoken flow of monotone expressions. In her peripheral, blurs of neon storefronts and floating suitcases encased in a cocoon of discolored tile. Face concealed by the hood of an oversized white pullover, she gazes dubiously at the ground, head nodding softly, synchronously, to the bytes traveling up a concealed wire into the vivacity of her subconscious. State of the art earbuds transmit the poison, futuristic digital waves pulsing in stereo. Strands of flame red hair dance coyly as each passing train whisks recycled air from the orifices of portentous tunnels. The beeping of motion sensing turnstiles endlessly parrot in the background, calling out to the ever occupied information ticker screens. A...
Slow Burn
Fate ripped my dreams into bits of paper and I, the fool, dance among the scraps as they flutter about. Every measly attempt to catch a piece, and salvage the remnants of hope, misses. By the time the whirlwind dies it’s just me, lingering in a vacuum. Rolling a full Moon between my fingers like a white bead, I have the night in the palm of my hand. It’s cold and bitter. A damp blanket protects me from chilling gusts of wind as I watch firemen fight a wild blaze with flamethrowers. Figures fly out of the inferno and circle above me in a ritual of affliction and divine mockery. “Hold me,” I whisper to the rag, an inanimate object composed of more grime than cloth, and press against the grating assurance even tighter. I wrap my arms around myself to pretend,...
Forborne Tears
Buried in the shadows of the night, its tires shine. The dark graphite metallic exterior of the car’s long-wheelbase form glistens beneath the streetlights. Rain runs through subtle valleys in the pavement, amassing into miniature streams alongside roadways before uniting in an extensive maze of underground channels. Prone, a man comes to and lifts his face from the abrasive parking lot. The car stands perched on its four wheels, offering no acknowledgment, no assistance. Time has announced the inevitable. Numb below the waist, something warm dripping from his forehead, the man crawls, as if to race his final minutes. Just out of reach, the car, his legacy, his dearest friend, is quiet, absentminded. This rain is a lifetime of forborne tears. All he has to do is...
About
Here you'll find various scraps I've written over the years, including (very) short stories, movie reviews and commentaries.
I'm a 2011 graduate of the Ramapo College Literature program as well as the Admin / Community Manager at LPLive.
For a resume, additional writing samples (including screenplay), questions pertaining to web development and/or webhosting, etc. please email me or get in touch using one of the above social networks.
- Dmitry Merkulov