Wounds, a psychological horror film on Netflix, shows promise: it shows competent direction, it shows an interesting character journey, it shows some great moments of weird horror. The actors give solid performances and its cinematography is decent. Where it falls flat is the glue that should hold it all together, the occult backdrop. These supernatural moments and scares seep through incompetently, disjointedly, meaninglessly within the world of the story. They hold your interest but nothing really connects and ultimately fails to land that one-two punch you want with this type of story. The film’s writer or director held too much of the initial story back and I believe anyone wanting more would have to go to the source material, a novella, to find it. That said, while we’re all locked down indoors, self-isolating, it’s worth the stream. 3.5/5 tulpas.

V is for…

The National Security team just barged through the door, looking for a doctor. They in’s the man in a lock room, wearing handcuffs, and they put a black hood over his head. All this doctor can think about is his son, who he saved from his step-mother, a young blonde who was infected with a prehistoric virus that turned her into a vampire.

Arriving at an abandoned warehouse, National Security agents take the hood off of the doctor’s head before escorting him to a dusty locker room. They ask the doctor to help them with what they want. He wants to know where is his son.

For a Netflix show, V Wars is pretty good. The story can be up and down when the plot follows the side characters, but it overall comes together as one of the better sci-fi horror shows. 3/5 vulpas.

No, not you too!

Aztec sacrifice

Many people didn’t talk. Could you imagine an Aztec who didn’t like to talk? It was unnatural. I didn’t like it, the deathly silence. But what was worse was how the raging storm turned those black pits into water wells. We thought they were bottomless, but they weren’t. And many of us got to see our friends and loved ones again, even though they were long-dead and broken from falling to the bottom of those pits, all for the honour of the temple.

Psycho assault and battery

The past few times I found myself away from here had been either spent collecting essentials or rations because of a largely irrational response to an ad hoc order that we now find ourselves in. This order has been put in place to protect the proletariat, the majority of us, from an invisible invader, so scary, it has us cowering indoors – learning to cook again, catching up on stories – during what must be an unprecedented phase of this millennium.

Never have more people known not what to do since, I’d surmise, the Spanish Flu of the early 1900s and never has more people known what to do since ingesting a decade of zombie survival viewing, like the Walking Dead, Black Summer and other viral outbreak flicks.

There is an inherent meaninglessness to it all, found in the unspoken words and corner shadows that are emanating the fears of our assaulted minds. And they are assaulted, this can be sure, all you need to do is look at the news to see the social order, the rules, the guidelines, the cultural programming of your place in humanity put into question, subverted or bent like rubber in ways more akin to what authors do to create horror plots or narrative thrillers.

Look at the similarities between movies like Contagion, or any zombie flick, and the world news playing 24/7 right now and you will see a psychological assault and battery in progress. The police are not coming to save us nor are we on our own. This is something new to us because it is something undocumented historically or fictionally.

So, here we are, looking out the window at a brand new world.

The Incredulous Shrinking Man

CLOSE UP on a picture of a family, firmly clasped in a man’s hands. We see a husband, wife, daughter, and someone’s tears dripping onto the frame.

PULL BACK. Sunlight bursts through a large window, highlighting glass beakers on a bench.
We see a teary man, a scientist, giving his last goodbye to a family he will never see again as he shoots a rainbow liquid from a test tube, and the picture slipping from his hands.


Continue reading “The Incredulous Shrinking Man”

The Sink Holes

Many people didn’t talk. Could you imagine a Labanian who didn’t like to talk? It was unnatural. I didn’t like it, the deathly silence. But what was worse was how, as that giga-storm raged on, those pits became wells. We thought they were bottomless, but they weren’t. And many of us got to see our loved ones again, even though they were long-dead and broken from the fall.

The shell of a man

The machine that could now think was given a face to wear, a draping of man’s image, that would bridge the connection between knowing it was made from circuits and cogs to knowing that it could have feelings like a man, as long as it saw itself as one. It would wake, work and sleep every day. It would dream or it thought it did and even forget what it had dreamt come each morning. It never wavered from its routine. It never complained. It lived, until the day that man was gone because of a plague. The thinking machine then had no one to find meaning in for its own existence, and when it looked in the mirror, it faced the question of whether it should have the visage of a man when man no longer existed. Nothing existed except the world around it and it wondered in lesser terms if it should continue its mock caricature of what was. Nothing mattered except a way to turn the page in a way the machine couldn’t have fathomed until these circumstances unfolded. In this realisation, a large black obelisk appeared behind it, light shining, humming, a way out.

An account of a man at Glacier House

I didn’t know what to call him, the man in the middle of the room. He was rotund, portly, stout at the edges, awash with yellow skin and plumed with scraggy grey hair. His large sullen black eyes had sunken into the back of his head, and from the protrusions on his back it seemed he had been tragically disfigured around the spinal column. Smith was fond of him for his certain peculiarities, such as how he could identify any species of fly. He said he was an anti-natalist, considering us unfit to bear children. Life was pain and death and he believed God made us to suffer it. Whenever he would converse with us at one of Smith’s little soirees, he would position himself to be closer to Ms Cherry, our seance group’s muse. Perhaps tonight would be the night that this mysterious man, who had never given his name on the pretence that it would signal a horseman to appear, would tell us why he carried a silver bell, inscribed with the name ‘Vlad Tepes’.