Harbor Moon: A Hairy interview with Ryan Colucci

by Jason Michel

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Q1: Ryan, without giving too much away, tell me a little about the inspiration for Harbor Moon.

While at USC’s grad school for film producing, I was determined to graduate and not have to be an assistant. So I aggressively pursued a wealth of material – books, comics, web comics – I must have read over 500 scripts in two years before one caught my eye. Titled ‘Bloodkin’ it was an X-Men type story about a man without a past who finds out Continue reading

The Lad on the Knoll. Part II by Chris Pollard

“Then how can I help you?” I asked the lad.
“Sometimes they send me to fish in the river, by the bridge.”
“So why don’t you just run away when you go there?”
“Would that it were so easy!  They have me under a powerful enchantment, so that I may only go to the river, and when my buckets of fish are full, return directly.”
“What can I do then?”
“At midnight on the full moon, come and look for me there by the bridge, and bring a horseshoe on an iron chain.  Hang it round my neck, and I will be able to escape.  And you’d best protect yourself in like manner too, or they’ll take you in my place!”

The full moon was only two days away, so the following morning I went to the ironmonger’s store, and bought two horseshoes and some iron chain, preparing the two ‘necklaces’ as the lad Angus had instructed me.

The appointed night arrived, and I made my way along the road to the bridge over the river.  There I waited in the moonlight for midnight to come around, wearing one of the horseshoes on its chain about my neck.

Sure enough, at the allotted time, Angus appeared nearby with two wooden pails and a fishing rod.  He was down on the rocky shore of a fishing pool, and he sat upon a large stone, casting his line into the water.

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Sue and the Explosive Wreck by Sue W

So. It’s 1979. The Boomtown Rats don’t care for Mondays, and Joe Jackson can’t believe she’s really going out with him. (She is, Joe, mate, sorry). It’s Summer. I have never been away from my own bed for more than two nights before. And I am faced with a week in a tent on my Uncle’s smallholding on the Isle of Sheppey.

I have an empty sweet jar saved from last year’s day trip to Margate, so I re-fill it with humbugs and sherbet lemons. Probably a)not a good mix and b) not a good idea as we are having quite a hot spell and they are all stuck together before we even leave the house.

On top of this, I have had a week of angst, because ITV have gone on strike and The Streets of San Francisco isn’t on. Now, cop shows with Karl Malden in them aren’t usually my thing, but I have developed a crush on the young bloke in it who replaced Michael Douglas. I particularly like it when someone shoots him. To this day I am not sure what that says about me as a 12 year old.

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Whore House by Kevin Atherton

The job went smooth enough, we got the jewels, and Ed didn’t even kill anybody. I’ve spent a buncha time with the freak on the problems that creates. Figured I’d get him laid as a reward, but the only way that was happenin’ was a whore. Ed’s ugly as a boil on a leper’s ass.

Frank said it was the best whore house around, but that was like sayin’ diarrhea on your cheerios would lead to a lovely morning. You know how a whore will put on an act about likin’ it and you don’t give a shit whether they do or not? These girls seemed like they’d won the lottery and gettin’ a dick rammed up their ass was all part of some carnival-like atmosphere assigned to whoredom. Frank’s always been full of shit and now he fits the image. His mouth looks just like his asshole ‘cause I knocked out his front teeth and the stitched-up lips have a nice puckery effect.

The door was dark mahogany and had etchings of women doin’ weird crap to pigs. In one they were fuckin’ ‘em and in the next, they were eatin’ ‘em. This bothered me some, but the two twits saw it as some kind of good omen —like pig sex Continue reading

Blame It On The Moon by Randall Pretzer

It was about noon. I was driving down a street they called Turnover. It had nothing but a bunch of apartments lined up on either side of the street. The parking for all of them was located in the back of the areas. I don’t know where they got these street names from, or why they called a street this or that. It didn’t make any sense or nor did it seem to matter. They should have just numbered them. It would make more sense. Well, common sense didn’t always exist in our vocabulary. It was these types of subjects that I thought about as I began my day. I was looking for a crowded street. It was not Turnover. There was not a single soul walking out on that street or nobody with a car decided to ride down it. It was just myself driving alone down this strangely deserted street. I had driven down it before and there had been people on it. Usually on a Saturday I could count a crowd but not this Saturday. There were other streets and I would find one where everyone in the world was walking down or driving along them.

I left Turnover street around 12:30 and headed towards a street downtown. There had to be crowds of people downtown along those streets and so that is where I headed. I couldn’t wait. It got so lonely at my job and I needed to be around some people. It didn’t matter if we talked or not, I just needed to be around them. I didn’t know why. I was hoping downtown would be the place where it was all at.

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Scorsese: Then And Now by Steve Wheeler

It’s a deceptive title, really, because I’m not a film critic nor a fan of any director.


But Martin Scorsese was the one who had the smarts, the interest and the resources to make two concert films 30 years apart, THE LAST WALTZ (1978) and SHINE A LIGHT (2008).
In 1976, the post Vietnam era in the States, Martin Scorsese and Robbie Robertson managed to record on film (the first concert movie shot in 35mm) the farewell concert of the Band in the venue where they first appeared as The Band, the Winterland Ballroom in San Francisco. Robbie Robertson, Levon Helm, Rick Danko, Garth Hudson and Richard Manuel were leaving the road after sixteen years. In an interview Robbie says he couldn’t imagine doing it for twenty years. The Last Waltz was called “the end of an era”.
At the time Scorsese was directing New York, New York, a big expensive production, but he had cut his edting teeth in the Woodstock film and learned what not to do there. He took some time off from the New York, New York project and filmed The Last Waltz in a weekend, put it almost all together in a week and a few months later, filmed three songs on a Hollywood sound stage. It grew from Robbie Robertson’s idea, a not for profit enterprise with no budget to an important cultural event, done by the seat of its pants, almost an afterthought, and ultimately, the concert movie by which all others are judged.
Thirty years later, after Taxi Driver and Raging Bull and Goodfellas and all the awards for No DIRECTION HOME (2005), a documentary on Dylan’s early career, Scorsese filmed a Rolling Stones concert.
Shine A Light presents the best of the Stones’ Beacon Theatre concerts on their A Bigger Bang Tour on Oct 29 and Nov Continue reading

The Lad on the Knoll (Part I) by Chris Pollard

Photograph: Richard Nowitz/Corbis

“Help me!” the lad implored, a desperate look in his eyes.

I was quite surprised, as he had no apparent injuries and looked to be in good health.

When I awoke that morning, it had been a gorgeous summer’s day, so after a quick breakfast of fruit salad and coffee, I packed some food and a bottle of water in my knapsack, and set out for a walk in the countryside.

I had been in Scotland for a couple of weeks, making a tour of prehistoric stone circles, tumuli and such like, a perennial fascination of mine. My OS map clearly showed a couple of sites near the small town I had lodged the night in, so I set off to see if they would be interesting.

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Wicked Woman’s Booty by Jodi MacArthur

Episode 3: “Sizzle Me A Pirate Stump”


“Land ho, Cap’n! Me sees the Invisible Islands!” From the crow’s nest, Big Bob pointed west. The crew looked. There was nothing.

Strudel knelt at the captain’s boots and rubbed grease on the rough leather. “How does he be doin’ that?”

Viper sat on The High Log, throne of The Wicked Woman. The treasure map stretched between his fingers. He had been staring at it for days; it was an enigma. The map’s images and words, having fallen wet during the attack on the frogslingers’ ship, blurred. At the bottom were slight waves with the word,

Caribbean

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Heavier than what? – Skull Fist Interview!!!

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by Jason Michel

You are about to enter the Beavis & Butthead, people. Piss contests, broken bones & trolls. Be prepared to read stories that’d give Bill & Ted a cardiac arrest. Welcome to the Skull Fist zone. A heavy metal band from Toronto, Canada, & yes, they may be young, dumb & full of cum but they are touring their arses off to get their EP “Heavier Than Metal” out there.

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One-Thousand Abominations by Brian Kutanovski

Sister would slam her head against the refrigerator door. Pepper jars, condiments and other glass items clanked with each blow. Magnets slid empathetically, scattering on the beige linoleum. She would yank her chestnut blonde curls from her monkey-sized skull and drop to her knees, gasping for another breath, choking in hysteria. During her convulsive blows of self-abuse, the expression on her face were a suspended jittering frown of terror. A sheen of saliva shined her bottom lip, dripping to the floor with each hit to the head. She didn’t know any better. Sister was special. She was deficient.

Most of the time mother would spring sister up from her merciful stance, occasionally ripping sister’s blouse from her skeletal frame and yell, “Stop! You’re too old for this.”

Other times sister would continue the self-affliction by clawing her child flesh from her undeveloped breasts down to her stomach in a maniacal frenzy. Fresh bleeding scratches adorned her tiny body, breathing so heavily, sleep would attain her tortured spirit, lying peacefully on the linoleum under the kitchen table like a dog.

The front door opened. The keys jangled in the lock. All hairs on our bodies stood up. Father was home. His charcoaled boots clunked against the wooden foyer floor.

If he sees his daughter lying underneath the table, mother would be chastised for neglect and bad mothering; punished under his law of unforgiving cruelty.

“Why is she on the floor again?” Father sternly inquired.

“I sorry. I cook you dinner, I have no time help her.” Mother replied in a broken dialect.

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I Didn’t Say That, Did I? : Rebels Without Claws by Paul D. Brazill

Dexy’s Midnight Runners once sang that ‘The only way to change things/ Is to shoot men who arrange things’

What? You mean singing a pop song isn’t a major revolutionary act?

Try telling that to the all-mouth-and-trousers bunch of so called rebels that are rock stars.

Famous ‘working class hero’- okay middle-class art student turned multi-millionaire – John Lennon really proved his worth as a rebel when it came to the Vietnam War. What did his missus do to stop all that death and destruction? That’s right, they went to bed had a kip! Well, that’ll sort that out, then!

Lennon was clearly bogus of course. This was man with a white Rolls Royce who sang about having no possessions. A wife beater who wanted us to ‘give peace a chance’. Instant Karma, indeed!

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A Little Night Music by Nick Boldock

My heart was going mental as Monica turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open. The only light in the hallway was a dim yellow glow coming from a room to the left. I knew that room – the bedroom – right down to the last detail. I’d lost count of the number of times I’d been in this flat. These days, Monica was the only prostitute I would ever fuck. There was a time when I’d screw any of them. I realised how easy it was, and I just went for it. It didn’t matter what they looked like as long as they opened their legs. Nowadays, though, things were different. I’d known Monica for a while now. She was good at what she did and she wasn’t bad looking, so I didn’t mess with the others anymore.

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Backstreet Redemption by Darren Sant

We ran bloody, battered and defeated. It’s amazing how fast you can run with a hoard of screaming Millwall fans hot on your heels, even with several pints of lager inside you. I dashed down an alley and chanced a look over my shoulder. I seemed to have lost the lads but at least there was no sign of the Millwall firm. I leaned against a wall and panting slowly regained my breath. It had been a reasonable day. We had won at the football which was always a bonus. The planned meet with the Millwall crew did not go so well though. Frankly, we had gotten a pasting and ended up legging it. To be fair to us it was their manor and they had much greater numbers. I looked around in the fading light, it was not so much an alley as a very narrow street. I wandered slowly down it, limping slightly. Some bastard with hobnail boots had kicked me repeatedly. It’s a risk you took being in City’s firm. I spied a little pub at the end of the street. Well, I had missed my fucking train so I might as well have a beer and find a hotel.The pub was a scruffy looking building, but then it would be down a seedy little street in the shite part of town wouldn’t it? I pushed open the scratched, beaten door and wandered inside. The place was a typical back street pub. The tables were wonky, many with a beer mat Continue reading

Savage Detours, Film Noir, and the American Nightmare by Matt Dukes Jordan

Detour, 1945, feature film, USA, directed by Edgar Ulmer, starring Ann Savage as Vera, and Tom Neal as Al Roberts

Savage Detours: The Life and Work of Ann Savage, 2009, a biography and filmography by Kent Adamson and Lisa Morton, McFarland, with a Foreword by Guy Maddin

The most fun role for actors is always the bad or twisted character, the weirder the better. Often villains in film are Continue reading

Pickle Party by Richard Godwin

When Jack Laretto made two million on the sales of his novel ‘No Mercy’, he took his wife Viola to the Caribbean, fulfilling a lifetime dream.

They spent two weeks in the sun, made love every night by moonlight and he returned ready for the sequel. He was going to write the next great Southern novel. He considered the path that had led him to overnight fame.

His first breakthrough came with the ‘Mustard Man’, a gruesome if realistic account of a split personality serial killer. That was how the reviewers interpreted the story. Jack’s readers felt it was an account of two characters, seeing the Mustard Man as a separate entity to Norm.

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