"Here There Be Monsters," But There Needs to Be More

Copyright 2020 by Gary L. Pullman

The short horror film “Here There Be Monsters,” directed by Australian filmmaker Drew MacDonald, tells a simple, straightforward story. Elki (Savannah Foran-McDaniel), a bullied girl, falls asleep on a school bus and awakens inside the vehicle after the driver parks in the bus lot at the end of her shift.

Elki finds herself locked inside the bus. She cannot open the doors, and the windows open only a few inches. She is trapped. Worse yet, she realizes, when she looks out the window, there is a monster in the otherwise abandoned lot. She hides, but the monster, undeterred by her tactic, breaks a rear window. The girl hides in place, behind a seat, watching the monster's cloven hooves approach her position.

As the beast, a shaggy figure reminiscent of a Minotaur, comes nearer, Elki removes a pair of scissors from her book bag. Finally, she takes flight, throwing her shoulder repeatedly into the door at the front of the bus. With the monster in hot pursuit, she manages, at the last moment, to force open the doors and to flee.

The monster pursues, trapping her in a dead end, between abandoned buses and stacks of debris. She tries to scale a chain-link fence, but is unable to do so. As the beast closes in on her, she holds her scissors. Finally, she screams her defiance, and the scene shifts to the house of one or Elki's tormentors.

The bully steps outside her house to smoke, only to encounter Elki, who has not only survived her encounter with the monster, but, armed with her scissors, also manages to take revenge upon her tormentor by killing the aggressor.

The film accomplishes a lot in its approximately thirteen minutes and eleven seconds (which doesn't count the credits). Although the plot is simple and predictable and the theme rather moralistic, production values are first rate, as is Foran-McDaniel's acting.

The script is dialogue free, and her role calls mostly for her to project fear, which she does masterfully through her expressions, gestures, sobbing, and emoting. She is very believable, both as a victim of bullying and as a monster's quarry. Her petite size helps to suggest vulnerability. At the end of the film, she also conveys aggression; her emotionless stare, especially after the tears and fear she displayed throughout the rest of the film, is chilling, indeed.

Foran-McDaniel is a talented actor who, in the right feature-length motion picture, should be a major player not only Down Under but in Hollywood as well. She just needs a film that does her justice.

“Here There Be Monsters” is not a bad film; in fact, there's a lot to like, including the camerawork, production values, and earnestness of the creative people both before and behind the camera. It's just not a vehicle for stardom. It might well open some doors for Foran-McDaniel, however, and her screen presence, her credibility, and her impressive talent deserve more.

Grade: B

Knowing Your Endgame

Copyright 2020 by Gary L. Pullman

Flash fiction works well for horror. We have the word from both Edgar Allan Poe, who said that a reader should be able to read a horror story in “a single sitting”—and he was talking short stories, not flash fiction as such. Although he was vague (what constitutes “a single sitting”?), we can, perhaps, get some direction from famed director Alfred Hitchcock, who brought both Psycho (1960) and The Birds (1963) to the big screen. He declared, “The length of a film should be directly related to the endurance of the human bladder.”

Of course, his definition is also somewhat obscure: the “endurance of the human bladder” is apt to differ, sometimes considerably, among individuals. However, adults average 120 to 240 minutes between visits to the restroom to urinate. Assuming that Hitchcock applied his own criterion to the films he directed, a horror film, at least, should be between 109 minutes (Psycho) and 119 minutes (The Birds), which are well within the guidelines that he himself established.

Definitions of the permissible word length of “flash fiction” stories differ, with some suggesting that such stories should be no more than 600 to 1,000 words, while others argue that flash fiction stories could be as long as 2,000 words. Flash fiction author Michael Williams, author of Tales with a Twist, tries to stay at or below 1,000 words, but, occasionally, he admits, one of his stories reaches 1,200 words:

“I think setting my goal as 1,000 words, maximum, helps me focus. It gives me something to shoot for, but I wouldn't sacrifice a good story just to stay within an artificially imposed limit; if I have to go beyond, 1,000 words, I have to go beyond 1,000 words. For me, though, that's the exception. Most stories I write can be done well—probably better—in 1,000 words or fewer.”

Research finds that most people read at a rate of between 200 and 250 words per minute, so a flash fiction story, for most readers, would certainly meet both Poe's and Hitchcock's definitions:

A flash fiction story isn't characterized only by its brevity, however. “Flash fiction stories—I usually refer to them as flashes—usually end with a twist,” Williams says. “That's part of the their appeal, part of their fun. It's also a large part of their popularity.”

There are various ways to “twist a tale.”

One is to start with an outrageous, or even seemingly impossible, incident or situation. That's part one, the beginning, of the story. It hooks the reader. Then, follow with a logical result of this initial incident or situation. That's the middle of the story. The end of the story, part three, delivers the twist.

One way to generate the twist itself is to play with the six questions related to any form of communication: Who?, What?, When?, Where? How? and Why? Make a list, as complete as possible, of possible answers to each of these questions as they relate to your story's premise.”

Here's an example:

Beginning: A snowman melts, revealing a corpse.

Middle: Police respond.

End (twist): . . . .

To come up with the twist, start the list of answers to the seven questions that apply to any form of communication, including fiction:

1. WHO? WHO is the dead person? If he or she was murdered, WHO is the murder? WHO might be a character in the story? The body, of course and the murderer (if there was a murder). The police officers. A neighbor. The mail carrier. A repair person. A bus or a taxi driver or passenger. A spouse. A child, minor or adult. A delivery person. A maintenance person. A utility worker. A meter reader. A sanitation employee.
2. WHAT? What happened to the dead person? Murder? Suicide? A prank gone wrong? An ill-advised advertisement? An attention-seeking act gone astray?
3. WHEN? A two-day interval, on day one of which the person is encased in snow and, on day two of which, he or she is found as the snowman begins to melt.
4. WHERE? The front yard of a suburban home.
5. HOW? The person encased in snow freezes to death over night.
6. WHY? (This is usually the point at which the twist suggests itself, although any of the six questions could prompt an answer that includes the story's twist): A prop master who remains employed by his uncle, a movie director, despite the prop master's Alzheimer's, forgets that he has packed snow over an actor's body, and repeatedly does so, rather than freeing the actor from the “snowman” after the shot is complete, causing the unintended victim to die of exposure overnight.

 

Notice that the twist, in this example, is the result of the WHY? question, but the identity of the killer does not appear among the answers to the WHO? question. This just goes to show that, in actual practice, the questions themselves may not produce the “answer” that provides the twist, but, without having gone through this process, it's unlikely that the idea would have occur at all. Answering the questions starts the ball rolling, the mind thinking, and the imagination visualizing.

Now, we can complete the framework, or skeleton, of the story's plot:

Beginning: A snowman melts, revealing a corpse.

Middle: Police respond.

End (twist): A prop master, having developed Alzheimer's, forgets that he has packed snow over an actor's body and repeatedly does so, rather than freeing the actor from the “snowman” after the shot is complete, causing the unintended victim to die of exposure overnight.

Note: As in any story, before writing it, you need to research any technical aspects of the plot to make sure they are accurate. For example, would a person freeze to death if encased in snow overnight or would he or she suffocate? How long would such a death, whether of hypothermia or suffocation, take? Maybe overnight isn't long enough. Research and revise, as necessary. If the technical reality doesn't allow the ending you've conceived, think of one that will stand the test of the facts.

Article Word Length: 1,014

Estimated Reading Time: 4.05 to 5.07 minutes

Three Images

Copyright 2020 by Gary L. Pullman

Note: This discussion is based on Tzvetan Todorov's analysis of the fantastic, which is detailed in “The Tzvetan Todorov Plot.”

In solving crimes, Sherlock Holmes, Father Brown, and other consulting or amateur detectives often look for singularities—things that were out of place, things that didn't “belong,” things that stood out.

Why do things stand out from everything else? Why, in a myriad of other objects, does this one physical entity catch the eye (or the ear or the nose or the tongue or the finger)? What makes it different and, therefore, visible?

A bell rope attached to nothing: how singular!

Abnormal things stand out. According to Oxford Dictionaries, “abnormal” means “deviating from what is normal or usual, typically in a way that is undesirable or worrying.” Something abnormal deviates, or departs from, the normal or the usual. A beautiful woman, in this sense, is “abnormal,” but she is neither “undesirable” nor “worrying,” so she doesn't fill the bill.

What about a nude? Even if she (or he) were unusually attractive and naked, it's likely that a nude's presence, among clothed people, would be regarded as at least “undesirable” by some—perhaps many. Such a person's presence might also be seen as “worrying.” However, in a nudist camp, a clothed person would stand out, perhaps as “undesirable” or even “worrying,” even if he or she were attractive. In either case, the person, nude or clothed, has violated the norms, or “rules,” of the greater group. Abnormality, like beauty, is, it appears, in the eyes of the beholder, at least to some extent.

Fortunately, we do not need to be philosophers to recognize things that many, if not all, people regard as abnormal. We can start with a good image browser (I prefer Bing; you may favor Google.) All we need to do is to select our filters and type in our search term: “abnormal.” The server will return lots of images that have been labeled “abnormal.” We can then select those that we also view as abnormal and ask ourselves why these particular images seem abnormal to us.

Something uncanny!

Here is an image in which placement and shape conspire to create an abnormal effect. A glass of wine is positioned directly in front of a woman in a simple white dress. At the level of her crotch, the glass of wine, at first glance, appears to be her pubic hair. However, the woman is fully dressed, the dark triangular shape cannot be her pubic hair—unless, perhaps, her dress is cut out to reveal this feature. We look again, more closely. No. The dress does not have a cutout, and the dark triangle is not hair, but wine in a glass. A sight which had seemed to be fantastic turns out to be uncanny. At first, the sight appeared to deviate from the norms or propriety in a manner which some would find “undesirable or worrying.” Closer inspection shows that such is not the case.

Something marvelous!

This image shows a spoon lying on a white surface. It casts a shadow, part of which is visible below the bowl of the spoon. The spoon itself looks quite normal. There is nothing in the least unusual about the utensil itself. However, the image is slightly “worrying” because the spoon casts the shadow of a different implement altogether—that of a fork. The shapes of the fork's tines, rather than the rounded edge of the spoon's bowl, contradict our interpretation of the object as a spoon. The shadow under the spoon defies our experience, wherein a fork, not a spoon, would cast such a shadow. All we know about spoons and forks, about shadows, and about the science of optic is contravened.

The first image, although seemingly abnormal, can be explained as normal. What we see is an illusion caused by placement and shape. The effect is uncanny, but not fantastic. However, neither science nor reason can account for the shadow of the fork cast by the spoon. This image, therefore, is marvelous, and the marvelous is, or can be, the source of the horrific. In this image, we are confronted by a refutation of reason, a denial of the validity of empiricism, a denunciation of science itself. This image suggests that we neither know anything for certain nor are able to know anything with certainty.

Something fantastic!

A third possibility exists: the fantastic consists of things that could be either marvelous (for example, supernatural) or uncanny (extremely unusual but explainable through science or reason) and for which the jury remains undecided. Such a thing might be the cyclops of ancient Greek mythology. Some scientists suggest that the apparently fantastic creature is explained by ancient people's mistaking the skull of Deinotherium giganteum for that of a gigantic, one-eyed human:

The large hole in the center of the skull of Deinotherium giganteum, representing the animal's extremely large nasal opening, could well be the foundation for their tales of the fearsome one-eyed Cyclops.

The fantastic and the uncanny are variation on Holmes's singularity. Holmes's singularity is strange; it is displaced; it does not “belong” in its present environment; therefore, for the detective, it is a possible clue regarding the mystery he seeks to solve. However, that it is solvable is never in doubt, either to Holmes himself or to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's legion of readers. Likewise, the fantastic is potentially solvable, while the uncanny is completely solvable.

Holmes' singularity is at first fantastic, but it is always, in the end, found to be uncanny. The marvelous is inexplicable; that is precisely why it is and remains marvelous. As such, it has no place in the detective story as it is practiced by Holmes.

The Z Plot

Copyright 2020 by Gary L. Pullman

Although it would be ludicrous to suggest that a story could follow a “Z” plot, the concept is, nevertheless, a good reminder that thrillers and chillers should move from one action scene to another at a fairly fast pace.

What is a “Z” plot? It's an imaginary sequence of action that is on the fact that, in English, readers read from left to right and from top to bottom. In other words, their eyes, in reading, trace the figure of a “Z.” Sometimes the stem (the diagonal line connecting the upper and the lower arms of the “S”) is shorter; other times, longer, than typical, depending on the length of the paragraph the combined sentences of which make up the stem of the letter. For example, a short paragraph produces a short stem; a long paragraph, a long stem:

Think of the paragraph as representing a scene. Each point at the beginning or the end of the arm of the “Z” represents a point of possible change. Perhaps the first point would be to establish the setting, while the second point would be to introduce the protagonist. At the third point, maybe you would contrast two supporting characters. The fourth point might be that at which you relocate the main character. These four points, regardless of the length of the scene (represented, in the “Z” plot by a paragraph), would make up the entire scene. However, the next scene, with its four points, would provide opportunities for additional, perhaps different (depending on the scene's purpose), plot changes, such as changing the pace of the story (with a longer or a shorter scene), using dialogue between tow or more characters to inform the reader of necessary background material, having circumstances or an incident impede the protagonist, and arranging for the antagonist to confront the protagonist (or vice versa). The next scenes would, likewise, present opportunities, at each of their four points, to change the plot again, again, again, and again.

Besides the actions indicated above, writers can use these points of the “Z” plot to heighten suspense, bolster the protagonist (or the antagonist) with reinforcements or assistants, capture a character, have a character escape, pursue a character, bring about a character's return home or to an earlier point of departure, characterize a character, have a character learn something important, or change a character's attitude, beliefs, feelings, perspective, or values.

Although the structure of your story's your plot, in reality, is unlikely to resemble a “Z,” helping to think of the progress of the action in such a manner could help you to remember to change the course of action frequently not only throughout the story as a whole, but also during each and every one of its scenes. As a result, it's unlikely your readers will become bored; in fact, they should be as excited as hell!

The Exterminator

Copyright 2010 by Gary L. Pullman

       The truck was parked in front Shirley Meyers’ house, and she didn’t like that, not one bit, especially since its driver, the unkempt man in the uniform labeled “Pest Control,” had gone into her neighbor’s house across the street.

       Shirley didn’t like the neighbor, either. For one thing, he was a renter, not an owner, and everyone knew that renters didn’t care anything about the property they rented. More often than not, they abused the condos or houses they leased, sometimes leaving hole sin the walls or letting the grass go uncut or flowers and shrubs untended for weeks at a time, or, like the present occupant of the house across the street, a Mr. Lincoln, blared their stereos night and day, when decent people who actually owned their own houses were trying to sleep or read or watch television undisturbed, having worked hard all their lives and contributed to society.

       It was commonly assumed, among Shirley and her fellow homeowners up and down the block, that Mr. Lincoln was mentally disturbed. Teresa Johnson, who lived behind the rental property, had actually heard the tenant bellow, “sounding like a bull,” according to her, in response to his mother (the woman who actually owned the house her son rented), who’d asked him to turn down his sound system and keep it down. The neighbors were complaining, she’d told him, and if he were to be evicted, he’d have nowhere else to go, except, perhaps, back to the hospital. It had been her reference to the “hospital,” Teresa was sure, that had set him to bellowing. Twice in the past six months, Mr. Lincoln had been carried out of his mother’s house, strapped to a gurney, by two men in white coats, slid into the back of an ambulance, and transported elsewhere—presumably to the “hospital” of which his mother had spoken.

       But he’d come back, to blare his music, pound on neighbors’ doors at all hours of the morning, growl and snarl at his mother, and, in general, make life unlivable in the master gated community of Golden Hill.

       Oh, they’d call the homeowners’ association, of course. All they’d done was to send the mobile security guard around to knock on Mr. Lincoln’s door and ask him, oh-so-politely to turn down his music (hip-hop, of course). They’d also sent his mother a couple of warning notices, but they never followed up on them.

       Teresa and several other homeowners, Shirley included, had called the police—numerous times—and officers had come, pounding on his door with their nightsticks, to no avail; Mr. Lincoln refused to open the door, even to the police, and they said that, under the circumstances, there was nothing more they could do, as the tenant was within his rights not to answer his door if he chose not to do so, unless the police had a warrant for his arrest or probable cause to believe that he’d committed a crime.

       “What about playing his music too loud?” Teresa had challenged one officer. “Isn’t that a crime?”

       “It may be,” the patrolman had answered, “depending on how many decibels it is.”

       “What about our rights?” Shirley had demanded.

       “Have you considered moving?” the officer had asked.

       That was all the good complaining to the HOA and the police had done, which is to say none.

       And, now, from the looks of things, the neighborhood wouldn’t have just Mr. Lincoln’s loud music to contend with; the tenant, apparently, now had a cockroach or a rat infestation. Why else would a “Pest Control” vehicle be parked across from his house?

#

       “It’s been a week now,” Teresa said.

       “Seven precious days of peace and quiet,” Shirley remarked.

       She sipped her tea.

       Her guest helped herself to another finger sandwich. “Like the old days,” she declared, “before he arrived, to ruin our lives.”

       “I wonder what happened to him.”

       “Maybe they took him back to the hospital.”

       Shirley considered the possibility. Not much happened in Golden Hills without their or one of their friends noticing it, but, of course, it was possible, if only barely, that an ambulance had spirited Mr. Lincoln away, perhaps in the middle of the night. After all, on the two occasions they’d seen this very thing happen, the vehicle had neither flashed its lights nor sounded its siren. “No doubt, you’re right, dear,” she concluded. She placed her hand around the teapot’s handle. “More tea?”

       Teresa held her cup out. “Thanks, dear. Don‘t mind if I do.”

       Shirley poured. “I just hope the exterminator eliminated the cockroaches or rats or whatever other vermin infested his place. I sure don’t want any such pests in my home.”

       Teresa shuddered at the thought. “Nor do I!”

       The women settled back in their respective rockers, surveying the street in peace and comfort from Shirley‘s front stoop. Everything was neat and orderly, trees and shrubs trimmed, flowers in bloom, lawns mowed, houses fresh with paint, and not a sound but that of birds twittering in treetops high overhead, an occasional light and melodious jingle of wind chimes., or a flutter of leaves in the summer’s breeze.

       Shirley sighed. “There is nothing more precious than peace and quiet,” she declared.

       “Silence truly is golden,” Teresa agreed.

       For half an hour more, the women sipped their tea, nibbled their cookies, and rocked their tired, aching bodies, enjoying the sound of silence and praying, fervently, that Mr. Lincoln would never return from the hospital again to ruin their lives.

#

       He didn’t.

#

       The next tenant to rent Mr. Lincoln’s mother’s house was a school teacher, Mr. Lombardo, and he lived quietly, keeping to himself. He rented the place for six months, and then a young woman named Cynthia Reynolds took up residence in the house across the street from Shirley, annoying the woman of the neighborhood only by passing on their invitations to join them for gossip and tea. Still, she was quiet, and that’s what mattered, really, in a renter. She lived in Golden Hills for over a year before leaving.

       Then a rough-looking, loud, obnoxious, and foul-mouthed young man named Skinner—Shirley was never sure whether it was his first or last name—moved into the house, and all hell broke loose. He sped up and down the street in his sports car, instead of keeping to the posted fifteen-miles-per-hour speed limit; hosted loud parties that lasted into the wee hours of the morning; neglected the lawn, trees, shrubs, and flowers; abused the property; frequently had any number of different young women as his overnight guests—sometimes two or more at a time!—drank to excess; and played harsh, discordant “music” at all hours of the day and night.

       Something had to be done, Shirley, Teresa, and the uncouth young tenant’s other neighbors agreed, but what? That was the question. The HOA and the police proved of no greater assistance than they had before, in the case of Mr. Lincoln, and, as far as Shirley or any of the other ladies knew, Skinner wasn’t insane—at least, not certifiably. There was, therefore, no chance that he’d be carted off on a gurney to a hospital, as Mr. Lincoln, presumably, had been. With the HOA unwilling to enforce its rules and regulations and the police unwilling to enforce the county’s ordinances, there was nothing, really, that anyone could do. Golden Hills, once an idyllic paradise, had become, once again, a hell on earth, and Shirley and her friends were stuck with Skinner, damned to the endless torment of his devil-may-care ways.

       And, then, one day, the exterminator’s truck showed up, and, this time, Shirley didn’t mind, not one bit, that it had parked in front of her house. As before, its driver, the same unkempt man in the uniform labeled “Pest Control,” had gone into her neighbor’s house across the street, and, ever since, there had been

serenity in Golden Hills.

       “Seven precious days of peace and quiet,” Shirley remarked. She sipped her tea.

       Teresa helped herself to another finger sandwich. “Like the old days,” she declared, “before he arrived, to ruin our lives.”

       Shirley had been about to say, “I wonder what happened to him,” but she didn’t. She knew what had happened to him, all right: the same thing that had happened to Mr. Lincoln.

       There was no need to worry about cockroaches or rats, either, she knew, or pests of any other kind, not when someone in their community, bless his or her heart, knew the number of The Exterminator.

       She placed her hand around the teapot’s handle. “More tea?”

       Teresa held her cup out. “Thanks, dear. Don’t mind if I do.”