After Party

Festival of Death

A film of cloud covered the sky. Rays of light tapered out like a dying flare. The wind ran up my spine, like the rising strings of a violin. It was just like a horror film.

'Could you at least look enthusiastic?' said Lorda.

Her frizzy red hair was now an auburn glow in the darkness and her white eyes were wild.

'Oh I'm trying.' I said glumly.

She sighed and threw her arms to her side. She stamped on the wet grass.

'I know that you want to be somewhere else,' she muttered.

'I wanted to go to the other film festival.'

'You're whining like a baby. Can't you just do this for me?'

A grey drizzle descended upon us.

'Does this festival really have to be outside?'

'It's an outdoor film festival,' said Lorda.

When we arrived at the pearly white gate we flashed our exclusive V.I.P cards. A silver light bounced off of the laminated tickets.

'Maybe the films at this festival will inspire you to write something new,' Lorda smiled.

'Films don't inspire me,' I said. 'Nothing does anymore.'

We stuffed our cards back into our pockets and the back of our hands were stamped with the festival's red logo. It looked like smeared blood.

'I hate watching movies back to back.' I muttered. 'I hate binge watching.'

The film festival was perfect for my girlfriend, Lorda. She adored films and consumed them in large greasy bulk sized hours. She liked outdoor festivals and she liked long walks. She liked adventures. She liked cold weather.

There's a saying that opposites attract. They never say how long that attraction lasts for.

The sky was growing dark and a cold breeze was biting at my red cheeks. I saw plastic, foldable chairs strewn across musty grey blankets. We sat down and I drew other fabrics up to my neck.

'Excuse me,' said a voice. 'Can I sit here?'

A blond haired man with beads drapsing down to his shoulders perched on the other side, next to Lorda. He had a Hollywood chiseled smile and sparkling white teeth. He looked happy. In fact, nearly the whole audience looked happy.

Absolutely, she smiled.

The projector behind us hummed. A large screen lit up in front of us.

Our first film was called 'Dramatic Tragedy'.

A bunch of theatre students enrol in an art's college. Their new teacher is a found faced man with oily black hair and flamboyant, Hawaiin shirts with half his top buttons undone. The teacher – Mr. Hollywood – informs his students that he needs to use them as props in his lesson. During each lecture he pulls a random student from their chair, secretly coaches them behind a velvet red curtain, and they then perform a drama to the class where he pretends to kill the student. At the end of the film the remaining students learn that the murder isn't dramatised by the teacher. He is in fact killing them – and the unsuspecting class cheer as the victim's blood swells across the stage and their cries are drowned out by the applause.

'What did you think of it?' said Lorda as the screen faded to black.

A harsh wind blew over the festival

'Terrible,' I said blankly.

Lorda wiggled her nose.

'I thought that it was great,' she protested.