Other Writing

PROLOGUE

Chains and Darkness

Madison had a dull awareness of pain. It subsided as she drifted back into unconsciousness. After an indeterminable time, her mindfulness returned and her ache became acute. Thoughtless and foggy, she opened her eyes. Everything was black. She closed her eyes and drifted off once more. Almost. The thumping pain prevented it. Her left eye, heavy and thick, throbbed with the slow beat of her pulse. Her lips were fat and stung as if cut by razor blades. She opened her...

Down Harris Lane was initially written as a feature film screenplay...one of my first.

Seeking feedback on it, I entered into a few global screenwriting competitions, and here is how it went...

• Semifinalist, The Script Lab - TSL Free Screenplay Contest 2020 (beating out 13,000 entrants)
• Quarterfinalist, Filmmatic Horror Screenplay Awards Season 7
• Quarterfinalist, Filmmatic - Pitch Now Screenplay Competition Season 5

With it so well received, it became my first novel... Now, when people read...

LOGLINE

A hapless rocker complicates his love life when he housesits for his wealthy older brother and attends the annual law society gala dinner pretending to be him.

SYNOPSIS

Twenty-seven-year-old freeloader, CARL is kicked out of his girlfriend KAT's house just as his brother PATRICK, a well-off lawyer, goes on a trip to France and asks him to housesit his fancy apartment and look after his miniature poodle JERRY.

Carl settles in quickly, although he doesn't immediately hit it off with Jerry....

Here's the Prologue and part of Chapter One...

PROLOGUE

Safe from the deafening, violent roar outside, Zyla-B14-304 stood unmoved alongside the others in her red jumpsuit. Cocooned in the silence of their translucent dome, it was midday, but not to their eyes, as a suffocating attack of sand stretched to the upper atmosphere, obliterating the sun and darkening the sky to a dull brown haze. Lower down before them, tiny needle-like sand particles whipped through the endless desert, slicing and...

PROLOGUE

Small and thin, she lay motionless in the gutter, the cacophonous, late-night New Delhi street bustling with shoulders rubbing, people passing, and cars honking. Her young face and long dark hair were coated in blood, her right cheek and forehead peeled by road friction. Dressed in rags and barefoot, her feet were blackened by grime.

“She’s just a child,” Constable Kyra Dillon, only 26 herself, expelled softly, kneeling by the body.

She glanced up at her partner, Constable Anil...