Riding Free at the Bear Lite Bulb

by David

The Zombie Kittenz were playing and Shawana was dying to go. But it was at the BLB, an under-21 show. She couldn’t pass any more, not since working as a bud mother. That left two choices, but the one she could afford was hitching a ride in her kid sister’s cerebellum.

The worst part was the teen angst. It had been forever since she felt this way. Actually, she had never felt this way. Noemi was a spoiled brat. But the Kittenz were the smog. She had to be there.

At the door they were doing brain scans. Shawana had to mantra. Lucky they didn’t notice her; she’d have been evicted on the spot. Inside, Noemi and her age mates formed a teenoma right in front of the stage. Shawana had not expected to be so close. The Kittenz were known for putting on a pretty wild show, but there was nothing she could do about it.

The front band played a lot of AI-synthocrap on flamboyant instruments that were nothing more than glorified MP6 players. Finally, the lights went low. Foreboding music throbbed in her borrowed bowels. The sound quickly rose to a shriek as the Kittenz leapt onto the stage. Their performance went far beyond audiovisual. They were using gravity waves. They were beaming coded sequences directly into the audience. Tygger stopped right in front of Noemi and her friends and leaned so close it was clear her costume was painted on. “No free rides,” she snarled. She pointed a REM gun directly at Noemi/Shawana and fired. Everything disappeared.

Don’t panic, Shawana thought, and tried to remember the drill. She repeated her emergency mantra, and wondered when Noemi would notice she was gone. She tried to scream, but nothing happened. She desperately sought something, anything she could latch on to. There it was! Somehow, she had found Noemi again. Or, maybe her own body. It didn’t matter. She dove for it, slamming into the cerebrum like a ball into a glove. It was such a relief to be corporeal again. She opened her eyes.

She stood, nude, in a transparent fluid-filled cylinder. She’d heard about this room, but never seen it before. She was in a clone body, and at least 20 other body tubes were occupied. Damn! She hoped the show would end soon. And that she could talk her way out of the fine. She slammed her fist against the wall of the tube.

The end

Notes for a Film Review

by AlexM

There’s still a little behind-the-scenes turbulence here at the cabal in the aftermath of a server migration. (Which would be why you’re seeing Alex’s story for a second day.) Please bear with us for another day or two while thing settle down.

I’ve heard so many comments about The Glass Flames in past months, all opinion without substance: “so strange, so sexy, you must see it.” But my curiosity eventually sent me to the marketplaces where homemade films are sold on DVDs with purple backs.

The opening scene is of a prostitute lying on her back, wearing only jewellery. The camera is from the viewpoint of the person having sex with her, who must be crouching. This continues long enough for me to notice small, red and orange pieces of glass tied into her black hair. The glass flames of the title? And there is a word tangled in jewels around her throat.

After she has come, the scene changes: a drabby block of flats with the title painted on the side. ‘this is a true story’ appears in small letters under the title. (I love fake true stories.)

More instances of the word. I still can’t read it.

The story unfolds: a break-up, a mutual turn to prostitutes, except it’s always the same one. When the girl visits her, they use a two-way glass dildo with small, smooth-tipped flames sculpted up its sides.

Why this repetition of images? A pretence at heat? Hot and fragile at once?

Halfway through the film, I’m thinking that the quality of the film-work speaks of webcams and cameras fastened to necklaces: low quality visuals, shaky camera movements, poor focus. And the dialogue ranges from brilliant to the banality of everyday life.

“I like fire,” she says during one sex scene, and it must be a trick of light but it looks like there’s a brief flame in her hair.

No wonder so many people watch this film: it’s half sex.

Near the ending. She’s masturbating to a camera (on a shelf?). Someone bangs on the door, over and over, shouts in a foreign language. She looks frightened.

She takes the glass flames from her hair and arranges them in a circle around her bed. They turn into fire. (This bit can’t be real.)

“My name is,” she whispers to the camera, and the repeated word comes into focus when spoken: a strange mess of sounds, ‘cz’ and ‘kh’ and ‘fl’, and I can’t say it properly.

She smiles as the flames burn brighter, higher, consuming her bed. Shouts, “I’m running away!”

The final scene: a fireman enters the room and finds no body, only the glass flames and a glass woman-shape, completely hollow.

During the credits, there are photographs: the flames on sale in a charity shop, the hollow woman-shape on display in a gallery, an orange-winged bird perched on a wall. (The bird, like the glass turned to flame, is a marvellous piece of visual fakery, made to seem more real by the lack of CGI/illusion elsewhere in the film.)