Novel & Cerita Molave Street Short Film Reflection

POV: Vivian Ashford The press junket is for a short film, twelve minutes long, that I shot three weeks ago for a director named Petra Okafor who has won two festival awards and who Marcus connected me with as a consolation after the Margot project collapsed. It is a good short film. My performance in it is the best work I have done since Columbia. I am genuinely proud of it, which is not a feeling I have had about my own work very often, and I have been looking forward to today for that reason.

"It's a short film. A coda. For the archive, really. I've been... collecting moments. Since the mural. With your permission, of course." He'd been a ghost among us again, we realized. Capturing the aftermath of the aftermath. We cleared a space at the end of the bar. Bob, with a theatrical sigh, produced a small monitor from the back office. We crowded around, a mix of old keepers and new—Lanc, Arthur, me, Miranda, Hank, Clara, Lena, Ben, Mia. Kai pressed play. The film had no title. It opened with a slow pan across the new mural on the pier, the paint now beautifully integrated with the weather-beaten wood. Then, a series of vignettes, silent but for the ambient sound:

Antonio If I thought getting out this tunnel was going to be easy, then I was mistaken, the tunnel led us to a sewage pipe we must pass through to get to the other side, and I don’t want to mention how we smell right now. This entire experience has taken me back to the time when I was on the streets living like a rat and smelling like one. But even then, I did not smell this way; I am at my worst right now. When we get out on the other side there is a gun pointing a gun at us.

"We'll be okay, bro. Don't be so worried about it, " Kings lane, just like Hell's gaze was another crime-filled neighborhood. It was run by the 666 Street mob, so Mikey knew a lot of their young members. He was an only child and he was raised by his mother, after his father, who was a taxi driver got shot by a police officer when he refused to bribe the officer. All his mother wanted was to make him better than she and his father were. Mike was a skinny boy, he was even skinnier than I was back then, and we went everywhere together. God, we had big big dreams back then, we dreamed about traveling the world and seeing places we only saw on our neighbors' televisions. A lot of these dreams cam

Come back alive. Alive, yes. But not clean. We rode the service lift up in silence. Momo hummed some old street song from our youth, a lullaby our mothers never sang but the streets did: When you wake the beast, don’t weep for the village. The penthouse door was thick oak. Expensive. Useless. Momo rigged a flashbang to the lock. He tossed it, counted three under his breath. White burst. Screams inside. We were through before the echo died.

Yes, she needed a cigarette. Molly shakily took a cigarette from her bag, leaned against the wardrobe, lit it, and took a deep drag. Only when the nicotine reached her lungs did she feel her emotions begin to ease, though her body still trembled. At the door of the closet, Ocelotte's voice was cold. "Why are you dressed like this again? Molly, you..." He suddenly stopped talking. Then, he fixed his gaze on Molly as she exhaled smoke. The scene reminded Ocelotte of the time when Molly hung out with a group of street girls. She was smoking cigarettes and carrying a large bundle of cash, selling her love in an ugly display.

"Of course not. You're just working hard to give me and our baby a better life. I understand." Relief washed over him. He pulled me into his arms, pressing a kiss to my cheek. "Thank you, baby. I swear, nothing like this will ever happen again." Then, as if remembering something, he asked casually, "Oh, by the way, what was in that mysterious package today? Why couldn't I sign for it, even as your husband?" My heart nearly stopped, but I forced a calm smile and summoned every ounce of acting skill I had. "It's a film script from the production company. The project's confidential, so it's private by contract."

The shadows seemed too sharp and the streetlights threw down an unnatural glow. Things were starting to make less and less sense. Was this snuff film Janice mentioned the footage he and Sam had? Had Melissa somehow survived it? Jimmy hadn’t actually watched the part where she was killed yet. He’d had his eyes closed in the lock up. Was Melissa massively scarred under her clothes? Was that why she wouldn’t let anyone else on set?

I leaned on the open window of the taxi and he nodded his head. Hopping into the passengers seat, I fastened my seat belt and thought of the way my life was going. Hopefully, I wouldn't start doing drugs to drive away the bitterness. Tears threatened to spill out of my eyes because I had been staring out of the taxi without closing my eyes. I blinked once, twice then thrice before staring down at my laps. Maybe I was just being over dramatic. "Mosh street." He announced, pulling me out of my reverie. "Could you please drive down?" I asked, pointing at the fifth house on the right.