Prosody is a death metal band.

If you don’t know what makes up a death metal band, I suggest you take your little achy breaky heart and country line dance your way out of my face.

Prosody is more battle axes than two-step Texas.

Murder suits them.

“Blood Red Syrah” is my novel about murder and how society creates mayhem that makes for carnage. When society fails at every turn, it’s time to ask ourselves where we’re going wrong and what we can do to make life right.

We must disrupt to evolve.

Prosody disrupts.

I disrupt.

“Blood Red Syrah” disrupts.

You might want to think about your own contribution to disruption and do something about it. Challenging the status quo is good. Facing reality is scary but good. Confronting our fears is good.

That’s why I wrote a basic narrative for a “Blood Red Syrah” video. Prosody has completed the “Blood Red Syrah” theme song to open a movie short or long and debuted the tune at a couple of local venues, most recently at the Camp Rattler encampment where James Callahan and Kristin Rose served as steely, yet caring, head counselors.

So who wants to disturb with an unsettling video? Who wants to agitate with a brutal short film? Who wants to alarm the masses with a feature film?

Let me know. I’m easy to find.

Until then, imagine Wally Wilson, wearing clean, white Pumas, white socks, pressed blue slacks from Sears, and a lime green polo shirt with a palm tree emblem on the pocket. He sits on the floor of a wine cellar in a cross-legged Zen meditation posture, a seated Buddha statue lit by a series of candle flames in the background. Shadows flicker across Wally’s kind face. Soft at 44 and balding with short hair Wally looks like he might cry.

The face of a younger woman with long, flaming red hair (Syrah, the female voice in Wally’s head) appears in a flash over his right shoulder. Another flash and Syrah faces him over his left shoulder. He desperately turns his head left and right to see her. She smiles.

Wally slowly stands.

Prosody plays the music.

The music screams.

The music.

Prosody plays the music.

Wally’s father, a handsome older man with custard yellow hair, enters. He wears a tuxedo and holds a glass of chardonnay wine by the stem, turning the glass in his fingers, swirling the golden wine. He stops walking, looks at Wally and shakes his head, his face loaded with contempt. Raising the stemware, he sticks his nose in the glass and sniffs, then sips.

“You failed as my son,” the man screams.

Syrah’s face appears again, this time showing rage.

Wally slowly walks to a table where an open bottle of chardonnay wine sits beside a large golden corkscrew. Wally picks up the corkscrew, the old fashioned kind with a polished wooden handle and a glistening metal spiral attached in the middle. He raises the corkscrew, turning it slowly as he walks to the man.

The man sneers, swirls, sniffs.

In a flash Wally pushes the wine glass into his face. The man falls to the floor, his face awash in blood. Wally is quickly on him. Taking the man by the hair, Wally raises the corkscrew.

Pushing the corkscrew into the chardonnay sipper’s eye, Wally starts to slowly screw and screw and screw some more until the corkscrew is embedded deep into the eyeball tissue.

Wally slowly pulls.

The eyeball pops, dripping gore like a wet cork liberated from an overturned bottle of fine golden chardonnay.

Syrah appears, claps her hands in glee, and throws back her head in maniacal laughter.

Wally nods shyly, shrugs.

“You disappoint me, too, father,” he says.

Prosody plays the music.

The music.

The music screams.

 Fade to black.