Check me out on FilmFreeway for access to these project files.
Title: 94 Block
Logline: A kind-hearted Filipino boy growing up in ghetto Hawai’i gets a taste of the “thug life” and sets out to be a church-going meth dealer.
Genre: drama
Format: TV Pilot, 60 minutes
Writer’s Statement: I wrote this story about my hometown as a way of retracing my steps and reframing my childhood. I see this as a limited series with six to eight episodes. It could also be expanded to three seasons. A production like this would funnel capital directly into the community, where it’s needed, hiring local cast and crew.
Follow this link to the proposed soundtrack on Apple Music.
Why Am I Trans?
Title: Why Am I Trans?
Logline: A multi-ethnic trans man goes on a quest for truth, uncovering layers of thought-provoking nuance in this 60-minute performative documentary.
Format: 60 min documentary
Directed by Alethia Torres Produced by Azrael Torres Original score by Ryan Cassata Featuring music by King Aiden
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ “At the intersection of race, culture, sexuality and gender identity comes a stunning and powerful portrait of an individual on an epic journey to wholeness and wellness. This is a must see for anyone hoping to understand navigating the complexities of life for transgender people.”
–Kasike a.c.ramìrez de arellaño, Higuayagua Taino Indian Tribe
The following is a teaser for a novel I never finished.
After accidentally creating a virus that catalyzes the rapid evolution of the human genome, Dr. Nikola Woolf is metamorphosing into a fifth dimensional being. In this scene, she has involuntarily traveled to another universe.
I was in some kind of palace. Light from the setting sun reflected off golden pillars, blinding my sight. I glanced down, to relieve my burning eyes, and noticed a mosaic of stones, lapis lazuli, turquoise, jade, and obsidian. My feet were barefoot on the cold tile. I stepped into a shadowy corner of the room, and whispered, “Where am I?”
A man walked pass me, and approached the sunlight. He was spectacular in a gown of golden threads. He dropped to one knee, and as he bowed his head, I saw her. “My queen,” he said.
The single throne must have been at least twenty feet in height. It was made of gold, mahogany, lion skins, and tortoise shell. It was occupied by a woman, adorned with jewelry and makeup. She was a brilliant sight, captivating, gorgeous, but there was something menacing about her.
“Where is my son?” Her voice echoed throughout the room.
The man stood. “Your majesty, the Roman army is at the gate. Octavius is on his way here, right now.”
“I said, where is my son?”
The man tensed with hesitation. I felt my throat constricting. “Queen Cleopatra, please. We are going to die. Our numbers are small and we cannot hold the gate for long. Please speak to Octavius and ask him to spare us.”
There was a suspended moment. Anxiety, fear, rage, and hope seemed to dance around a surreal carrousel. All of the multiverse was revolving around this moment. Whatever the queen decided would ripple throughout all parallel universes. Finally, the queen said, “Charmion, do you still consider me a friend?”
The man nodded. “Of course. Since we were children, you have been my best friend, Cleo. I love you. My queen, you have changed since.”
“Do you mean, since Octavius murdered my husband, stole my son’s birthright, and corrupted my soldiers? Yes, I have changed. Octavius is poised to destroy our sacred city, and you are asking me to bow before this filthy pig?”
Charmion cast his eyes to the floor. “I am begging you, my queen.”
“It shall never happen.”
I felt a storm brewing under Cleopatra’s skin. But she didn’t seem to move, and her voice was calm and confident. “Where, Charmion, is my son?”
I heard a voice from across the hall, the sound of footsteps. A young man stepped into the sunlight. I noticed his jawline, wide and definite. It was identical to his father’s. In that moment, I had a flash of recollection. I saw the young man’s birth, in a desert hot spring. I caught a flash of his first steps, walking to the arms of his father. I saw him, Julius Caesar, his face shape-shifted into that of… Kelly.
The boy was my son.
The young man held his chin up. His hazel eyes were honey in the setting sunlight. “I am here, Mother.
Confusion stole over me, first Virginia, now Cleopatra? This was a past life regression, surely. No, I could not have been these historical figures. There was another explanation.
The queen relaxed in her throne. I felt her exhale. “Caesarian, come.” Cleopatra’s voice was soft, like the white rose petals, from which Caesarian’s first bed was made. Her firstborn was her favorite.
The young man approached the throne. His heart longed to rush into his mother’s arms and adorn her with hugs and kisses. Instead, he forced himself to stand still, like a man. Caesarian clenched his fists and flexed his chest, back, and arms. He had been training with the Roman soldiers, and he wanted his mother to see that he was a man. It was his time to come of age. He felt ready. “Mother, I wish to sacrifice myself to Octavius.”
Cleopatra chuckled. “That shall never happen.” Now she was moving freely.
“Please listen. I never wanted to be dictator of Rome. I do not care for what Caesar did or did not do. All I wanted was to be here in Alexandria with you. I never wanted it to go this far. I do not wish for more bloodshed on my behalf. I will go to Octavius and ask him to cease the war.”
“Caesarian, my son.”
“Please, Mother. You said that I was destined to be great. You told me to behave like royalty. I believe this is what a regent should do for his country. Mother, do you see, this is why I practiced the Latin tongue, and I studied the Roman religion, and the Roman law. Not because I wanted to be like Caesar, but because I am a Roman. If Rome would murder their own kind, as they did my father, then I would be honored to die for Egypt.
“Mother, let Octavius take me back to Rome, let me be his prize, and let the city be spared. Or we shall all be dead by morning.”
I watched as Charmion held his tongue, and Cleopatra went inside herself. Another decision was to be made. The queen could not stop her son, but she would never approve of this plan. Charmion felt deep pride in Caesarian. I did, as well.
Caesarian stood with his hands behind his back, waiting, with respect, for his mother’s decision.
That’s when he walked in. I knew who he was. I felt him move right pass me, almost as if he moved through me. He stood beside the throne. “My queen, the tomb is ready. The army is here, we must move quickly.”
Cleopatra exhaled, turning her attention to the man. She ran her fingers through his dark curly lochs. “Marc, my love. I will be there soon.” They kissed, and he walked out. The queen waited another moment before speaking.
“Caesarian, do you remember what your father taught you about warfare?”
The boy nodded. “Yes, Mother. Marc Antony has trained me as well.”
Cleopatra leaned in and whispered. “Your father was the greatest warrior who ever lived. Rome is because of Caesar. The greatness that built Rome lives inside you. Go into my chambers, into my golden chest, and you will find your father’s armor and sword. Listen, son. I want you to go to Octavius, but I do not want you to surrender. I want you to kill him. I want you to avenge your father’s death. Do this, for me?”
Caesarian shifted. He glanced at his feet. I felt his throat constrict, his heart grow heavy. He fought the urge to cry. He returned his eyes to the queen, pushing his emotions down below. “Yes, Mother. I will do this for you.”
“I love you, my son.”
Caesarian jumped into her arms, knowing they would never embrace again.
The next I knew, I was laying on the office floor, gasping for air.
It was published in 2012 by Regal Crest Enterprises. Unfortunately, due to life’s circumstances, I had to part ways with the publisher. The truth is that I stumbled onto a film set and fell in love. But that’s a whole other story.
Fiction will always be my first love.
I shot a promo trailer with the intention of shooting a full-length film. The funding never came and I moved on.
There are a few used copies available on Amazon here.
I am grateful for my life today, for every breath, for the ability to convey these meager words. I barely escaped the Underworld with my life. Here I lament, for although I have gained much, I…
I went on a journey into the darkness. It called to my soul and I succumbed to its gravitational pull. A stone falling into a bottomless well. As if my own Self were there beckoning me into the unknown depths. Where the damned slept in their feces. They looked up at the ever-grey and stormy sky, while their siblings stepped over them, cursing their stench. And the angels wept.
I was there. Among the houseless, the mentally ill. I broke into my father’s house for a bit of medicine, his good rum. Well, I was desperate. My father had forgotten long ago, the son he never had. The rum was all that was good from my lineage.
I made friends with the Paisanos, traded all my dignity for mere moments of relief, for freedom from the madness of this upside-down world. Like a drop of water in a burning house. And the ones without shoes never judged me.
I found myself in a jail cell, a psych ward. I found myself in a straight jacket. Unable to do the most simple of tasks, put hand to mouth, hand to dick. Hand to hair. I would have pulled every strand as an offering to the ghosts. God knew they needed help. I called for the nurse but she insisted it was for my own good.
I saw handsome demons dressed as conquistadors and priests, proudly bearing my family crest. They boasted of power and wealth, and the everlasting meal of human flesh. They held out their hands to me, swore I would not miss my soul. It was my empathy that caused me pain, they said. Then they laughed heartedly in my face as I cried out for Holy Fire.
Vomit at my feet. The Curandera’s song shook me until my body contorted. The high of her voice, the depth of her lyrics, the boom of her drum. Each moment dissolved with the structures of my mind, maddening chaos. Whispering haunted memories. I couldn’t stop it.
I saw myself curled up behind the dumpster. I could not get up, not even to shit. Bury me in shame and self-hate. All I wanted was to not feel the pain for one moment. All I wanted was medicine.
I prayed for death. The angels were happy to oblige, to put me out of my misery. They stood about me, outlined in psychedelic colors not visible to the sober eye. I knew it was my time. I felt my soul being ripped from my body and the Angel of Death, he said he was only answering my prayer. I cried. I screamed in protest like a fish on a hook, fighting for one more chance at life.
The cop in the emergency room asked me why. “I don’t know,” I replied. “I’ve nothing to live for, yet I cannot die.” The nurse glanced at my vitals, and told him to leave. I cried. And cried.
My abuela was there, holding me. I saw her through the eyes of a babe. I remember her smell, like cigars and malta, sweat mixed with tears. I tried to touch her face, but couldn’t reach. I tried to speak her name but only the sounds of an infant was heard. Was I dead? Was I reviewing my life?
Then I was there on my knees on the blood-stained field, the hot sun on my bare back, my hands in the dirt, mourning the ones who were left to rot. The bones of the ancestors spoke to me and I let my tears fall upon the earth. I swore to the heavens I would. I would.
I prayed for a miracle. Everyday. While my siblings traveled the world and celebrated their youth with good food and even better booze. I envied them as I stayed on my knees and fasted and prayed. I curled up in a ball and listened to the tales of the ghosts. I prayed for them and watched as they walked home.
Then I heard a voice. My whole body resounded with its every issue. The only light in my dark world. I was enraptured, like a moth to a flame, I could not look away. I was fed, taught, and rocked to sleep.
When I awoke, I knew things I could not understand. To make a pilgrimage on hands and knees, like a baby who couldn’t yet stand, I was charged. To ask my senses, my mouth, is this milk or glue? I crawled then I walked. I taught myself how to swim.
Still I traveled. I turned my head from the ones who hurt me. I spoke to the trees and squirrels for the people could not understand my foreign speech. I sang to the ghosts and angels and they remembered my song. I danced with the one who would become my best friend. Like a Hawk and Tiger, taking turns at land and sky. We cried and sang together.
At the summit of the mountain, the lion’s lair. The weight of the pain was too heavy. I set it down somewhere along the treeline, with an offering of my greying hair. I bathed in the ice rivers. I sat with the fire. I watched the stars talk to each other.
One in particular took a liking to me. She traveled down a ray of light and watched me as I watched her. I told her what life was like on Earth. I will not bypass the pain. I will not abandon myself in the darkness. She listened to my dirge and shed a tear for the human race. She promised to speak for us in the higher courts.
Now here in the quiet valley, the pain and joy, the love and rage, like northern lights that fall upon the path at my feet. I’m grateful for this. I still have questions, still hear the ghosts. The adventure calls me forward, a Sagittarian bow, a soft open heart.
Thank you for these meager words. Thank you for the milk and the glue. Thank you for the freedom and the straight jacket. Thank you for my every breath.
I know that I’m never alone.
Thank you, reader, for your presence here. May we all hear the song in our souls. May we sing in chorus, one day, the stories of how we walked each other home.
As a child someone asked me “what do you want to be when you grow up?”
I’ve been thinking….
I want to be open, like a timeless book of pulp pages, soft between her fingers, folded dog ears and memorized lines, night time by the fire side, her hands on my worn leather spine, repeating cycles, rewind, revising stories for spatial time, let me be the empty chalice for her maturing red wine.
I want to be strong, like the brick walls she pounded with bloody fists, red dust falling at her feet, electric fences overhead, the violence of the pendulum swing, as she found her way inside my ribcage, like a tender flame, I would cup my hands and swallow the wind, let me be without fear…
I want to be generous, a tree, a leaf, a seed, and mud, to build castles in the clouds with the ink from my blood, with my breathless body, silent yet free, a labour of passion wrapped carefully, in scar tissue and purple stitching, a gift that keeps on twitching, let me be the flood
That overwhelms the parts of her that have never been loved, the lighthouse that blinds her dark waters while her demons writhe like fish out of the sea, let me be, the Creator who grants them legs, the Darwin to her painbody, the Easter to Good Friday, let me the sacrament of blood
That runs through her holy veins, the spirit that moves through her temple, from the volcanic peaks of her rage, to her ocean trenches of grief, let me be her silent howls at the moon, the flowing blood of her course, let me be one with her force, like a rouge Jedi knight to her secret sith, a terrible Darth Lilith, set free, ‘cause if she asked me, I would follow her down any path, you see.
I want to be the love that never leaves, to sing painfully out of key, ballads of memories, collect seashells along her Plutonian shores, cut love coupons from my skin, for redemption, keep bitter receipts, and movie stubs, deep, hidden pockets, under our flaming wings, transcending, transmuting, expending, intruding, yeah, pushing and pulling, two of cups, overflowing, renewing, alchemical caldron now brewing
An ambrosia to remember, a goddess, I remember, set free from sleepy amber, a soul beyond gender, extreme polarities temper, and tempest, quiet down, gather ‘round, and astound the ones who see her true face.
You see, her true face is a reflection of me, a mirror to see, more clearly, a love, for love, to love her, I love me, for love, this is me, to be me is to love, is to be free.
So to the children inside me, for little ones in she, to the question “what do you want to be,” Mije, please reply,
The following playlist is a musical archive telling the story of my 2021. I started doing back in 2009 this as a way to reflect on how much I’ve grown through the years. I recommend listening to it in chronological order. I hope someone out there enjoys this. ❤
I remember how he used to visit me everynight, holding me in the dark, a cold pistol to my temple.
The rage and pain rocked me like a crack baby, while I spat prayers of peace and silence between the waves of grief and coughing snot.
I’d come to depend on the pain he brought me. I appreciated his loyalty.
How long had I been trapped in that prison?
Between my thoughts, in every silent moment, where the mystics sought Nirvana, I found only Hell.
Of course, I left this world. I escaped this body. Why remain in this tortured state when psychosis is free medicine? And oh, the realms I’ve explored.
But that’s another story.
During the day, I felt the shadow stalking behind, whispering of failure and worthlessness. His pistol to my head, threatening my life with his hatred. After so many decades, I’d come to believe his lies.
I remember the moments he stole, like the time my parents remembered my birthday, and as everyone sang Happy Birthday to me, he whispered of disgust and shame.
Or when I almost had a good time at that party with some people I didn’t know, he took hold of me in front of everyone, called me a worthless slut.
From then on I was the “psycho worthless slut.”
And despite how much he couldn’t stand me, he came, night after night, with the barrel of his pistol to my head.
Why not pull the trigger already?
Then something changed. Over the course of 20 years, or so.
I was sitting up in bed, listening to the silence between my thoughts and realized that I was not in Hell. I remembered from whence I came.
As every person I ever hurt, and all of whom have hurt me, came before me carrying a black box. I opened my heart and offered them Love.
One by one, I retrieved my soul and reclaimed by peace, turning enemies into relations. Until he came forward.
His face hidden behind his pistol, his heart behind the words, “I hate you.”
His arm, grotesque with muscle, bulged out of his torn shirt.
While the skinny left arm hung useless, an impotent worm.
I stood, an epiphany opening like a rose bud on a frosty morning, and went to him.
“I remember you, Brother. I know why you hold your weapon out like so. I know why you’re here. Do you remember?”
He shoved his gun in my face, pressing the cold barrel to my head. “To kill you. I hate you.”
The stench of rotting corpses spewed from his mouth, the sewage of his heart.
In the past, I believed him. But now…
I nodded. “Yes. Should I have taken a dark path, should I have been a danger to the people I love, should I have failed at my mission, it was your job to kill me, to spare my soul the burdens of evil. It was me who gave you this task.”
His scowled face melted in understanding, while his tears fell down my cheeks. I reached out to take the weapon from him, but changed my mind.
“You did your job well, Shadow. My soul belongs to me and my body is safe, thanks to your vigilance. I have a new job for you now. Keep the weapon concealed.”
Shadow lowered his arm, and I saw his face for the first time. He was just a boy in need of a bath. “I did good?”
I nodded, “You did good.”
He smirked. “I can eat? I can sleep now?”
“Of course.”
So the Shadow took refuge in the center of my heart, while the others watched and began to ask, “What about me? I can eat now? I can sleep?”
Image Credit: Unknown: The drowning of conquistador Diego Salcedo sparked the uprising of 1511.
The following is an oral retelling of the first contact with Christopher Columbus on the Caribbean island of Boriken, more commonly known as Puerto Rico, leading up to the Taino Rebellion of 1511, according to my great-grandmother, grandmother, and father.
My name is Kaika, but some of you remember me as Lu. I met Niki about 15 years ago, while we were in our early 20s. It was a memorable time.
It’s no secret, Niki was a party animal. It was the Pride festival, Freezone, GirlBar, and Nine Fine Irishmen, especially Nine Fine. We made any excuse to get drunk on the dance floor. She was my cheerleader when it came to tearing it up.
Left to right: Niki, Kaika, Logan, Marissa @ the Las Vegas Pride Festival
She was the responsible one, though. I don’t know how many times she refused to let me drive, made me sleep in her guest room, not caring how jealous or controlling any of my girlfriends may have been, or whether or not I’d get broken up with the next day. She likely saved my life.
What I loved most about Niki was her passion. I can’t recall how many times she started a sentence with, “I want you to know that I care…”
I remember how much she loved her students. Throughout the years she shared letters written by her children, drawings, reports. When there was a child who needed help, she shouldered their burdens and needed to talk about them. Although none of us minded, she would often say, “Okay this is the last thing I’m going to say about work. Okay, okay, I know I said that was the last thing, but this is really the last thing I’m going to say about work.”
I remember telling her how important she was to the children of this world. I told her that not all, but many of her students would grow up, look back and tell stories about Ms. Franklin, “the teacher who believed in me,” “the teacher who stood up to my parents for me,” “the teacher who encouraged my obsession with Percy Jackson and Greek Mythology,” lol.
I remember thinking, ‘man, I wish I had a teacher like that. Just one teacher like that would have changed my life.’
Then I realized that Niki was my teacher.
Yellowman concert @ the Hard Rock
Earlier this year, I deleted all my social media accounts because I realized that I didn’t know how to be a good friend. I confused likes and follows for love and loyalty. This is me at 38 years old. I wanted to know who my friends really were. I wanted to know who would take the time to text and FaceTime me. I wanted to know who those true friends were and I wanted to love them back.
Niki showed me what it meant to be a good friend. She genuinely cared about how I was doing. She carved out time to text and talk. FaceTime was important. She gave thoughtful little gifts, cards, photos. She made it a point to express support of my transition. For a trans person, that support could be the difference between life and death. And she knew that. I know that I’m not a special one.
Niki made such efforts to accommodate all her friends, and I marveled at how how she was able to consistently put her love into practice for so many people, for so many years.
This past summer, her, Logan and I reconnected in a way we hadn’t in a long time. The last time I saw her face, just a few weeks ago. I was at a bar, FaceTiming with Niki and Logan, virtual happy hour, and we took a stroll down memory lane. I got to tell her how much I appreciated her friendship and why. We celebrated my wedding. I got to feel like I reciprocated her love. For the first time, I felt like I was on the path to being a good friend.
Now, I’m back in Vegas but I swear we were planning to kick it, drink my first batch of mead, and celebrate life, not have a COVID funeral!
Well, class is over. I seem to have graduated, and it’s time for me to go out into the world and become the friend I want to be. Here is where I cherish the memory of my friend, teacher, and role model.
If you’re reading this, it’s most likely because Niki has touched you somehow. You loved her, didn’t you?
When you go home tonight, whether you find yourself numb, drowning in tears, or trying to assign some sort of meaning to the fact that when the world needs people like Niki most, she’s gone, or whether you’re desperately trying to make yourself personally responsible for her death, as I know I have, I want you to know that Niki cares about you.
And you’re not alone.
We may not be friends. We may not know each other. You may never hear from me again. Yet, through our love for Niki, we are connected. And anytime you grieve for her, we are here with you in this emotional space. I want you to know that Niki cares about you, and you are not alone.
Thank you, Niki, for sharing your life with us, your light, your love, and all your gifts. I pray that we learn to celebrate life with gratitude for our every breath. I pray for the peaceful journey of your beautiful soul. Please forgive us for our selfishness, for wanting you here in this crazy, chaotic world, when we know deep down that you’re in a much better place.
Thank you for your time.
Today my wife and I planted a Chilean Mesquite named “Demeter,” dedicated to the memory of Niki Franklin.
The windstorm and the wild fires have stolen my rest, roused by the howling of the night sky, the forest creatures’ blackened faces pressed against my bedroom window, asking, “Do humans still have souls?”
An answer one might quest, lest I find myself caught up in some violent tempest, within, cobwebs and funnels, spun, like broken records, replay, nostalgic for smallness, this funeral, today…
How does the morning appear? Like an old newspaper, repeating historic nightmares, and fear, the far, natal stars charting fate, as the darkness fades, we believed, we obeyed, so naive, still dismayed, and prayed, our hearts blue, waiting for a savior (within you).
Then we worshiped with weapons, knelt to paper and holy books, innocent blood for sacraments, shook and deceived, bent, kneeled, agreed, while demons in mirrors made pancakes for breakfast, and we demanded pig, too.
The dark ballad resounds through the space opera house, as the morning sunlight creeps in, enlightening, the lighting, we find reasons for living, and forgiving, the pink of a rose petal, the whimper of a pet.
The most precious of secrets are hidden in plain sight: the trees produce golden fruit, the clouds only speak truth, and empires are for sociopathic children.
I woke up in the East and spent my day playing with the Salmon fry, while the Lion crossed the Sky.
The ceremony, our hands tied, crowns switched, my wine and her chalice, like Alice, and one sip, just one bite, vegan cake, love, and my wife, and this life, well, it’s just beginning…
Azrael Torres 