Short Film - Out of Control



Following from the success of a previous collaboration, Benjamin Britworth and Liza Bec decided to create the short film "Out of Control" using music from Liza's EP namesake to back a story created, filmed & directed by Benjamin. The film explores dark themes of Dionysian excess in a modern world, with the characters acting outrageously and dangerously. The filming is intentionally chaotic and unsettling, drawing the viewer into the narrative, only to spit them back out again at the end.

Music Video - Jealousy



"Jealousy" was created for the band "Bordello Rose" for their debut single of the same name. The video was directed by Benjamin Britworth and Olivia Rowe. The concept behind the video stems from the lyrics of the song, which discuss jealousy within relationships and the overpowering dangers that such an emotion might invoke.

Short Fiction - Representing Me

©2016
Benjamin Britworth

I existed. Of that I was certain. Yet the validity of my existence was in debate. I was a political void, hollowed by discontent. The world shuddered when I was born and raged each day I continued to be. My “being” was an igniting cause. It ground out a steady stream of misgivings; fuel for liberal tongues to dash me with. But hate is better than apathetic nothingness. I am not nothing. I am, was, and will be.
            I was born of words to a poor family in the southern-most tip of the African continent. You know this because it was written here and read by you. My family became impoverished only when established on this page. Before the sentence describing them as such was written they were the contrast to being: they were nothing. My family was dredged from the inverse world into this one. As was I. My body is tempered as you imagine it. Your thinking gives me lungs. You see me as “black-skinned” and as a “young boy” because you read, absorb and create that form of me. By these means, the words may not originate from my mouth, but they are of my thoughts. The fabula of this work fuels my being as your beating heart sustains yours. I breath through this paper, and I feed on it, suckled in your imagination like a babe.

Short Fiction - The Waterline

©2016
Benjamin Britworth

The water stunk of salient decay. I bobbed, stretching my arms to the mildew walls. My jacket hung heavy round my shoulders, sticky against my flesh. I was going to die down in this dark. My realisation of this fact had bitten in soon after I fell, with the panic I'd felt in the first few minutes giving way to a mellow shot of Valium calm. Now I ebbed in stagnation, the shallows of my mind as putrid as the liquid I floated in.
            It was better not to fight. I should already have sunk my head under the swill and swallowed as much murky blackness as possible, but I couldn't bring myself to do that just yet. A small part of me still believed I might survive. I knew a quick death would be comelier than a lingering one, and if I didn't kill myself soon then exhaustion and cold would slink in to murder me. I was afraid. I didn't want to die. With my hands bloodied and my fingers numb, I drifted, hoping for a miracle. It was a foolish hope, thinking that maybe my fiancĂ©e was still alive and had gone for help. Death infected the idea one iota at a time. Soon it would dissolve and I would accept my fate. My footing, so carefully dug into the stone walls, slipped, and I ducked beneath the surface. Black water ran metallic on my tongue and I spluttered it out, spit trailing from my lips.

Short Fiction - Baby's Arms

©2015
Benjamin Britworth

The morning was bleak. The farmhouse lay in shadow, creeping dawn slipping through the windows to touch the tired wooden furniture. Outside the sun shone cold with late autumn light, a washed out blue with hints of gold.
Elizabeth picked through her gilt hair, running her fingers over the knots and undoing them distractedly. Nothing could tempt her back to reality, not the weak coffee in her hand or the chirrup of the lonely robin outside. All she could think of was the news the Frenchman had delivered: the war was finished, and Edward was coming home.

Short Fiction - Short Story

©2015
Benjamin Britworth

Rufus had almost finished his speech. He licked his lips, tracing outward to taste the salty roughness of his kissers. With a hiss he drew breath, trying to work out where he'd lost his place. The audience sat bated, hanging on his silence. If only he could stop and hand over to the oh so plucky winner, but he couldn't. Not yet. It was too strange a place to wrap up. He might be able to switch to thanking everyone? That wouldn't do either, not in the middle of a sentence.“Errm,” he stuttered, his voice echoing across the hall. The quiet was intolerable, the tension palpable. He had to give up- No, wait! He saw his line and picked up his speech. Relief flooded his system...

Short Fiction - Acolyte

©2014
Benjamin Britworth

I smacked an elderly woman today, right before I slipped a blade between her ribs. I'm not proud of what I did, but I think she deserved it, especially considering the AK-47 she brandished at me. The gun wasn't loaded, oh no, otherwise it'd be my guts decorating the dirt instead of hers.
I think she intended to use the weapon as a bat to bludgeon my head in. My guess is that given the butt of the gun was rusty with blood I wouldn't have been her first kill. Today, it seems, just wasn't her lucky day.