jaylynn.barth

Canada

Published Work

Film Review Competition 2019

The Fall: The Art of the Innocent Narrative

    “You always stop at the same part, when it's very beautiful. Interesting.” -Alexandria, The Fall

    Sometimes, when browsing Netflix, one becomes overwhelmed with the sheer volume of shows and movies and subpar stand-up comedy specials to pick from. There are individual sections for action, romance, and adventure but the true 21st-century consumer doesn’t have the time or patience to watch three entire movies from three separate genres. If only there was a film that fit every genre, that was a bacchanal for the senses, and that could titillate even the film snobs of the community.
    Tarsem Singh’s The Fall,filmed in 28 countries over a period of four years, is a balm to the wound that is the modern-day cornucopia of monotonous Netflix originals. Proving that art and entertainment need not exist separately, Tarsem Singh can be described as nothing less than a visionary: determined to enact his own form of fantasy in the face of what is deemed...

Novel Writing Competition 2018

Köy

    It started with the stink of wet hay and eucalyptus swelling from the copper bowl in Seda’s hands. Melek’s breath fluttered against the red duvak, which tented out in front of her, casting a cardinal haze over the assembled women. That’s what they were: women, not friends. Friends wouldn’t be cutting the boards, assembling the gallows under her feet. Each woman dipped her fingers into the pot of henna, their hands turning rusty and stained. In turn, they leaned forward, swirling the paste over Melek’s wrist and palms. Here, the curve of the branch, there, the gaze of the nazar boncuk. Her hands turned cold under the mixture but sweat still slid down the curve of her brow. Inhale, watch the veil flicker towards you. Exhale, watch your world expand, inch by alluring inch. Surely, if she blew hard enough, the veil would push out, widening the expanse of space that was hers, only hers. Then, she...

Novel Writing Competition 2018

Köy

    It started with the stink of wet hay and eucalyptus swelling from the copper bowl in Seda’s hands. Melek’s breath fluttered against the red duvak, which tented out in front of her, casting a cardinal haze over the assembled women. That’s what they were: women, not friends. Friends wouldn’t be cutting the boards, assembling the gallows under her feet. Each woman dipped her fingers into the pot of henna, their hands turning rusty and stained. In turn, they leaned forward, swirling the paste over Melek’s wrist and palms. Here, the curve of the branch, there, the gaze of the nazar boncuk. Her hands turned cold under the mixture but sweat still slid down the curve of her brow. Inhale, watch the veil flicker towards you. Exhale, watch your world expand, inch by alluring inch. Surely, if she blew hard enough, the veil would push out, widening the expanse of space that was hers, only hers. Then, she...