Open call for Louisiana horror filmmakers: Submit a short for NOVAC’s ‘Swamp Screams’ night by September 29th

Somebody knocks.

I swing open the door with my latte and a person dressed in a Scream costume wields a rubber butcher knife.

“Blahhhh!” they screech.

I stand, unamused. They slap the latte out of my hands.

“No time for quaint fall slumbers!” they yell. “Gotta get your short film into NOVAC for “Swamp Screams” by September 29th!”

They scamper out into the yard and hunch down behind the hydrangea bush. A Scream mask head pops up over and ducks back down.

“I still see you!”

I leave my coffee lying on the porch. He’s right. This is no time for apple cider and flea markets.

It’s scream season, and there are horror films to be made.

NOVAC invites its Louisiana horror filmmakers to submit narrative and documentary short films by September 29th. Selected films will be shown at “Swamp Screams” and filmmakers will be included in a Q&A following the screenings. Filmmakers who attend the event in person will be provided a stipend.

Applications are accepted via Submittable, and for creators who have not used it before for creative submissions – it takes just a few minutes to set up your free account. The application asks about the artist’s relationship to Louisiana, their web presence, and all the relevant film information like logline, crew, run time, and synopsis. According to the application form, the application process will end on Saturday, September 30th at midnight (Central Time).

Maybe you’re an experienced filmmaker or perhaps this is the first creaking cellar door of filmmaking swinging open for you to venture into a basement of creative terror. Either way, the CRESCENT CINEMA SERIES by NOVAC is a great avenue for Louisiana filmmakers to show their work and interact with a live audience.

Filmmakers can access the “Swamp Screams” application here.

What else is going on at NOVAC?

And what else?

Knock, knock…

“Alright, it’s late and this is just inconsiderate–”

I swing open the door.

The wind brushes gently through the bushes. A chime tinkles. And then I see the knife in the door, with the blade through a piece of paper with letters written in blood:

SEPTEMBER 29TH. DON’T FORGET.

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