Feature Films

Horizon of the Soul is the anchor of the Soul Series and Jeffery Reed's flagship feature. It carries a full production package including a completed script, nine original songs owned outright, one licensed song, a sponsorship packet, a production budget, and a letter of intent from director Tim Russ.

Full logline, synopsis, production details, and sponsorship information are available at the dedicated project site.

After years of legal warfare, manipulation, and watching his daughter be slowly turned against him, Josh files for full custody. Then new allegations surface. The fight he has been willing to wage for a decade suddenly asks a price he isn't sure he, or his daughter should have to pay.

Josh has been fighting since the day the relationship ended. Through every court date, every manipulated visitation, every year that Lily grows a little more distant and a little more certain of a version of her father that isn't true, he has kept showing up. Not because the system rewarded it. Not because anyone made it easy. Because she was worth it. When Lily is seventeen, Josh files for full custody. It is the most aggressive move he has made in a decade of legal warfare and it is the right one. Then new allegations surface. Josh has to decide whether continuing to fight will cost his daughter more than walking away will. Division of the Soul is the second chapter of Josh's story; a raw, unflinching portrait of what a decade of systematic manipulation looks like from the inside, what it costs a man to keep his integrity when the system keeps penalizing him for it, and what it means to love someone enough to stop fighting for them.

Josh's story is fictional, but the pressure that breaks him isn't. It comes from real systems, real power imbalances, and real moments where doing the right thing carries consequences no one warns you about. I've lived inside those moments; where integrity costs you, where speaking up makes you a problem to be removed, and where survival means deciding what parts of yourself you're willing to lose. — Jeffery Reed

Years after walking away from the custody battle, Josh has built the life he was told he didn't deserve. Now, with the right person beside him and his father's lessons finally making sense, he has to reckon with the family that failed him; and find his way back to the thing he always meant to create.

Josh is not the man he was. The legal battles are behind him. The manipulation is behind him. The years of showing up for someone who was being taught not to see him are behind him. What he has now is real; a wife who chose him, children who know him, a life built from the wreckage of everything that tried to break him. It should be enough. For a while, it is. Then the past surfaces the way it always does; not loudly, not dramatically, but in the quiet moments when he starts to understand his father differently, when the lessons he passes to his own children reveal uncomfortable truths about the ones he received. Josh begins to write. Not because anyone asked him to. Because it was always in him and he finally has the room to let it out. Light of the Soul is the closing chapter of a trilogy about endurance, chosen family, and what it looks like when someone who survived the worst of it finally arrives somewhere worth surviving for. It ends where it was always going to end; with Josh in a life he was always meant to have, surrounded by people who never needed to be convinced to stay.

I've watched people destroy themselves trying to hold onto family that was never going to hold them back. Staying in rooms where they weren't wanted. Absorbing punishment from people who should have been their safe harbor. Mistaking obligation for love.

Josh's story is built from that observation. The trilogy wasn't always going to end here; with him whole, with him chosen, with him finally writing the thing he always meant to write. But it had to. Because the alternative is a story that says endurance is its own reward, and I don't believe that. I believe some people earn their way through. I believe the right person exists for most of us. I believe chosen family is as real as blood, sometimes more so. Light of the Soul is the proof of that belief. — Jeffery Reed

Elijah survived two deployments. He couldn't survive his living room. When he finally broke years of silence and told his wife what he had been carrying, her response became the wound that nearly finished what the war couldn't.

Elijah came home. That's what everyone said; he came home. What they meant was his body came home. The rest of him has been fighting a war nobody can see, in the spaces between sleep and waking, in the flinch before the sound resolves, in the careful way he moves through rooms that should feel safe. For years he carried it the way he was taught to carry everything; quietly, without complaint, without burden. When he finally opens up to the woman he has built his life with, he isn't asking to be fixed. He isn't asking for much at all. What he gets back are six words that will echo longer than anything he heard downrange. Man Up is not a war film. It is the battle that comes after; fought in living rooms and kitchens and the silence between two people who no longer speak the same language. It is about what we do to the men we send into the worst of the world and then expect to return unchanged. And it is about what happens when the one person who was supposed to be safe turns out not to be.

My brother Tony is Elijah. That's not a metaphor; that's the origin of this story. After more than twenty years of marriage, he opened up to the woman he believed was his soulmate about the trauma he had been carrying alone. Her response was "man up and deal with it." They divorced. What almost happened before that divorce is something I will not reduce to a logline.

Man Up exists because Tony deserved better. Because every veteran who has ever swallowed something unspeakable to avoid exactly that response deserved better. The film isn't about war. It's about what we do to the people who survive it; the specific cruelty of a culture that arms men for combat and then punishes them for being wounded by it. Tony is still here. This film is for him; and for everyone still carrying what they were told not to show. — Jeffery Reed

Dr. Marie King has always been drawn to what nature hides. When two unusual specimens arrive at her lab, she unlocks something that was never meant to be opened. Some locks exist for a reason.

Dr. Marie King is a field biologist who has spent her career in the Florida Everglades studying what most scientists overlook. When two unusual specimens arrive at her lab, she sequences their genome and discovers something that inverts everything she thought she understood about baseline reptilian biology. What she finds isn't a mutation. It's an original. And the single-headed world she has always studied is the anomaly. Against the advice of her colleague, she unlocks what was suppressed; incrementally, carefully, with full documentation. It isn't enough. What follows is not a monster movie. It is the story of a scientist who did everything right and still couldn't predict what a genome remembers when you finally let it speak. And a military that learns, too late, that the thing in the swamp was never the threat they thought it was.

We already know animals evolve to survive human pressure. There are elephants alive today being born without tusks because the ones with tusks kept getting killed for them. Evolution doesn't care about majesty. It cares about survival. So here's the question that started Beneath the Design; what if the creatures we dismissed as mythology didn't go extinct? What if they just made themselves unrecognizable?

A Hydra that shed its extra heads. A Roc that shrunk itself down to something we'd never look at twice. A Phoenix that stopped burning. Not gone; just hidden inside the genome of something ordinary, waiting. That's not fantasy. That's a reasonable biological hypothesis. Marie is on the spectrum. She wanted the military and the military didn't want her, so she went somewhere her mind could do what it was built to do. She doesn't want to weaponize what she finds. She wants to understand it. In a world that only wants to kill it, that makes her the most dangerous person in the story. — Jeffery Reed

When a marine biologist's late-night walk home ends with an inexplicable wound and a biology that no longer makes sense, he does what he has always done; he follows the evidence. What he finds in the deep water changes everything he thought he understood about survival, about community, and about what it means to build a life in a world that was never designed for you.

When a marine biologist's late-night walk home ends with an inexplicable wound and a biology that no longer makes sense, he does what he has always done; he follows the evidence. What he finds in the deep water changes everything he thought he understood about survival, about community, and about what it means to build a life in a world that was never designed for you.

Most vampire stories stop at sunlight and call it done. But moonlight is reflected sunlight. If the allergy is to the sun itself; to the radiation, to the light; then a clear night with a full moon should be just as dangerous as being out during the day. Nobody ever follows that logic to its conclusion. I did.

If that's true, where does a vampire actually go? Not a castle. Not a crypt. Those still sit under an open sky. You follow the logic far enough and there's really only one answer; down. Deep down. Past the continental shelf, past the thermocline, into the part of the ocean where no light has ever reached and no hunter is going to follow. The Depths Below started as a single question: what if a vampire was also a scientist, and smart enough to actually solve the problem? What if instead of hiding from the world, he built a new one? Everything else grew from there. — Jeffery Reed

A PhD candidate follows physical evidence across three continents to a conclusion his committee will never fully believe. He has bigger problems than his dissertation. The evidence is still breathing.

Nathan Grey is not the kind of scholar who stops when the evidence gets uncomfortable. When fragments surface from two separate sites on the Libyan coastline carrying biological impossibilities that no conventional framework can explain, he follows the trail the way he follows every trail; carefully, methodically, and further than anyone else was willing to go. What he finds in a cave on the western Libyan coast is not what four years of research prepared him for. What follows is not an academic discovery. It is something older and quieter and far more costly; a relationship built across a language that has been dead for millennia, between a man who came without a weapon and something that has been waiting, without knowing it was waiting, for exactly that. He will defend his dissertation. He will never be able to tell anyone what he actually found. And he will choose that silence without hesitation, because some things are better protected by silence than by evidence.

I was working through the Medusa mythology the way most people do; as a story about a monster. Then a question occurred to me that I couldn't let go of. Every person in every version of the story who turned to stone came to her with a weapon or came to take something. Nobody in three thousand years of recorded mythology approached her without intent to harm.

So I started wondering; what if the petrification was never the curse? What if it was simply cause and effect? And what if the real tragedy wasn't what she became, but that nobody ever bothered to test the one thing that might have changed everything; showing up without a weapon. Stone and Memory is built around that question. Nathan Grey is the first person in the story's history who never thought to bring one. — Jeffery Reed

When a weapon humanity built to be unstoppable escapes every attempt to contain it, the modern world has no answer. The ancient one does. What returns from the edges of myth and legend knows the cost of this fight before the first blow is struck. They come anyway. Not because the world deserves it. Because some prices are worth paying regardless.

They knew what it would cost before the first blow was struck. The creatures the modern world spent centuries classifying as myth, dismissing as legend, erasing from the record; they felt the disturbance. They understood what answered it. And they came anyway, not because the world deserved it, but because some things are worth dying for regardless of whether anyone remembers you existed. What they walked into was a weapon humanity built and could not stop; a biological predator engineered beyond anything nature would have permitted. What they left behind was a world that will never fully understand what it owes them. The age of myth does not return with triumph. It returns with fire, and grief, and a cost paid in full by the ones who were never asked if they were willing. They were.

I didn't start with a dragon. I started with a question nobody was asking; what if the reason mythological creatures disappeared wasn't that they never existed, but that they got very good at not being found? That question became a vampire colony three thousand meters underwater. It became a scientist who unlocked something ancient in a Florida swamp and had to live with what came out. It became a deaf archaeologist who found a library that was never lost. It became a man who followed academic evidence to its logical conclusion and found someone waiting at the end of it who had been waiting for exactly him.

By the time I understood what I was building, it was already a universe. Six stories. One question running underneath all of them; what does the world owe the things it chose to forget? They were never monsters. They were just hiding. So was I, for a long time. This universe is what happens when you stop. — Jeffery Reed

Something is spreading. One moment everything makes sense. The next, it doesn't. And the worst part; you're the only one who notices.

Nobody can explain it. Nobody saw it coming. One moment, people are living their lives; the next, something has shifted in a way they can't articulate and can't prove to anyone around them. The memories are all there. The details are wrong. The people who should know them don't quite recognize them. The life that surrounds them fits like a coat that belongs to someone else. As the phenomenon spreads and more people find themselves unmoored from everything they thought was solid, the question stops being what is happening and becomes something harder to answer; if your memories are all you have left of who you were, and the world no longer confirms them, how long before you stop trusting them too? Fractured Echoes is a psychological science fiction drama about the most ordinary trigger imaginable and the most disorienting consequence possible; what happens when a thought you've had a thousand times finally goes somewhere you can't come back from.

It started with a single thought. What if wondering was enough? Not wishing, not praying, not making a deal with anything. Just that quiet moment everyone has had; sitting with a choice you didn't make, a road you didn't take, genuinely asking yourself what would have happened if you had. What if that was the trigger?

Fractured Echoes is built entirely from that premise. No mythology around it, no explanation that fully satisfies, because that's not how the idea feels from the inside. It doesn't feel like science fiction. It feels like something that could happen the next time you let your mind drift too far into a what-if. That's what makes it unsettling. The mechanism isn't a machine or a spell or a cosmic event. It's just a thought held a moment too long. — Jeffery Reed

A man sits down for a police interrogation. What follows is the most elaborate non-answer in the history of law enforcement; a labyrinth of tangents, misadventures, and surreal detours that somehow keeps circling back to a contest he won and a confession that never quite arrives.

The detective has one question. It should take twenty minutes. Three hours later, he is no closer to an answer and significantly more confused about what any of this has to do with the incident in question. The man across the table isn't being evasive. That's the unsettling part. He genuinely believes he is getting to the point. Every tangent connects to the next one with its own internal logic. Every detour circles back eventually. And somewhere underneath the avalanche of bizarre misadventures, strange jobs, and surreal fistfights, there is a confession. Whether the detective will recognize it when it arrives is another question entirely. Confession by Way of Detour is a darkly comic crime drama about unreliable narration, the nature of truth, and what happens when the most honest person in the room is also the least linear.

I have ADHD. If you've ever had a conversation with me, you already know where this is going. Confession by Way of Detour is the most honest thing I've ever written, structurally speaking. Not because the story is autobiographical; it isn't; but because the shape of it is. The way it starts in one place and ends up somewhere else entirely before looping back. The way the tangents feel more alive than the main thread. The way the whole thing somehow coheres at the end despite every indication that it shouldn't.

That's not a writing choice. That's just how my brain works. I spent a long time thinking that was a flaw. Confession by Way of Detour is what happened when I decided it wasn't. — Jeffery Reed

A woman has kept journals her entire life filled with warnings, predictions, and entries she has no memory of writing. When the predictions start coming true, she realizes the journal isn't predicting her future. It's remembering her past.

Kaiya has always been slightly ahead of the world around her. She knew what the teacher was going to say before she said it. She applied to one college because she knew it was the only one that would accept her. She wrote things down in journals she couldn't remember keeping, in handwriting that was unmistakably hers. For most of her life she has lived with the strangeness quietly, filing it away, telling herself it means nothing. Then the warnings start coming true. Not occasionally. Systematically. The journal isn't guessing. It isn't coincidence. It knows things that haven't happened yet with a precision that can't be explained by intuition or luck. And underneath all of it, appearing in reflections and dreams since she was four years old, something is watching. Something that has been patient for a very long time.

My great-aunt believed we come back. Not as different people in different lives; as ourselves, over and over, until we finally get it right. She held that belief quietly and completely, the way some people hold faith; not as argument, but as foundation. I never forgot it.

The Space Between the Lives isn't a film about reincarnation as mythology or metaphor. It's a film that asks what that specific belief; hers; might actually look like from the inside. My great-aunt is gone now. I don't know if she was right. But I wrote this film in the spirit of taking her seriously; of following the idea all the way to its end and seeing what lives there. This one is for her. — Jeffery Reed

Freydis Eiriksdottir sailed to Vinland, fought off attackers while pregnant, and may have ordered the execution of an entire settlement. The sagas recorded both. History chose one. Northborn doesn't.

The year is approximately 1010. Freydis Eiriksdottir is the daughter of Erik the Red, sister to Leif Erikson, and one of the few women in the Norse sagas who is remembered by name for something other than who she married. She sailed to Vinland. She stood on ground her brother had already claimed and decided it wasn't enough. When attackers came, she picked up a sword from a fallen man and drove them back while pregnant; a moment the sagas record with the kind of matter-of-fact brevity reserved for things that actually happened. She is also accused in those same sagas of ordering the execution of an entire settlement of colonists, including the women her male companions refused to kill, and carrying out the order herself. Both of these things may be true. Neither of them has ever been told as a complete story. Northborn follows Freydis from the shores of Greenland to the forests of North America, through the politics of a Viking expedition where she holds no formal authority and commands more respect than anyone with a title, to the moment where ambition, survival, and ruthlessness converge into the event that history remembered and never fully explained. This is not a story about whether she was good or bad. It is a story about what it costs to be both; and what the world does with women who refuse to be only one thing.

Outside of the Eddas, Freydis Eiriksdottir barely exists. Her brother Leif has monuments. He has recognition. He has a place in the historical record that nobody seriously disputes. Freydis sailed the same waters, stood on the same soil, and faced down attackers while pregnant with a sword she picked up off a fallen man; and history gave her a footnote and a reputation for treachery.

That gap bothered me. Not because I think she was innocent of everything attributed to her; the sagas are complicated and she may well have been exactly as ruthless as they suggest. But ruthless men get epics. Ruthless women get warnings. There is almost nothing written about her outside of those old texts. Which means the story is wide open. Which means nobody has told it yet. That's why I wanted to. — Jeffery Reed

Riona, captain of the Sable Wraith, steals a relic and inherits a curse; one year to live. She tells no one. Instead she charts a final course built around the dreams of every person on her crew, determined to give them everything she can before the sea takes her.

Riona has survived storms, naval pursuits, and no small number of double-crosses. A curse was not on her list. When a stolen relic reveals she has a year left to live, she makes a decision that says everything about who she is; she doesn't tell her crew. What follows is not a farewell tour. It's a campaign. One by one, Riona charts a course toward the things her crew has always wanted but never chased; a debt settled, a wrong righted, a lost family member found, a score that has been sitting on the books for years. From outrunning sirens to robbing nobles who have it coming, the Sable Wraith cuts through the kind of adventure that only happens when someone has nothing left to lose and everything left to give. Heart of the Storm is a PG swashbuckling adventure about the particular freedom that comes from knowing how the story ends; and choosing to spend what's left making it mean something for the people you love.

Name a pirate captain. I'll wait. Now name a woman pirate captain who isn't Anne Bonny, Mary Read, or a Disney property. Take your time. That's the gap Heart of the Storm was written into. Not because female pirates didn't exist; they did, and they were formidable; but because the swashbuckling adventure genre has spent decades centering the same kinds of heroes on the same kinds of ships having the same kinds of adventures.

Riona exists because that space was empty and it didn't have to be. She's not a subversion of the genre. She's not making a point. She's just a captain who happens to be a woman, leading a crew she loves, on a voyage she knows is her last; and she's going to make every mile of it count. That felt worth writing. — Jeffery Reed