Rising Tide Productions – Commercial & Other

“The truth about stories is, that’s all we are.”

~ Thomas King ~

What if I told you all it took to make all the difference was the click of a button. Let us show you.

Projects

Vision

Our vision lies with the stories that haven’t yet been told. The ones that wish to be seen, to be heard.

What We Do

At Rising Tide we pride ourselves on our ability to listen. It is our job is to transcribe; to fully realize your ideas.

How We Work

We offer more than our media services and perspective, we offer all that makes us, us. We offer our hearts too.

stills from movies.

WE ARE FORTUNATE TO LIVE IN ONE OF THE MOST BEAUTIFUL PLACES ON EARTH, WE WOULD LIKE TO CAPTURE AND SHARE WITH THE WORLD EXACTLY THAT. HAIDA GWAII AS WE SEE IT; A PORTRAYAL OF BEAUTY AND CELEBRATION OF COMMUNITY.

THE WHALE HUNT

MAGAZINE SUBMISSIONS

Yep, we’re doing it.

We’re making another magazine! And we want your help.

With stories like the one you see below we aim to astound, baffle and excite. We want each page to be met with an enthralling sense of curiosity. We want the reader, from start to finish, gasping, giggling, or grimacing at the very sight of the ink on the page. We want to inspire creation, the whackiest sort.

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TALL TALE BLUES BAND

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The Clouds Ain’t So Bad

A story of a boy unable to to distinguish fantasy from reality.

“You needn’t worry. To worry is to be fearful, and in angst comes defeat. I do not worry for I do not wish to succumb to my internal unknown.” He told her to be weary, weary of the words that he spoke, for the words that he spoke were never really his own. And she listened tentatively with two hands placed, in subtle fists, beneath her chin. They were extensions of her elbows; her fists. Joints meant to connect her forearms to her shoulders which pushed forward as she leaned closer. They hadn’t yet learned the pain of growing old, nor the shake in her bones and the ache in her heart as it breaks for the first time. She was beautiful, though not in the way that most are, in the way that most are beautiful. She was beautiful, not for me, not for him, not for anyone with eyes that see. She was beautiful for her, so beautiful she would be. But that didn’t matter to him; her dark brown eyes and porcelain skin.

All that mattered to him was that she was listening. No one would anymore; listen to him. They called him the boy who cried wolf, just a kid whose imagination has run so far away from him it may never return. And he understood, though it hurt, he understood. He knew what they meant, that a penny for his thoughts isn’t worth the cent. Oh he knew what they meant. Not a liar, not a cheat, just a kid whose got beat, with a mind that’s drifted farther than any eye could see. It was tough at first, but he learned to enjoy the worst, saying “the clouds ain’t so bad when you’ve got the thirst.” A silly joke, I know, but so it goes, this is the story of the boy who had the nose the size of Pinocchio. He just wished to be accepted, for him, his shortcomings and his whim. He just wished for it all to be real, to be loved and know how it feels. The stories he had thought lived, the dragons he had slain and the swords he had wield, he just wanted it all to be real.