December 23, 2008

Who'da thought?

Another guilty pleasure film: The Breakfast Club.

I loved this movie way before it became cool. Say, when I was a teenager, and the movie wasn't old enough to be retro. It almost goes without saying that the character I most identified with (and still do) is . . .

Take the Which Character Am I? Quiz

OK. Without the kleptomania and pathological lying (mainly because I'd go to fucking jail in a heartbeat). If I could find a way to market that and make money, I'd be richer than Bill Gates.

December 21, 2008

Pimp this blog!

SCENE: Blog platform. AUTHOR, dressed in formal attire and reeking of self-importance, enters. Takes folded letter from pocket, and begins to read . . .

Ah-hem. Dearest reader, if you read this blog and enjoy the content here, it would give me, the author, great personal satisfaction to know that. Should you require some direction, I would encourage you to link to this blog, quote from it, comment, and so on. Please give myself, the author, credit for anything you copy-and-paste on your own blog or site. I much look forward to entering a dialogue with you, and this would help tremendously. Thank you. Signed, the author.

I digress (working title: AVPD Moebius)

This is a short piece I did off the top of my head while at a party tonight. To date, this is the most deliberately personal thing I've written. It basically describes what it's like for me to interact with people on a day-to-day basis. I'm not entirely comfortable broadcasting the details of this on my blog, but I can tell more via e-mail.


SETTING: Swanky party with cool people hanging out and music playing.

Swanky party. GHOST floats through guests along perimeter of party. No one seems to notice. Unless otherwise stated, lettered scenes don't have to go in order.

Two STUDENTS enter. Go to bar. Get beer. One says, "Let's go on the roof." They do.

COUPLE argues. One storms off, leaving other alone. Ghost gives other a rose. Other chases after one, knocking rose to ground and trampling it. Ghost gently gathers crushed petals.

DJ puts on David Bowie's "Major Tom." People sing along softly. Ghost listens.

Professional with cell phone glued to ear pushes past ghost like it's a rickety screen door. Talks about tomorrow's meeting.

HOBO wanders into party. Urgently grabs a guest: "Do you see it? Do you see it? It's right there! (pointing to ghost). Why can't nobody see it?" Leaves in a hurry, muttering to self.

Repeat at least 5 times, preferably 10 or more.

December 15, 2008

Scene in progress (pt 2)

Orixa awakens weeping, trembling, whimpering in . . .

A room in Grandmother's house. Dark, intimate, like a cave or womb or tomb. We are CATS watching from the shadows.

GRANDMOTHER rushes to help. Comforts Orixa. Calms her fears while Orixa clings to her. Brings Orixa a slice of minced meat pie*.

Orixa notices something strange about Grandmother's eyes (a bit larger than usual? Maybe just the shadows playing on Grandmother's face). Grandmother soothes Orixa while Orixa eats the pie. Gentle pats, strokes, scratches - almost as though Orixa is canine. Orixa notices something weird about Grandmother's hands (too big? Slightly clawed? Maybe Grandmother just hasn't clipped her nails in a while). Grandmother gives Orixa a maternal kiss. Orixa wolfs down the pie. Nearly chokes. Coughs up something (What the - ?). It's a human finger bone.

Orixa sits limply, staring at Grandmother. Recoils when Grandmother reaches to discard the bone.
Stares at Grandmother in mute horror. Grandmother closes the distance. Coaxes Orixa out of cloak. Hugs Orixa close - tender, protective, soothing.

Gently leads Orixa to a dark spot amidst the cats (ie, us). Takes out a wolfskin. Shows it to Orixa. See? Harmless. Urges her to try it on. Orixa refuses. Grandmother dons wolfskin. Transforms into a huge WOLF. Shift is fluid, natural as breathing. Not so much a real wolf as the spirit of night - shadows and moonlight and mist - taking wolf form. During transformation, Orixa retreats. Notices shears. Stealthily picks them up and hides them.

Wolf approaches, almost gliding to her. Extends a hand/paw to Orixa, a silent invitation to be part of this magic. Orixa hesitates. Accepts. Wolf pulls Orixa close. Inhales her scent. Gives her an affectionate lick. Orixa lets Wolf hold her close, keeping her warm (Much better than that ratty old cloak, isn't it, dear?).

Orixa musters all her strength and courage. Stabs Wolf. Wolf falls upon Orixa, dead.
Orixa slips from Wolf. A pregnant pause. Orixa uses shears to remove the Wolf's pelt. Grandmother - human Grandmother - lies beneath. Orixa caresses Grandmother one last time. Takes wolfskin off her. Holds wolfskin close while gazing at Grandmother. Changes into wolf. Transformation slow and painful as bones, joints, skin stretch and contort into shape. Metamorphosis complete, Orixa devours Grandmother's flesh. Flees to . . .

TBC . . .

Note: During Witch Hunting Times (my moniker), it was believed that witches could transform into wolves by putting on wolf skins.

Note 2: In one telling of Red Riding Hood, the wolf gets Red Riding Hood to eat some of Granny's flesh (unbeknownst to Red Riding Hood).

December 11, 2008

Scene in progress (pt 1)

Orixa dons the cloak*, becoming Red Riding Hood as the dreamscape changes to . . .

A deep in dense forest. Twilight. We are TREES in wilderness, silent witnesses to what's to come. Strange SHADOWS pass through the woods, watching and following Orixa as she wanders helplessly. Something malevolent, predatory about them.

Orixa walks along a path through the trees (ie, us). Absently grazes leaves and branches, perhaps plucks off a few twigs or picks up a few things from the forest floor. Notices something glimmering just off the path. Hesitates a moment. Pursues the shining and finds a pair of polished shears. Examines them carefully, tests their sharpness on a stray twig before pocketing them.

Night falls.

Orixa tries to return to path but can't find it. Tears through trees (ie, us), frantically searching for signs of her passing - tracks, broken branches, the positions of the stars, anything - but finds none.

Orixa stumbles upon a small glade. Catches her breath. In the darkness, Orixa notices baleful red eyes gleaming like bicycle lights. She takes out shears. Sees something horrible in the shadows. Drops shears and runs as fast as she can.

Shadows swoop upon Orixa. Orixa screams, faints. Blackout.

TBC . . .

*Note: In the previous scene (the one in my head, not the one on paper), I imagined the old woman (or rather, the fairy in disguise) to have been weaving a blood red cloak.