Assaulted!

And pissed about it!

Just leaving my friend's house tonight and there is this group of kids in the road in front of me. Now by kids I mean maybe 15 to about mid 20's. They're always kicking around late night on weekends and I usually just ride by them without getting much of anything. This being Bermuda people are expected to give the awkward greeting, so I always just smile or something like that. Well tonight I guess they got into a pack mentality or something. They were kicking around a soccor ball and instead of moving out of the road while I'm passing, the stay crowded and the guy with the ball moves it back in forth with his feet to make it seem like he was gonna kick it at the bike. I'm thinking "that's really dumb" because if he did kick it out it wouldn't harm me and the ball would go careening off into the darkness - they wouldn't have anything to play with anymore. Also, while I was riding by, another guy called out "let's knock off her helmet!" Apparently they've been speaking amongst themselves thinking of ways to punish me and that was all they could think of, because well they're stupid dumb kids. And again I think "um I've just been assaulted" the soccer ball and that phrase was enough to have me pretty pissed. Had they kicked the soccer ball at me or knocked off my helmet, then it would have been assault and battery and I would have turned right around and gone back to my friend's house to call the police. This ai n't at some high school, but out in the streets, so, in the streets, the police take over if people don't act civil toward one another. I just rode by quietly and unaffected knowing they wouldn't do anything. Still though, who knows another night they might actually do something. Probably not knowing how these youth tend to be all "assault" and no guts to do the battery part they threaten to inflict. Poor fuckers. They get my "Asshole of the Month Award".

And then I think to myself, what would have happened had I not looked like someone they could potentially victimize? I'm fucking tired of being made the target of people's hate, both within my age group, my sex, my race, outside of my race, in my country, outside of my country, in my family, outside of my damned family, in relationships, etc ... Sigh, but that's the cost of not being a fucking meat bag to be devoured by the brain slug that wicked force in this world.

Women in Space Westerns

In my internet travels I've discovered a nice little way to flex my short story fiction writing skills. A Feminist fiction group is asking people for submissions of various different prose, poetry and other mediums of fiction for their November 2008 event. I would like to write something. Feminist fiction in their standards is everything but the typical white male centered fiction. I have some ideas and am thinking of doing a character based on my younger brother. I have until October 28th to get it all thought out and written down and submitted. :P I can do! :D


Check out the website for more details:

http://www.spacewesterns.com/submissions/#22ndCarnival

Here is an excerpt:

What we are looking for: Genre, Topics, and Themes
Space Westerns

First and foremost, we’re looking for Space Westerns: works with themes from the Western genre set in Outer-space, or having some element of extra-terrestrial travel. This is the majority of the fiction that we publish. Our preference is to publish works that contain, in part, some form of off-earth travel.

For our purposes we consider the following to be examples of works with strong Space Western themes (inter-planetary fiction containing Western genre themes): Flash Gordon (comic, movie serial, and 1978 animated serial), Buck Rogers, Star Wars, Star Trek, Battlestar Galactica (both series), Firefly, Serenity, Mike Resnick’s Santiago, Ande Norton’s Beastmaster series, Ray Bradbury’s The Martian Chronicles, The Adventures of the Galaxy Rangers, Bravestarr, Silverhawks, Cowboy Bebop, Outlaw Star, Coyote Ragtime Show, and Trigun.
Science Fiction Westerns

Science Fiction themes with Western elements (setting, characters, etc.).
Steam Punk

We’d like to see Steam Punk (after all, the era is right) with some Western elements (themes, setting, characters, etc.). Space travel is a plus, but not strictly necessary.
Weird West

We’re using the term Weird Western here to denote Western/Fantasy/Horror genre blending. We are least likely to publish a Weird Western unless it also includes Space Western elements.
Feminist & Minority Themes

We’ve all seen the white man in a white hat riding his white horse into the sunset. The Western genre is replete with white male driven stories. The Space Western sub-genre isn’t much different. Send us stories with strong women, weak women, but most of all stories with real women. Send us stories from a non-WASP point-of-view: fiction about Chinese, Native American, Mexican/Spanish, African/African-American and/or even the “New Immigrants” — (German, Irish/Gaelic, Italian, Russian) peoples influences on the Western themes.

So I got this film fest ...

And it's really taking off. The first showing is next week and I am feeling so good. I hope the turn out is decent. 10 to 15 people would be a nice starter, even if they are just friends. I've advertised around campus, have hit Rock Island and Phase One. My next targets are my older brother's work, my mom's work, and possibly my older sister's work. I should also hit leisure time and some of the movie theaters. The week of the event I am going to make an announcement in each of my classes. I would love their support.

But now I have school work, and a break in which to look forward next week. I have some goals I would like to see through and some dreams to realize. :D

I'm learning to balance that inner punky creature with the mopey shy snufflupacuss weirdo and the geeky nerdcore school girl that my personality has triple split up into.

Jobs and Frogs

I've been soooo tired this week. It has been hard to concentrate on school work; or course a disastrous calculus test did not help my situation any. So this week I've been working on my film festival and pretty much coasting. I have a test on Tuesday and special plans this weekend, so well, this tiredness has been working against me by backlogging my work. Ah well. It'll be done and at least my film fest flyers are finish. Pop on over to my film fest blog for a look in the next couple days.

This morn I saw a two day temp position in the paper, and well I jumped on it and applied. It's just inventory work, so it's peanuts really. It's exciting though because the position begins next week and I will be getting cash! Ah making money is such a wonderful feeling. Hopefully they pay well and hopefully this will allow me to feel more comfortable with seeking out more employment opportunities. Still though, this is the perfect little gig. I am waiting to hear on an on-call marketing job. I'll be the person who stands on the street trying to get you to try products or passing out flyers to you. The only draw back of that job is I might have to go and get my look refined as it entails someone who is approachable - makeup, good clothes, groomed hair, etc ... So in my world that means mineral facial powder, newer/my nicer punk-goth-funky-casual clothes, a new pair of shoes (red chuck taylors!!), and doing something to hydrate my ultra dry afro (possibly dye it black with indigo and find someplace on this isle that sell shea butter. That or get twists again with like black and funky green or blue dyed afro-type hair or something).

Yeeeeee-ep. And I am planning for Halloween. I want to make my own costume. I've been going to DIY websites looking for tips on making ones own cloths and so on and so forth. I'm getting a lot of inspiration. Now I just need to go thrift store and yard sale hopping. I want an old wedding dress with a corset-type top and the gauze lacy-type skirt material to dye black and other colors. Oh this is going to be fun!

But school first!!!!!

Megalith

Megalith

The smell of brine was in the air, wafting in off the ocean far below the cliff as the wind blew strongly. The megalith must have stood on those cliffs for how long (?); long enough for the land to recede back as the ocean ate away at the cliffs. In another year or two these stones would be at the bottom of the sea. His hand wrapped around my palm, warm and slightly moist from the damp air and perhaps from well hidden fear. His face was a mask of determination – full mouth set firm, eyes staring ahead softly reflecting the green moonlight. If we had given in to fear tonight and waited until next year, the megalith would be gone and then we would bear the subsequent despair. But if things went wrong tonight! I squeezed his hand and took a step forward towards the megalith. With heavy steps he followed after.

The megalith formed a rough circle of stones, covered in moss and eaten away by the salt in the air. They were blackened with time and one can only wonder what their finish must have once looked like. Engraved in the largest of the stones, barely visible were words in a forgotten tongue and a glyph of a man and a woman standing in the middle of the circle of stones with moonlight streaming upon them. I wondered how many people through the ages came here seeking what they sought now, performing the ritual and then leaving with heavy hearts and great expectations.

Slowly we emerged into the centre of the stones facing the large stone with the glyph. I let go of his hand and turned to face him. He reached out and stroked my face, slowly and lovingly, and then grabbed my arm and forced my wrist up. I grunted and forced my face away from his, nodding grimly. I felt a sharp pain and then it was over. Warm salty blood streamed from the wound on my wrist and fell on the weed littered earth. Together we walked to the large stone, one arm directing me, the other flicking the blood off the dagger he used. Before the stone he stuck the dagger into the ground, following the ritual to the letter. He then guided my wounded wrist to the stone and pressed it against it. It was cold at first but quickly grew fiercely warm to the touch, as if my blood gave it a pulsing life of its own. I began to grow faint, whether from loss of blood or from the energy of the stone, I could not tell.
I finally turned my head to face him. My eyes told him it was ready. The stone grew warm as if alive, as the words we had read and reread so many times over the past few months had told us. Now he must do it and quickly. He brought my wrist to his mouth and clamped his mouth down on the wound. He grimaced and I lost my balance, falling back against the ever warm stone. He didn’t let go, he continued to follow the ritual, pinning me further against the stone, despite my discomfort. I gasped for it was painful and horrifying - his face was slowly turning from that of disgust to that of pleasure. He was enjoying it, greedily feeding on my blood, making loud slurping sounds and sighs of enjoyment. I closed my eyes and fought away my own hysteria. The words we read had told us this would happen. This was a good sign; but what if he didn’t stop. He would drain me!

Soon he let go of my wrist, and wiped the blood from his mouth – my blood which had been blessed by the stone. I sighed relieved and managed to seek his hand and squeeze it. He gazed at me, his eyes seeming to glow, and kissed my wounded wrist so tenderly and lovingly. I trembled and quickly pulled it away and wrapped my palm around it. With my blood now nourishing his body, we both sat in the middle of the stones and waited. I was so faint and tired but refused to give in and allow myself to pass out. I wanted to complete this ritual as it was written, and I didn’t trust him. My stone blessed blood had brought about a quick change in him. He seemed more feral and if I were to lose consciousness he would drain the rest of the life out of me.

As we sat there, I collected my thoughts and settled my emotions. I would have never thought we would resort to going to the megalith and all the risks involved including the risk of being discovered accused for indulging in such pageantry. This was the only way though, we had exhausted all our other choices. He had always been fascinated with the stones. Sometimes I wondered if the reason why we failed so much was because he had wanted it this way all along. I quickly let those thoughts go as I looked at him. He did not take his eyes off of me the whole time. His lips were so red and his skin looked darker. It was his sudden lack of blinking that told me soon the next phase of the ritual would begin. Eerily he stared at me with eyes no longer human, no longer blinking; and I sat paralyzed with an ebbing fear in which no amount of logic, no matter how hard I tried to think about the benefits, could dissipate. I waited for the next phase to begin with terror in my heart.

The moonbeam hit us and took me by surprise by its intense brightness. It was like the glyph on the large stone in front of us, now stained with my blood. Tonight was the night when the moon reflected its light most intensely on this spot. I stared at him, with his unblinking eyes; the moonbeam had transfixed him. I stood up and hesitantly took a step back away from him. That was enough to break his enchantment. In a flash he was on me, tearing the cloth from my body. He groaned and grunted like a beast. I screamed. Never had I thought it would be like this. Soon I was bare and prone. He began, stripping himself of his cloths in a rushed hurry, tattering them in the process. I trembled like a rabbit caught in a snare. This was what I wanted, I reminded myself. When dealing with ancient magic one must deal with ancient feral customs. It was that thought which made me falter with the ritual, willing to forget about it all. I was not an ancient human. I was modern and this sort of thing we were doing wasn’t right. And I was on my feet in an instant, slipping out of the reach of his grasping hands and running for the edge of the circle of stones which made up the megalithic structure. I screamed in full terror realizing that this whole thing was a mistake and a most unforgivable sin. He bounded after me. He was still a man, but there was a wild energy in him, making him like a solid black shadow. He grabbed my throat and forced me down. I struggled weakly, my strength compromised from the blood letting. I kicked him and kneed him and screamed. He was unflinching in his hold on me. Then he threw me to the ground and was upon me.

My insides burned in fire – a bright bursting and tearing of pleasure. I gasped and moaned so loudly and was greeted by his laboured groans. His hands clawed at my breasts, squeezing them in earnest. His mouth would lower to them every now and then, savouring my nipples and before finding my neck and biting it so roughly, drawing blood and lapping up the drops. It was intense and long. For hours it seemed he went at me, devouring me slowly as the time went by. His body was insatiable for mines. The power of the stones coursed through me causing my body to respond to his savage amorous attentions in such exquisite pleasure. It shamed me to enjoy this violation, but the ritual was being completed even if I no longer wanted to complete it. I wondered grimly how many of the other women who came before me were of the same resignation in this phase of the ritual as I. I endured his savagery until the moon began to fall. It was then that he let himself release in me, long and intense. He howled at the dying moon and I quaked and shuddered in his arms with my own long awaited relief. My eyes rolled to the back of my head and I lost consciousness in the intense waves of pleasure which were shamefully flowing over me. A fleeting thought of happiness filled my mind.

I thought of that night often in the months that followed. He was never the same after that and neither was I, but the ritual was done and behind us. That fall when our son came, the stones were no more, cast into the bottom of the sea with only the smell of brine to remind us of the sins which gave life to our blessings.

Myspace Stories

I just updated these tales of fiction onto my myspace page:

Music:

Moans and groans filled the air of my new apartment at night. Faint sounds barely heard above the sound of silence in my adobe. Spooks and kooks, hobgoblins and other dead unnatural things that should sleep in peace and leave me alone. And then I was thrilled to be the inhabitant of a haunted manor, as I thought of my quaint place which I had just moved into over a week ago. Every night I would listen and wonder what tortures my poor souls, mines because I owned the place, endured during their short sad existence when they lived in the world. It was a mark of pride and horror. Some nights the groans were so loud and frightening I would have to leave. I could hear them echoing down the halls, chasing me until I would run out into the safety of the night with its prowlers and midnight stranglers to sleep in my car until the dawn. And after a particularly frightening episode I decided to find out a way to put these souls to rest. So I scoured around. In pride I boasted to friends and coworkers about my search to help put these souls to rest. When I started questioning my neighbors, many of whom I was meeting for the first time, they all stared at me with an odd, sometimes mocking look. Undeterred I would not let their judgment of my experience in the paranormal deter me ... that is until I met my insatiable for each other next door neighbors. Shortly afterwards I moved out.

Films:

Wretched things filmed in black and white. The director was mad. She, in her heavy layers of black and gauze and powder, was utterly mad. Like an ancient thing, we couldn't believe she was still alive, living and breathing and fouling up our air. A wave of a wrinkled arthritic finger and her bandaged-masked assistant would go bounding away into the darkness behind the set bringing up things she felt was needed for our role. He was badly burned, she would growl out of loose jowls, slurring her words with an edge of sophistication and a drag of a cigarette brown with age of a brand that had not been for sale for over fifty years, to answer the questions which haunted our minds. Again the haggard mummy would slur, dusting puffing out of her mouth, a jilted lover threw acid on him. And after that we never asked anymore. The studio had sent her, sent us to her in her ruined studio in a rundown part of the city. And she filmed us with her small ancient camera and showed us the rotten fruits of our labor - wretched things filmed in black and white. We were sure we were damned for what we did. Weeks after it was over in the back of a local newspaper in a small passing blurb read - old woman found dead in an alley.


TV:

The TV Sat in my destroyed living room. We threw a rock through it to create a hole through so to watch the world burning in the guise of our favorite past time of being couch potatoes. We filed and polished the rock roughed sides down until a perfect square shaped hole was formed, and set it down in the living room, exposed to the exterior via crumbling walls blasted loose after the car crashed through it (thrown through our wall by the freak storm cause in turned by the accursed bomb which in turn was dropped during the devastating war which was caused by the terror attack which killed million, which was retaliation ...) Holes ... holes ... holes. And through the hole in the tv we looked through the hole in the wall into the chaos of the hell hole this world has become. We sat and watched because this was the only channel and nothing else was on that was better. And our minds were once again lulled as the horror of our existence seemed so real as to not be real, when on tv, and we were able to forget until hunger pains drew back out into the world and we all slowly died one by one on the coach in front of the non-functioning highly functional tv.


Books:

Cursed! How can this be. Every page turned blankness would peer up at me. Now now, my doctor would say, these pages are not blank. See here, can you see the words? I would nod my head for the words would be there and I could read them. Alone in my hands the words would fade and only blank pages would remain. My job let me go. How could I work if documents turned into crisp white sheets in my hand? I traveled the 3000 mile journey on foot and alone to the place where the monks dwell and begged them to tell me why I was cursed. among the throngs of filthy peasants and religious pilgrims I was nothing special and so like a mote in the eye of a god I was ignored. In my sorrow I sparked a campaign to burn all books and abolish the written word. Ignorants of the world bowed at my feet during the day and at night I cursed the sky as books burned, their pages turning black. A blind woman approached me one day, slapped me across the face and spat - pages are blank to me too you fool, it's called braille. I learned how to read braille and that was that.

Heroes:

My left hand is a superhero but not in the Muslim world were left hands are considered dirty. It would try to rescue hijabbed women in distress, dark skinned men who needed aid, only to be met with a look of disgust and the word "we know what your owner does with you!" In the West my left hand became a teacher, a profession filled with many left handers. It was a superhero who saved the lives of children and adolescents from the evils of ignorance and a minimum wage job through the powers of education. My left hand fought hard, winning and losing many battles. When it retired it was given a plaque by all its successful former students. My left hand came back to me one day to relate its strange tales and adventures. I listened with a bowed head and quiet interest. When it finished I complimented it on its prowess and skill and great heroic feats, and then with my right hand pop my two long overdo antipsychotic pills into my mouth.

Myspace Stories

I just updated these tales of fiction onto my myspace page:

Music	Moans and groans filled the air of my new apartment at night. Faint sounds barely heard above the sound of silence in my adobe. Spooks and kooks, hobgoblins and other dead unnatural things that should sleep in peace and leave me alone. And then I was thrilled to be the inhabitant of a haunted manor, as I thought of my quaint place which I had just moved into over a week ago. Every night I would listen and wonder what tortures my poor souls, mines because I owned the place, endured during their short sad existence when they lived in the world. It was a mark of pride and horror. Some nights the groans were so loud and frightening I would have to leave. I could hear them echoing down the halls, chasing me until I would run out into the safety of the night with its prowlers and midnight stranglers to sleep in my car until the dawn. And after a particularly frightening episode I decided to find out a way to put these souls to rest. So I scoured around. In pride I boasted to friends and coworkers about my search to help put these souls to rest. When I started questioning my neighbors, many of whom I was meeting for the first time, they all stared at me with an odd, sometimes mocking look. Undeterred I would not let their judgment of my experience in the paranormal deter me ... that is until I met my insatiable for each other next door neighbors. Shortly afterwards I moved out.
Films	Wretched things filmed in black and white. The director was mad. She, in her heavy layers of black and gauze and powder, was utterly mad. Like an ancient thing, we couldn't believe she was still alive, living and breathing and fouling up our air. A wave of a wrinkled arthritic finger and her bandaged-masked assistant would go bounding away into the darkness behind the set bringing up things she felt was needed for our role. He was badly burned, she would growl out of loose jowls, slurring her words with an edge of sophistication and a drag of a cigarette brown with age of a brand that had not been for sale for over fifty years, to answer the questions which haunted our minds. Again the haggard mummy would slur, dusting puffing out of her mouth, a jilted lover threw acid on him. And after that we never asked anymore. The studio had sent her, sent us to her in her ruined studio in a rundown part of the city. And she filmed us with her small ancient camera and showed us the rotten fruits of our labor - wretched things filmed in black and white. We were sure we were damned for what we did. Weeks after it was over in the back of a local newspaper in a small passing blurb read - old woman found dead in an alley.
Television	The TV Sat in my destroyed living room. We threw a rock through it to create a hole through so to watch the world burning in the guise of our favorite past time of being couch potatoes. We filed and polished the rock roughed sides down until a perfect square shaped hole was formed, and set it down in the living room, exposed to the exterior via crumbling walls blasted loose after the car crashed through it (thrown through our wall by the freak storm cause in turned by the accursed bomb which in turn was dropped during the devastating war which was caused by the terror attack which killed million, which was retaliation ...) Holes ... holes ... holes. And through the hole in the tv we looked through the hole in the wall into the chaos of the hell hole this world has become. We sat and watched because this was the only channel and nothing else was on that was better. And our minds were once again lulled as the horror of our existence seemed so real as to not be real, when on tv, and we were able to forget until hunger pains drew back out into the world and we all slowly died one by one on the coach in front of the non-functioning highly functional tv.
Books	Cursed! How can this be. Every page turned blankness would peer up at me. Now now, my doctor would say, these pages are not blank. See here, can you see the words? I would nod my head for the words would be there and I could read them. Alone in my hands the words would fade and only blank pages would remain. My job let me go. How could I work if documents turned into crisp white sheets in my hand? I traveled the 3000 mile journey on foot and alone to the place where the monks dwell and begged them to tell me why I was cursed. among the throngs of filthy peasants and religious pilgrims I was nothing special and so like a mote in the eye of a god I was ignored. In my sorrow I sparked a campaign to burn all books and abolish the written word. Ignorants of the world bowed at my feet during the day and at night I cursed the sky as books burned, their pages turning black. A blind woman approached me one day, slapped me across the face and spat - pages are blank to me too you fool, it's called braille. I learned how to read braille and that was that.
Heroes	My left hand is a superhero but not in the Muslim world were left hands are considered dirty. It would try to rescue hijabbed women in distress, dark skinned men who needed aid, only to be met with a look of disgust and the word "we know what your owner does with you!" In the West my left hand became a teacher, a profession filled with many left handers. It was a superhero who saved the lives of children and adolescents from the evils of ignorance and a minimum wage job through the powers of education. My left hand fought hard, winning and losing many battles. When it retired it was given a plaque by all its successful former students. My left hand came back to me one day to relate its strange tales and adventures. I listened with a bowed head and quiet interest. When it finished I complimented it on its prowess and skill and great heroic feats, and then with my right hand pop my two long overdo antipsychotic pills into my mouth.