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Saturday, October 30, 2010

The Sharpshooter

12:26 AM | Posted by Jezzi | Edit Post
Evelyn Douglas was born to be a sharpshooter. Thats what her father told her as long as she could remember. She preferred revolvers. The heavy weight a solid force in each hand, the sun glinting off each engraved barrel. She could fire a rifle just fine, there wasn't any question there. It was just too slow for Evelyn. She liked her life to be fast, just like she was.

Evelyn only slowed down once a year, for Dia De Los Muertos, the Day of the Dead. Her mother was a Mexican beauty, all raven hair and dark eyes. Evelyn looked just like her mother, no matter how pale and European her father might be. She'd sit at the cracked wooden table in her kitchen, and paint intricate designs on each of her tiny sugar skulls. She'd spend the entire day laying down complex scallops and streaks around their eyes and mouths, flowers on their cheeks, making the plain white sugar bright and vivid. She barely remembered her mother, but what flashes she had went into the skulls. The vibrant colors of her skirts, the delicate curve of her shoulder, the humor in her eyes. When she was younger she had asked her father what foods her mother loved, and she painstakingly recreated them. Spicy tamales, delectible arroz con pollo, and bottles of fresh milk adorned the simple altar she would erect each year. She would cover the altar in flowers and her skulls, all fanning out from the one faded photo she had of her.
She'd goad her father into coming by the house to sit with her at the altar, feet crushing stray marigolds as they tumbled to the floor. He'd humor her for love, tell her sweet and silly stories of her mother. How she entranced him the moment he saw her, her dark hair flowing over her shoulders like a waterfall as she laughed. He'd tell her about her mother celebrating Day of the Dead, how she'd never been a good cook, and her offerings were always burnt as black as her eyes. He'd tell Evelyn how she'd been named by her mother, how she'd jokingly told him that she'd give her a good English name since she was getting good Mexican beauty. It was only fair. He told her how much he loved her voice, how each time she went to sleep, she'd murmur 'I love you very much', her V's forever sounding like B's to him, and he'd fall in love with her all over again. He'd tell her how she used to sing Evelyn to sleep in Spanish, her soft voice somehow filling the room with beauty. He'd tell her everything with a quiet sort of reverence, his fingers worrying the petals of a Marigold. And in this way, Evelyn knew her mother.

After a time, they'd leave the tiny yellow house she lived in, and make their way to the cemetary. Evelyn would have split the food offerings, half of them arranged on the altar, the other half in a basket along with a Catrina figure, marigolds, and some more sugar skulls. She would have slipped in a tiny bit of tequila, even though her mother never drank. Spirits seemed an important part of the day for most, and she didn't want to mess anything up. They'd reach her grave and Evelyn would spread out a cloth her aunt had made her, sewn from one of her mothers colorful skirts. Her aunt had made another cloth for her altar at home, and the rest had become a quilt so Evelyn could always have her mother's embrace. She'd spread flowers on the cloth, along with tall candles painted with a portrait of the Virgin Mother. The skulls would be carefully arranged, along with the extra food and drinks. Again, she'd sit and think of her mother, talk with her father. Most times her aunts would come with trinkets and treats, but other times they stayed at the cemetary in their little town, where Evelyn's grandparents were.

Eventually, as is always the case with the holiday, the sun would go down, and the candles would illuminate the night. Flickering lights would throw garish shadows on the faces of attentive loved ones,transforming everyone into grinning calaveras. Someone in the cemetary would begin to play music, and Evelyn's father would tell her about how her mother used to dance. Evelyn would rise from the ground and sway her hips, her eyes closed and her arms held high above her head. She would kick off her shoes and spin, her skirts billowing out from her legs, nearly catching fire as they sailed over the candle flames. She would sing to herself in Spanish, in the language of her mother, and sway to the music, her hair a waterfall of black. Her father would watch her, eyes heavy with sadness and love, and for a moment he would see his wife again, and in this way, Evelyn's mother lived.

When the candles had guttered out, and the music had ended, Evelyn would kiss her hand and press her fingertips to the cool stone grave marker. She and her father would trek back to her tiny yellow house on the hill, where he'd kiss her cheek and head home. She'd go inside and lay out thick blankets and soft pillows beside the altar, so her mother could come and rest with her. She'd lay down in her own makeshift pallet, and look up at the faded photo, whispering prayers of hope and love to her beloved madre. She'd fall asleep with her arm outstretched, fingers touching the hem of the altar cloth, waiting for her mother to come.

In truth, Evelyn was born to be a dancer, like her mother before her. She was agile and rhythmic and lithe. But things don't always go the way we plan, and mothers aren't always there to teach their daughters to be little ballerinas. Sometimes we're left with fathers and revolvers. Evelyn was born to be a sharpshooter, that's what her father said.
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Sunday, February 14, 2010
1:09 AM | Posted by Jezzi | Edit Post
Dear Dad,

Its a couple days after m 23rd birthday, and I meant to write to you sooner. I don't feel any different than 22, and the day wasn't all that special. I was snowed in, so no work (for the third day that week, my paycheck is going to suck!)but a couple friends managed to come by and see me. No cake or anything. I've been having strange holidays and special occasions it seems. No X-mas tree or wrapped presents either. But anyway, it scares me. This whole situation where one year feels the same as the next. I don't want to wake up one year and find myself thirty years old, with a boring tedious life I loathe and a job I hate. I have these big dreams, and I don't know if I'm strong enough or motivated enough to realize them. Did you know I wanted to be a chemist? No shit, I swear. I LOVED Chemistry in school. I should correct that. I still want to be a chemist. Its fascinating, the idea that these tiny little atoms and molecules can bind together and become things. People and water and trees....Its amazing. I want to write a novel too. I've always had these ideas in my head but I never had a solid idea I wanted to really use. And then suddenly one came to me and I'm trying so hard not to have it smothered out of me by work and home and just life. I want to get better at drawing too, and coloring. I just never have time to practice with work sucking the life out of me. I should make time this weekend to draw. And write.....I miss you dad. I wish I could call with all this, instead of typing this into a box on a laptop screen and trying to pretend wherever you are you see it. This birthday felt hollow. There were years and years where I never heard from you, but even if it was in a tiny corner of my brain, buried under whatever I could find to try and cover it, there was hope that you'd call. The potential, the possibility. Now there is no hope, no chance. You won't be calling to wish me happy birthday ever again. I can't call to wish you anything. You know I texted you a few weeks ago? I couldn't help it. And I can't delete your number from my phone. I have so little of you, I cling to what I've got. Well I think I'm going to wrap this up, Its almost 5 am, and I'm tired. I love you dad. Always.

Jessi
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Wednesday, February 3, 2010

The Butterfly Killer 001

2:10 PM | Posted by Jezzi | Edit Post

This is a very long entry, I'm sure. But I'm uploading what I have so far. Updates to this story will now be sporadic and much shorter, I'm sure.


Alan Briton groaned as he brought his Honda to a stop behind the growing line of cars. The salesman had promised him the cabin was soundproof, yet he heard the scream of horns echoing from every direction. Next time he’d buy domestic. The sun started to bake through the windshield and he clicked the air conditioning on as he felt the first beads of sweat pop up across his forhead. Next to him in the passenger seat his wife, Elizabeth, looked out the window. No doubt she was trying to discover what horrors had stopped their ride home. Without shifting her eyes from the traffic she reached over and turned the air conditioning back off.

“You’re wasting gas. Just roll down the window.” She said, craning her neck to try and get a better view. “I hope no one is hurt!” Alan rolled his eyes at her worry. In Baltimore people clogged the highway because they’d heard there may have been a cop within ten miles of the highway three hours before. Personally he’d much rather just shoulder a speeding ticket. In any case he seriously doubted an accident. Eventually they’d edge past a car stopped on the side of the road, a state trooper lecturing some poor soul about the dangers of reckless driving. He felt for whoever it was. But he’d never tell Lizzie that her worry was misplaced. God knows she’d never forgive him the one time it did turn out to be an accident. He sighed and rolled down his window, gagging as a wave of exhaust scented heat flooded the car. Yes, this was certainly just as good as the frigid air that was just pumping through his vents. His eyes rolled again.

Almost half an hour later he gave a little noise of relief as the brake lights on the truck in front of him went out, and it rolled forward several yards. It was by no means sixty miles an hour but it was movement. Beside him Lizzie had fallen asleep, her grey hair falling across her eyes. There was a harsh red flush to her arms, remnants of the cruise they’d just been on. But other than that she looked amazing for her fifty-five years of life, the only things seperating her from their daughter being her hair, and a good deal more experience behind her eyes. He smiled as the traffic began to move again, and they passed a state trooper walking back to his cruiser from a little red sports car. With a shake of his head, he drove on towards home.

------------------------------------------------------------------

Shopping bags grated against Elizabeth's skin like tiny razors, irritating and inflaming her sunburn. She hissed through her teeth and blew a tendril of hair from her eyes to better see her husband as he fumbled for keys. What seemed like hours later, he picked their house key from the jumble and there was a tiny metallic scrape as it slid into the lock. Cold air billowed out from the dark interior of the house, into the oppressive Baltimore summer heat. Without warning she shoved past him, forcing her way into the air conditioning and dropping the bags to the plush living room carpet. With an apologetic glance over her shoulder she chose a bag from the pile and rummaged through it, picking out a bright yellow sun dress with the black silhouette of hibiscus flowers exploding from the bottom hem. She rose to hold the dress in front of her, inspecting it for any imperfections. A smile crept over her face, thinking of her daughter wearing the dress, knowing it would complement her sunshine colored hair and blue eyes. She turned to her husband, who stood at the island in their kitchen with a glass of water.

"Do you think she'll like this, Alan?", she murmured, glancing down the hallway towards the closed door that led to her daughter Anna's room. Behind her, Alan shifted and she heard the glass clink against the porcelain counter top as he set down his drink. He walked up behind her and kissed her shoulder fondly, ruffling her hair as he'd done their entire marriage. He looked over her head at the door down the hall and his eyes narrowed at an uneasy feeling. Ignoring it he turned back to her and smiled.

"She'll love it. Just like she'll love every ring, necklace, flip flop, barrette, set of earrings, key chain, and the kitchen sink I'm sure you got her too." He bent to pick up another bag and as he turned to put it on the island he glanced back at the shut door. After a couple moments he looked back towards Elizabeth. "Lizzie, didn't we see Anna's car out front? Could you check?" His eyes went back to the door as she poked a finger through the blinds, peering out at their daughter's tiny blue car sitting in the driveway.

"Yeah, she's home. Why?", She looked at Alan and then followed his gaze down the hall. "She's probably taking a nap Alan. Teens take naps." But her own eyes were stuck to the door now, and at the same moment both of them placed the uneasy feeling. The house was quiet, the kind of smothering silence that makes a person turn on music when they intend to read, that makes people hustle down staircases in a misplaced sense of fear. The kind of silence that every parent gives up when they have a child. Alan walked around her and moved down the hall towards the empty door. He looked over his shoulder at his wife and she smiled encouragingly, although a ball of terror was settling in her stomach.

Halfway down the hall Alan froze, as if a wall had been erected in front of him. Every cell in his body was propelling him forward but he couldn't bring his legs to move. He felt his wife pad down the hall and as she came up beside him she glanced up, her eyes pleading. He looked down at her, tears pricking his eyes, and then back at the door, which had become too large, too heavy to imagine opening.

Elizabeth continued on, pausing when she reached the door, her hand on the doorknob. Sucking in her breath, she pushed it open, and then the air whooshed from her lungs. Her legs gave out beneath her and she sank to the floor, her eyes glued to her daughter's bed. The smell wafted out around her, until now hemmed in by the closed door and the plush carpet that rose to meet it. The window was open and curtains fluttered in the humid air, the room was easily 30 degrees hotter than the rest of the house. Her stomach heaved and she quelled the urge, tried and failed to stand. She hugged herself and dug her nails unfeelingly into her sunburned arms, beginning to rock slightly on her heels. Behind her, her husband found the strength to move and came up to her side, his eyes on her, his hand falling to her shoulder. She didn't look up at him, she couldn't. Her eyes could see nothing but the bed, with its warm yellow comforter, Anna's favorite color. Finally her husband raised his eyes to the room and saw their daughter, and as he screamed, an inhuman sound that hurt her ears, Elizabeth's stomach heaved once more and she found herself unable to stop the wave.

Anna Briton lay stretched across her bed in an almost casual pose. Her hair flared across the pillows in a golden wave and her right hand was beside her head, palm upward, fingers lightly curled. Her legs were bent at the knee, and her left arm lay over her abdomen, her hand resting on her right side. And here the calm ended. Violent angry wounds covered her stomach and chest, gaping gashes filled with clotted blood and dotted with flies. Her sunny cover was marred by a massive pool of dark red, and it had flowed to the edge and over, forming a puddle on the floor at the edge of her bed. Beside her, on a white nightstand piled high with books and music, a single blue butterfly fluttered lethargically in a clear glass mason jar.

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Tuesday, February 2, 2010

The Rebirth of Lillian Strayer.

5:39 PM | Posted by Jezzi | Edit Post
I think I may actually start to use this blog for writing. I never have the time to do anything substantial anymore and it depresses me. I have these stunning ideas at work, but no time to even jot down a rough idea of them. I find it funny how much the outline of my main character has changed in the year I've started working at MY-A, and yet I haven't even written down the changes. So perhaps she'll be the first blog. Yeah I think that settles it.


Name: Lillian Strayer
Heritage: American with French/English ancestry
Age: 30
Sex: Female
Hair: Originally black, now mahogany/deep brown
Eyes: Originally blue, now cat's eye green
Complexion: Originally pale, now rosy
Build: Originally tall and slim with small breasts and narrow hips, now short and curvy, with a slightly more ample bosom and much wider hips.
Occupation: Biochemist currently employed by the Maryland State Police's crime lab.
Style: Varies wildly depending upon where she is. At work she channels an almost pinup style, with pencil skirts and classic pumps as standards. At home she is more eclectic and comfortable, with wrap around sweaters and yoga pants. She has a love of argyle patterns but only in more modern colors.
Family: Jenni, mother;Michael, father;Elliot,brother;Katie;sister (every single person here is named after friends); Eden Kim, daughter (Eden is new)
Relationships: Daniel Kim(half Korean/half white). Lily met Daniel as seniors in high school when they were both angry children of military parents, tired of moving place to place. Thankfully neither family moved again, and the two stayed close. After school ended, Daniel moved to Virginia for college and Lily went to Massachusetts. Right after her graduation, Daniel, who had gone to work as a cop, called her about a job opportunity at the MSP crime lab. Pleased with the chance to work close to family, she applied and won the job. The two date off and on, and one of those times resulted in Eden's birth. Currently the only two people who don't consider Daniel and Lily together are Daniel and Lily.
Personality: Lillian is very professional, and her coworkers find it difficult to get close to her. Her banter with Daniel is seen as out of the norm for her and some unknowing colleagues have taken it to mean she is cold or unfriendly towards them personally. However she has a sharp, caustic sense of humor and with her family and friends she is very relaxed. She becomes mush over her daughter, and pictures of her are the only decoration at her office. She likes to have time alone though, and she takes an hour a night to read in a hot bath. (Originally she was very emotional and playful at work, and cold towards her family)
Pets: 1 dog, Amelia (rat terrier Pomeranian mix)


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Sunday, January 24, 2010

Cancer

11:12 AM | Posted by Jezzi | Edit Post
Has anybody ever taken the time to realize how complex the human body is? We are an intricate network of blood vessels and organs. muscle and tissue all packed up nice and neat in a fleshy bag. Every moment we are awake our bodies are doing amazing things all on their own. Shivering to keep us warm, pumping adrenaline to get us through trouble and pain, constantly inflating and deflating our lungs with life giving air. Distributing blood and oxygen where needed. And yet one cell, one tiny cell can decide not to do any of that. And like an insidious double agent it can corrupt more cells, turning them against the greater whole and beginning to poison a person. Disrupting lives and relationships. Killing or maiming, or just tormenting innocent people. It has no pattern. It attacks the victim and the aggressor, the innocent and the guilty. It will attack killers and doctors and heroes and villians. And it will not sleep, it will nost rest. It will force you to attack it. To become as violent and clever as it is. It will not go down without a fight. And it will leave you forever, irrevocably changed. Whether you have it, or know someone who does, it will mark you for life, a walking casualty of the battle that it cornered you into. You become more cynical, more bitter at times. There will be anger, and hate. And your heart and soul and body will be covered in the battlescars it inflicts. And no one will hand you a medal. There will be no presedential speach in your honor. You will either beat it, or it will beat you and then life will continue or it won't. But for the people who fought it, and the people who fought with them, it will bond you, bring you together like nothing before or after. One great united forced, that took down an enemy you could not intimidate, that you could not scare. You will be stronger despite your scars. They will forever mark you a warrior. A fighter. You will love harder, live better, and nothing and no one will ever be able to take that from you. Even one tiny cell that decided not to conform. Fuck that cell, fuck cancer, and hoo rah to every person living or dead that has stood up to it, looked it square in its proverbial face and given it the finger. Piece of shit disease.

-Panda Out
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Thursday, January 21, 2010

Avatar

6:46 PM | Posted by Jezzi | Edit Post
So I went to see Avatar a few weeks ago and loved it. And like the mildly obsessed fan I am, I've been reading up on the movie online. And this whole thing with the different interest groups being pissed off by it just irritates me. I don't really care if you like or don't like the movie. Nobody is going to make a movie that everyone likes. But the things they're saying are just crazy. Anti-smoking groups are upset that one of the main protagonists is a smoker. It sends a bad message. Personally I think it sends a much more realistic image. I am getting tired of this idea that in movies, only bad guys, slick players, and anyone pre-1960's should smoke. Newsflash. A mass amount of people smoke. Good people, bad people, neutral normal people. Saints and sinners and cops and criminals. The same doctors telling you to quit are lighting up in the Mercedes on the way home. They know its wrong, its not healthy, whatever. They smoke because they're addicted. Or because they just plain old want to. To say that we can possibly guilt an entire planet into quitting because the strong and protective Grace Augestine character doesn't smoke is just stupid. Plenty of protagonists don't smoke and its had no effect on our habits. Education and seeing our loved ones hacking up their lungs have stopped far more than Hollywood. Accept that people smoke, accept that the good guy is going to gave flaws. And be happy that thats the biggest flaw you can find with her.

And then there are the feminists saying that they're upset that the Na'vi males are designed to look more muscular and strong than the females. I'm sorry. I missed something here. Because I was under the impression that both genders were of a lithe, slimly muscular build, with very little excess muscle in the first place. Then I was pretty sure that the main Na'vi protagonist was a female who was more than capable of taking care of herself, as well as hunting just about everything. She did save Jake at the beginning of the movie after all. In any event, a person's build does not determine their strength, or their ability to defend themselves or others. The women of Avatar, as with all of James Cameron's movies, are strong minded, strong willed, and able bodied. To have HIS movie of all people's attacked by feminists is hilarious. This man brought us Rose from Titanic, who in the early 1900's would bare everything for a man she barely knew, and demand he sketch her honestly, not glaze over details to make her feel better. Then she abandons a gauranteed life boat to save him. He brought us Sarah Connor, a mother hell bent on protecting her son and averting global apocalypse (who remembers stopping off in the desert for guns in T2 eh? Ehhh?). And finally he brought us Ripley, arguably among the most, if not THE most badass of all female protagonists. She took down an entire fucking species and did it with style.

I won't even go into the conservatives who say he's attacking capatalism and blowing the enviormental issues we face way out of proportion. I'm too lazy to write that much. But to sum it up. This is a movie. A good movie. Which thankfully has a good story to go with a stunning look. End of Story. Like it or not, its succeeded already, and no amount of pitiful whining on your part is going to stop it.

-Panda Out
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Saturday, January 2, 2010

First Post

1:27 AM | Posted by Jezzi | Edit Post
Just making sure everything works/looks close to how I want it to
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