I was casually flipping through channels when a familiar pattern of wallpaper caught my eye.
A couple in their early thirties was standing in a fantastic bathroom. The wallpaper was peacock blue and rich Tudor brown and silver leaf, and drawn in intricate Art Nouveau floral designs. The woodworking was dark and rich, and pendant lamps in lapis blown glass hung in delicate drips over the sink and toilet area. The commode and the sink were a royal blue as well - not an easy color to find a toilet in. A rich cobalt tile covered the floor of the bathroom, and extended up the walls of the shower. The whole room was steeped in glimmering glamour. It was stunning. It was decadent.
It was my old house.
My husband and I sold the house two years ago when our kids moved out. We bought a condo and moved south. But I was thrilled to see my design being showcased on this HGTV show and quickly hit the info button on my remote to see why they were highlighting it. I called my husband into the living room and then read the paragraph blurb about the show. As I read, my excitement slowly turned to horror.
The show was called "Trash my Bath!" and it promised demolition of horrid bathroom design and renovation into a new space. Surely they were using my bathroom as a "what to do" on this show. But as I listened to the thirtysomethings in my old house talking about my luxurious bathroom, it became all too clear that it was not praise they were heaping upon my design skills. Adjectives like "hideous" and "nightmarish" and "ghastly" bounced off my beautiful wallpaper - a very expensive paper, mind you - and the thirtysomethings lamented about the "old fashioned" lamps and the "cave-like" darkness of the rich wood in the room.
I was offended. I was aghast. I was horrified when the show's host appeared in a hard hat with a sledgehammer and decimated the beautiful cobalt tiles in the shower. The wood cabinets were gutted and thrown in a dumpster. My pendant lamps were tossed and I nearly cried as I heard the glass break. The wallpaper was scoured and saturated and pulled off, and a blase taupe paint went up where the bold pattern used to be.
In the end, my old bathroom looked like every other bathroom these days - a dull, taupe box with white trim and boring white porcelain fixtures. No imagination, no escapism, no luxury. I could hardly bear it. I snapped off the television and grabbed my purse. There was decorating to be done. I needed to set things right. My husband didn't even blink as I headed out the door to the nearest showroom, in search of new design heights to combat the unimaginative designs of today. I already had a palette in mind - dusty rose, mint green, and gold leaf. And lots of whitewashed wicker. It would be decadent and lush and most certainly not taupe. And then I would have the last laugh.
Showing posts with label Marcy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Marcy. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Oh, Reality
by Marcy
Eddie was manipulative. He wooed Charice in the first three episodes just to turn on her when she lost the mud race challenge in episode four. And you would think that his betrayal of Charice would have set off alarms for Bran and Alyssa, his closest cohorts in the tribe, but he outsmarted each of them in turn to win immunity and eventually lead to their being voted off. The others tried to gain his trust in an attempt to figure out his motives, but he cut them down with his strategies week by week, one by one. They had been on the deserted island twenty-five days, and Eddie still had yet to take a bath or shower. Rhonda was convinced he had something growing out of his toes. She never got the chance to investigate it, as she was booted off the island on the fifteenth day.
On day thirty one there were three people left; Eddie, Martin, and Kataya. In an unprecedented three-way tie, all three had immunity necklaces and therefore could not be voted off. The rules of the game stated that should a stalemate like this occur, the remaining contestants must stay on the island as long as possible, and the last one to leave the island would be crowned the victor. Kataya was sunburned and starving, and Martin had sprained his ankle in the last challenge wherein he won his immunity. Eddie, aside from his toe fungus, was still intact and completely convinced of his victory. After fifty-four days, Kataya finally gave in to the elements and begged to be removed from the island. Martin and Eddie were the only ones left.
The viewers at home were rapt with attention as the show moved into day fifty-four. How long would they last? And who were they rooting for at this point? Eddie had played an incredible game, and the viewers at home had seen his masterful manipulation of the game unfold from the comfort of their own couches. But Martin had played true. He was the good guy. But still, Eddie was captivating.
Week seventy-two finally saw a victor, in the form of a poisonous marple snake who took both Eddie and Martin in their sleep. It was the highest rated and most critically panned episode of reality television to date. Until next season when Bret Michaels attempts the same game on the same island with a group of crazy half naked former strippers in search of attention and 15 minutes of fame.
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
That's the Spirit
by Marcy
When Max spoke, people listened. The problem was that Max had been dead for 15 years, and he was tired of talking to people. He tried to tell the latest group of ghost hunters this on their EVP recording device, but what he had said as “leave me the Hell alone” had turned up on their recordings as “give me the telephone.”
They then brought in an old school rotary phone and swore that it would ring when not even plugged into the wall because the entity in this dwelling was so powerful. Frustrated, Max instead made one of their cell phones ring just to spite them, and the energy his spirit had to draw from the room sapped the battery in their video camera so they couldn’t get it on tape. That would show them.
But it didn’t. When people hear that things happen in the apartment building at 105 Franklin Street, every ghost hunter team, psychic, clairvoyant, and hack show up just to have a piece of the easy proof. Max used to enjoy it, but after 15 years it had gotten old.
The only person Max wanted to talk to these days was Andrea, a clairvoyant who had lived on the fifth floor of the apartment building he lingered in. She was quiet, and funny, and oh, would that he were still alive … well, it couldn’t be. But at least she could hear him, and talk back. When she had first moved into the apartment she had sensed him right away. Other tenants had burned sage – a smell that Max abhorred – and filled their apartments with crucifixes. Others held séances and begged Max to tell them things from the beyond. Max avoided their apartments, as they seemed the most likely to try and either raise him from the dead or have him exorcized.
But when Andrea had moved in, she did none of these things. Instead, she casually acknowledged him over her shoulder while unpacking dishes in the kitchen. She said “I know you are there. And I don’t mind, as long as you don’t try to harm me.” Max tested the water by speaking, asking her how she knew. “I sensed you,” she said, without looking away from her task.
Max lingered a while and she told him little things, like where she got this particular painting she was hanging, or how her great-grandmother knitted the afghan she was unpacking. Each day, when Max’s travels around the building brought him back to her apartment, she greeted him kindly, said a few things, and went on about her day. It made the ghost hunters and cuckoo psychics that visited the building at the landlord’s whim more bearable, back then.
She stayed in the building for two years, but fate took her elsewhere. The day she moved out she said goodbye to Max and thanked him for being a good roommate. Max hadn’t seen her since, but his travels never really took him out of the building so that was no surprise. What was a surprise is how sad he felt. He missed her. And now he didn’t want to talk to anyone, but more came to find him than ever before.
So sometimes he played their games, and sometimes he avoided them. And still other times he tried to make them go away. But they still listened when he spoke. They recorded it and catalogued it and chalked it up to evidence of life after death. When Max spoke, people listened.
But no one had talked to him like Andrea.
When Max spoke, people listened. The problem was that Max had been dead for 15 years, and he was tired of talking to people. He tried to tell the latest group of ghost hunters this on their EVP recording device, but what he had said as “leave me the Hell alone” had turned up on their recordings as “give me the telephone.”
They then brought in an old school rotary phone and swore that it would ring when not even plugged into the wall because the entity in this dwelling was so powerful. Frustrated, Max instead made one of their cell phones ring just to spite them, and the energy his spirit had to draw from the room sapped the battery in their video camera so they couldn’t get it on tape. That would show them.
But it didn’t. When people hear that things happen in the apartment building at 105 Franklin Street, every ghost hunter team, psychic, clairvoyant, and hack show up just to have a piece of the easy proof. Max used to enjoy it, but after 15 years it had gotten old.
The only person Max wanted to talk to these days was Andrea, a clairvoyant who had lived on the fifth floor of the apartment building he lingered in. She was quiet, and funny, and oh, would that he were still alive … well, it couldn’t be. But at least she could hear him, and talk back. When she had first moved into the apartment she had sensed him right away. Other tenants had burned sage – a smell that Max abhorred – and filled their apartments with crucifixes. Others held séances and begged Max to tell them things from the beyond. Max avoided their apartments, as they seemed the most likely to try and either raise him from the dead or have him exorcized.
But when Andrea had moved in, she did none of these things. Instead, she casually acknowledged him over her shoulder while unpacking dishes in the kitchen. She said “I know you are there. And I don’t mind, as long as you don’t try to harm me.” Max tested the water by speaking, asking her how she knew. “I sensed you,” she said, without looking away from her task.
Max lingered a while and she told him little things, like where she got this particular painting she was hanging, or how her great-grandmother knitted the afghan she was unpacking. Each day, when Max’s travels around the building brought him back to her apartment, she greeted him kindly, said a few things, and went on about her day. It made the ghost hunters and cuckoo psychics that visited the building at the landlord’s whim more bearable, back then.
She stayed in the building for two years, but fate took her elsewhere. The day she moved out she said goodbye to Max and thanked him for being a good roommate. Max hadn’t seen her since, but his travels never really took him out of the building so that was no surprise. What was a surprise is how sad he felt. He missed her. And now he didn’t want to talk to anyone, but more came to find him than ever before.
So sometimes he played their games, and sometimes he avoided them. And still other times he tried to make them go away. But they still listened when he spoke. They recorded it and catalogued it and chalked it up to evidence of life after death. When Max spoke, people listened.
But no one had talked to him like Andrea.
Thursday, July 05, 2007
The Gold Coast
Write a story set during your most recent vacation.
By Marcy
A heron stood by the shore.
I have of course seen herons in my lifetime, but never one so close. Even as I stepped near it, it stood its ground, gazing out over the horizon of the Atlantic. Two long tendrils of – what? Feathers? Hair? – waved in the breeze like a topknot on its head. It seemed rooted in the sand, and but for the occasional slight turn of its head, one would think it to be a statue.
I managed to get within three feet of the heron before it lifted one of its long legs and took a step aside. I stopped, and slowly sat down where I was. The heron rooted itself back into the sand and regarded me briefly with a quizzical gaze – as if I were the curiosity on the beach.
It wasn’t a glorious beach day by any means. It was overcast, and the ceiling of clouds undulated like a grey mirror of the green glass water below it. I watched the white caps on the water in the distance. Who knew what wonders nature could whip up from one moment to the next in such an environment? Behind me, above the beach, houses stood, still nursing wounds from Hurricane Ivan. That had been nearly a year ago, but the damage was still evident.
With thoughts of raging wind and spraying salt water in mind, my eyes searched the horizon for bigger waves, lightning, tall masts in the hazy distance. This was, after all, Florida’s treasure coast, and many a galleon had disappeared beneath the waves of the Atlantic. The host at the treasure museum said that frequently, after a storm, it was not uncommon to find the chance doubloon mixed in with the sand dollars after the tide went out.
But today was just a gloomy day, unthreatening, maybe heralding a drizzle or sprinkle or mist. I sincerely doubted that the chilly breeze coming off the Atlantic at the moment was going to bring me gold. I looked up at the heron from my spot nearby and wondered what he was watching the waves for. It looked back at me as if to ask me the same thing.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Changing Mind
by Marcy
You have been given the power to change one thing in the world. What is it, and what are the ramifications?
Change.
The word emboldens some, strikes fear into others. Change is as inevitable as death, which in itself is a change. There is no escaping change, though you can change change thanks to free will. Change is equal opportunity – everyone can make it, no-one can escape it. Change is a stalker, a constant companion, a catalyst, and a destroyer. Change brings new life, new discoveries, new disaster. Change is fair, balanced, cruel and kind. Change is everything, and is human, and is life, and is death.
They tell me I have the power to change one thing in the world. As a human being I have always had the power to change many things, even before they bestowed this on me. But they’ve given me more power – enhanced power. With this power I could stop wars. I could end hunger and poverty. I could change the foundations of the church – any church. I could change history, reverse global warming, make it so the holocaust and inquisitions never happened. But I can only do one of these. They’ve only given me the power to make one big change. What would you change, with ultimate power?
And if I made that one big change, what would come of it? Millions of little changes, none of which guaranteeing the original change I’ve made will stay changed. I could throw a boulder into a stream and alter its course, but the water will still flow. Was their experiment on me so that they could see the grandiose result, or did they simply to see what I would change? The power has paralyzed my mind – of course I should be philanthropic, humanitarian. Of course I should help - the good of the many outweighs the good of the one. But what good will I do?
I take the choice very seriously. I have pondered it for years. I have seen horrors in this world, global, national, personal. Would I change any of them? What should I change? This choice is too much for a human to bear. This choice should belong to the universe, the Great Spirit, The Goddess, God, whoever is in charge, not me.
What would I change, if I could change one thing?
I wait, and I weigh my choice, and when I one day reach a decision, I hope it will be a wise choice. Becuase after I choose, I can't change my mind. That's the one thing I can't change.
You have been given the power to change one thing in the world. What is it, and what are the ramifications?
Change.
The word emboldens some, strikes fear into others. Change is as inevitable as death, which in itself is a change. There is no escaping change, though you can change change thanks to free will. Change is equal opportunity – everyone can make it, no-one can escape it. Change is a stalker, a constant companion, a catalyst, and a destroyer. Change brings new life, new discoveries, new disaster. Change is fair, balanced, cruel and kind. Change is everything, and is human, and is life, and is death.
They tell me I have the power to change one thing in the world. As a human being I have always had the power to change many things, even before they bestowed this on me. But they’ve given me more power – enhanced power. With this power I could stop wars. I could end hunger and poverty. I could change the foundations of the church – any church. I could change history, reverse global warming, make it so the holocaust and inquisitions never happened. But I can only do one of these. They’ve only given me the power to make one big change. What would you change, with ultimate power?
And if I made that one big change, what would come of it? Millions of little changes, none of which guaranteeing the original change I’ve made will stay changed. I could throw a boulder into a stream and alter its course, but the water will still flow. Was their experiment on me so that they could see the grandiose result, or did they simply to see what I would change? The power has paralyzed my mind – of course I should be philanthropic, humanitarian. Of course I should help - the good of the many outweighs the good of the one. But what good will I do?
I take the choice very seriously. I have pondered it for years. I have seen horrors in this world, global, national, personal. Would I change any of them? What should I change? This choice is too much for a human to bear. This choice should belong to the universe, the Great Spirit, The Goddess, God, whoever is in charge, not me.
What would I change, if I could change one thing?
I wait, and I weigh my choice, and when I one day reach a decision, I hope it will be a wise choice. Becuase after I choose, I can't change my mind. That's the one thing I can't change.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
The Serpent and the Rainbow
A bedtime story by Marcy
Above the trees and in the breeze the rainbow spanned the sky,
An arc of color, pure and bright, she sparkled way up high.
And in the grass along the dirt the serpent slithered through,
Looking for his noontime lunch - perhaps a bug or two.
But when he made it to the stream he saw the bow above,
Her shining colors waved hello, and the serpent fell in love
He followed her for miles and miles but never could get close,
The colors dance and laugh and shine, but the serpent felt morose.
It was late and far from home, and the serpent stopped his quest,
He felt a fool for chasing a dream, but at least he tried his best
The rainbow started to fade away with the waning sun,
The serpent would not make it home before the day was done.
He stared up at the sky in vain, the rainbow finally gone,
And just before he looked away, he began to hear a song.
From over there, yes - through that grass, he came upon a pond,
With all the crickets a snake could eat forever and beyond!
And singing on a flat top rock a serpentess so fair,
With scales of green and red and gold that shimmered in the air.
The serpent knew now that his quest had not at all been wrong,
The rainbow had been showing him where his heart was all along.
They lived together by the pond and sang their songs in love,
And once in a while the rainbow appeared and listened from above.
The serpent thanked the rainbow when he finally had a say,
For showing him his one true love who sang for him each day.
So if you find you’re chasing a rainbow you can’t catch,
And you feel it’s all in vain and you’re a sorry wretch,
Just remember what you need isn’t always what you bid,
Trust your heart and take your quest and you’ll be glad you did.
Above the trees and in the breeze the rainbow spanned the sky,
An arc of color, pure and bright, she sparkled way up high.
And in the grass along the dirt the serpent slithered through,
Looking for his noontime lunch - perhaps a bug or two.
But when he made it to the stream he saw the bow above,
Her shining colors waved hello, and the serpent fell in love
He followed her for miles and miles but never could get close,
The colors dance and laugh and shine, but the serpent felt morose.
It was late and far from home, and the serpent stopped his quest,
He felt a fool for chasing a dream, but at least he tried his best
The rainbow started to fade away with the waning sun,
The serpent would not make it home before the day was done.
He stared up at the sky in vain, the rainbow finally gone,
And just before he looked away, he began to hear a song.
From over there, yes - through that grass, he came upon a pond,
With all the crickets a snake could eat forever and beyond!
And singing on a flat top rock a serpentess so fair,
With scales of green and red and gold that shimmered in the air.
The serpent knew now that his quest had not at all been wrong,
The rainbow had been showing him where his heart was all along.
They lived together by the pond and sang their songs in love,
And once in a while the rainbow appeared and listened from above.
The serpent thanked the rainbow when he finally had a say,
For showing him his one true love who sang for him each day.
So if you find you’re chasing a rainbow you can’t catch,
And you feel it’s all in vain and you’re a sorry wretch,
Just remember what you need isn’t always what you bid,
Trust your heart and take your quest and you’ll be glad you did.
Monday, April 16, 2007
Bambi Vs. Jaws
By Marcy
EXT – FOREST POND – TWILIGHT
It is winter, and Bambi’s friends are laughing at him as he attempts to walk across a frozen pond. His limbs are splaying about as he struggles to keep his footing. Below the surface, a dark shadow follows the fawn’s every slip-slidey move.
BAMBI
Hey Thumper! Watch This!
Bambi attempts to do a triple Salchow. His hoof cracks the ice.
That’s al the shadow needs.
A great white shark explodes through the ice, gobbling Bambi in one gigantic chomp. The bunnies and skunks run screaming for the shelter of the forest.
The shark descends back into the pond.
JAWS
Mmm … Venison.
Director Commentary: “I felt that the original versions of these two movies weren’t fully realizing the vision I had in my head. So we went back in with CG and completely redid the scenes to better reflect what I would have wanted these movies to be, had I actually directed them. We also took out much of the original dialogue and replaced it with stilted, cliché dialogue, and made sure the actors had absolutely no chemistry through my directing. I realize there may be legions of fans whose very lives and imaginations were forever altered by the original versions of these films, but that’s just not good enough for me. Our next project will be the prequel to “Jaws vs. Bambi” – “Spawn of the Fawn” – in which we will discover what Bambi’s father, the king of the forest, was like as a snot-nosed kid. He’ll be befriended by a strange, obnoxious, completely superfluous character who will be sure to annoy the hell out of loyal fans of the original films. Oh – and there will be a lame scientific excuse for how Bambi and his father acquired their ‘powers.’ So stay tuned!”
EXT – FOREST POND – TWILIGHT
It is winter, and Bambi’s friends are laughing at him as he attempts to walk across a frozen pond. His limbs are splaying about as he struggles to keep his footing. Below the surface, a dark shadow follows the fawn’s every slip-slidey move.
BAMBI
Hey Thumper! Watch This!
Bambi attempts to do a triple Salchow. His hoof cracks the ice.
That’s al the shadow needs.
A great white shark explodes through the ice, gobbling Bambi in one gigantic chomp. The bunnies and skunks run screaming for the shelter of the forest.
The shark descends back into the pond.
JAWS
Mmm … Venison.
(scene)
Director Commentary: “I felt that the original versions of these two movies weren’t fully realizing the vision I had in my head. So we went back in with CG and completely redid the scenes to better reflect what I would have wanted these movies to be, had I actually directed them. We also took out much of the original dialogue and replaced it with stilted, cliché dialogue, and made sure the actors had absolutely no chemistry through my directing. I realize there may be legions of fans whose very lives and imaginations were forever altered by the original versions of these films, but that’s just not good enough for me. Our next project will be the prequel to “Jaws vs. Bambi” – “Spawn of the Fawn” – in which we will discover what Bambi’s father, the king of the forest, was like as a snot-nosed kid. He’ll be befriended by a strange, obnoxious, completely superfluous character who will be sure to annoy the hell out of loyal fans of the original films. Oh – and there will be a lame scientific excuse for how Bambi and his father acquired their ‘powers.’ So stay tuned!”
- George Lucas
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Bastille, my sunshine
A parody of “Steal my sunshine” by Len
By Marcy
I was lying in my cell on Sunday morning of last week
Indulging in some rancid meat
It’s a dank and stony room, and it feels like it’s gonna be my tomb
The walls are stone and three feet deep
I’ve been here for a year, though my sentence wasn’t very clear but
The aristocrats think I’m a creep
All I did was make a pun in a pamphlet about the King’s latest fun
Now I’m in Bastille sitting on my bum
I know they’ve got it in for me
(Bastille, my sunshine)
Calling me a revolutionary
(Bastille, my sunshine)
Got flea bites on my knees
(Bastille, my sunshine)
I was lying on the bench that serves as a bed in my suite
L-A-T-E-R that week
The stale baguette I ate was starting to dissipate
And hunger crept back into me
I heard shouting at the gates and someone yelled “no, no please wait!”
(But in French, of course, that’s what we speak)
And outside I heard the guns, but I was locked up and couldn’t run
So I missed a million miles of fun
And now, I’ve got to flee
(Bastille, my sunshine)
It’s been a lovely stay but I must leave
(Bastille, my sunshine)
Wonder what they’ll do with me
(Bastille, my sunshine)
I know they’ve got it in for me
(Bastille, my sunshine)
Calling me a revolutionary
(Bastille, my sunshine)
Got flea bites on both my feet
(Bastille, my sunshine)
By Marcy
I was lying in my cell on Sunday morning of last week
Indulging in some rancid meat
It’s a dank and stony room, and it feels like it’s gonna be my tomb
The walls are stone and three feet deep
I’ve been here for a year, though my sentence wasn’t very clear but
The aristocrats think I’m a creep
All I did was make a pun in a pamphlet about the King’s latest fun
Now I’m in Bastille sitting on my bum
I know they’ve got it in for me
(Bastille, my sunshine)
Calling me a revolutionary
(Bastille, my sunshine)
Got flea bites on my knees
(Bastille, my sunshine)
I was lying on the bench that serves as a bed in my suite
L-A-T-E-R that week
The stale baguette I ate was starting to dissipate
And hunger crept back into me
I heard shouting at the gates and someone yelled “no, no please wait!”
(But in French, of course, that’s what we speak)
And outside I heard the guns, but I was locked up and couldn’t run
So I missed a million miles of fun
And now, I’ve got to flee
(Bastille, my sunshine)
It’s been a lovely stay but I must leave
(Bastille, my sunshine)
Wonder what they’ll do with me
(Bastille, my sunshine)
I know they’ve got it in for me
(Bastille, my sunshine)
Calling me a revolutionary
(Bastille, my sunshine)
Got flea bites on both my feet
(Bastille, my sunshine)
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
Woe, My Salad Has Sailed
by Marcy
Spinach and Romaine
Carrots and Garbanzo Beans
And lots of Feta
Baby Corns so sweet
Crispy Noodles and Almonds
Mandarin Oranges
Grilled Chicken slices
Kidney Beans and Black Olives
Sunflower Seeds Too
A hint of dressing
A masterpiece of texture
A balance of taste
This leafy salad
My pride and my lunchtime joy
Stolen from the fridge
The void is dreadful
My stomach longs for my lunch
Fridge pirates will pay
They with no morals
Stealing others' sustenance
Will be hunted down
I mourn my salad
And I send doom upon them
I called the Cracken.
Spinach and Romaine
Carrots and Garbanzo Beans
And lots of Feta
Baby Corns so sweet
Crispy Noodles and Almonds
Mandarin Oranges
Grilled Chicken slices
Kidney Beans and Black Olives
Sunflower Seeds Too
A hint of dressing
A masterpiece of texture
A balance of taste
This leafy salad
My pride and my lunchtime joy
Stolen from the fridge
The void is dreadful
My stomach longs for my lunch
Fridge pirates will pay
They with no morals
Stealing others' sustenance
Will be hunted down
I mourn my salad
And I send doom upon them
I called the Cracken.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Drunk Neighbor Rick
By Marcy
It was early, I was grumpy, and there was my loud, usually drunk neighbor. This morning he looked like Hangover Man, the archnemesis of Party Dude. But I had to ask just to make sure my apartment wasn’t an isolated incident.
“Hey Rick – you have hot water this morning?”
Rick shrugged at me as he ambled to his dirty pickup. “Didn’t check. I shower at night.”
I know, because the pipes squeal and keep me awake. And usually he’s hammered, and can’t hold onto shampoo bottles. They fall from his soapy hands to the tub floor with hollow thuds at regular intervals. Or at least, I’m guessing what the noise is as I lie in bed below his apartment. I’ve never been in the shower with Rick. UGH - I shudder to think about it.
Rick threw a garbage bag into the back of his truck and nodded in my direction. “You should call the landlord if your hot water’s out.”
Thank you, State The Obvious Man. “Yeah, if it’s not fixed by the time I get home from work, I will.” I opened my car door and retrieved my coffee from the roof where I’d set it. At least it was a gorgeous spring day. I could eat my lunch outside, with a book, and no-one would bother me except bugs. And it might even be too early for bugs.
Rick opened his truck door and it creaked with a metallic groan. Some rust fell off of the hinges and clinked onto the pavement. “Wellp, have a good day there, Chad.” He hopped in and turned the motor over, and the door slammed with the falling of more rust.
My name isn’t Chad. It’d Brad. Stupid moron.
His truck backed out of the parking spot and nearly hit my Honda. I thought about yelling for him to watch it but he threw the car into drive just in time and pulled away, peeling out of the parking lot like he was at the start of a drag race. The garbage bag rolled out of the open truck bed and fell to the ground in a cloud of muffler smoke, and a female arm dangled from the opening.
I puked. And then I called the cops. And then I called work to tell them I’d be late.
The cops stayed at our building until it was dark and had sent out an APB on Rick’s truck. They think when he got to wherever he was going to dump her he realized the bag was gone, and he had skipped town. They didn’t think he’d come back – likely set up in another town and start over there. They’d have to wait until he started leaving another trail – apparently they’d been looking for a serial killer who had been dumping women’s bodies in garbage bags all around the city.
That night I curled up in my bed and couldn’t sleep. The fear that Rick would return and come after me for blowing him in was too great. One undercover guy, on lookout, was supposedly parked out front of our building. It didn’t reassure me. But somehow I managed to drift off to sleep, weary from the shock and fear of the day.
I awoke, hours later, to squealing pipes and intermittent hollow thumps from the apartment above me.
It was early, I was grumpy, and there was my loud, usually drunk neighbor. This morning he looked like Hangover Man, the archnemesis of Party Dude. But I had to ask just to make sure my apartment wasn’t an isolated incident.
“Hey Rick – you have hot water this morning?”
Rick shrugged at me as he ambled to his dirty pickup. “Didn’t check. I shower at night.”
I know, because the pipes squeal and keep me awake. And usually he’s hammered, and can’t hold onto shampoo bottles. They fall from his soapy hands to the tub floor with hollow thuds at regular intervals. Or at least, I’m guessing what the noise is as I lie in bed below his apartment. I’ve never been in the shower with Rick. UGH - I shudder to think about it.
Rick threw a garbage bag into the back of his truck and nodded in my direction. “You should call the landlord if your hot water’s out.”
Thank you, State The Obvious Man. “Yeah, if it’s not fixed by the time I get home from work, I will.” I opened my car door and retrieved my coffee from the roof where I’d set it. At least it was a gorgeous spring day. I could eat my lunch outside, with a book, and no-one would bother me except bugs. And it might even be too early for bugs.
Rick opened his truck door and it creaked with a metallic groan. Some rust fell off of the hinges and clinked onto the pavement. “Wellp, have a good day there, Chad.” He hopped in and turned the motor over, and the door slammed with the falling of more rust.
My name isn’t Chad. It’d Brad. Stupid moron.
His truck backed out of the parking spot and nearly hit my Honda. I thought about yelling for him to watch it but he threw the car into drive just in time and pulled away, peeling out of the parking lot like he was at the start of a drag race. The garbage bag rolled out of the open truck bed and fell to the ground in a cloud of muffler smoke, and a female arm dangled from the opening.
I puked. And then I called the cops. And then I called work to tell them I’d be late.
The cops stayed at our building until it was dark and had sent out an APB on Rick’s truck. They think when he got to wherever he was going to dump her he realized the bag was gone, and he had skipped town. They didn’t think he’d come back – likely set up in another town and start over there. They’d have to wait until he started leaving another trail – apparently they’d been looking for a serial killer who had been dumping women’s bodies in garbage bags all around the city.
That night I curled up in my bed and couldn’t sleep. The fear that Rick would return and come after me for blowing him in was too great. One undercover guy, on lookout, was supposedly parked out front of our building. It didn’t reassure me. But somehow I managed to drift off to sleep, weary from the shock and fear of the day.
I awoke, hours later, to squealing pipes and intermittent hollow thumps from the apartment above me.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Song of the Sea Serpent
By Marcy
I wrecked my car, and it’s all that sea serpent’s fault.
I was driving to the beach, north of Salem. The sun was bright off the water and my sunglasses weren’t cutting it. Last time I buy aqua-tinted lenses just to match one outfit. It’s all about polarized lenses for me from now on.
Anyway, I was reaching up to adjust the visor when I saw it. It looked like a dragon – but with no wings. Just a huge scaly body, the color of basalt and ocean glass, its eyes as bright and yellow-white as the sun that was reflecting off the water behind it. Steam churned from its nostrils and rose from its back. It arced into the sky, the bottom half of it still submerged.
And it sang.
I will never forget the sound of its voice. It was clear, crystalline, pure. It sang to the sun, wavering there above the surface, treading water with a hidden tail. Its voice rang through the summer air, swirling in the clouds and drifting on the salty ocean breeze. I closed my eyes and fell into the melody.
I awoke, my car halfway submerged in the tide, tire tracks stretching behind me through the sand back to the road. The serpent was gone, replaced by flashing lights and freaked-out beachgoers.
And I hummed the song the serpent sang all the way to the asylum.
I wrecked my car, and it’s all that sea serpent’s fault.
I was driving to the beach, north of Salem. The sun was bright off the water and my sunglasses weren’t cutting it. Last time I buy aqua-tinted lenses just to match one outfit. It’s all about polarized lenses for me from now on.
Anyway, I was reaching up to adjust the visor when I saw it. It looked like a dragon – but with no wings. Just a huge scaly body, the color of basalt and ocean glass, its eyes as bright and yellow-white as the sun that was reflecting off the water behind it. Steam churned from its nostrils and rose from its back. It arced into the sky, the bottom half of it still submerged.
And it sang.
I will never forget the sound of its voice. It was clear, crystalline, pure. It sang to the sun, wavering there above the surface, treading water with a hidden tail. Its voice rang through the summer air, swirling in the clouds and drifting on the salty ocean breeze. I closed my eyes and fell into the melody.
I awoke, my car halfway submerged in the tide, tire tracks stretching behind me through the sand back to the road. The serpent was gone, replaced by flashing lights and freaked-out beachgoers.
And I hummed the song the serpent sang all the way to the asylum.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Crossover Bloggage
Howdy Hack Fans!
Marcy Here.
Here's an old Hacks post that originated on my blog, Playtime at Hazmat. I meant to post this on the Hack blog a long time ago and never got around to it. Dave, Bryan, and I were playing Lego Star Wars and somehow managed to write this story at the same time. Enjoy!
We'll meet the ninjas at the Barbary Coast
This post brought to you by:
Marcy, the Media Ninja
Dave, Lord Ledley the Ravager and
Bryan, Hooch the Destroyer
I just asked two guys playing video games in the same room as me to give me a sentence to start this story with. Then I made them write it with me off the top of our heads, each of us trading off a sentence at a time. Here's the pathetic but entertaining result:
"We'll meet the ninjas at the Barbary Coast."
"No, we shall not; have you so soon forgotten the Black Ninja Eradication of 2023?"
Halsom shook his head and pounded his fist into the wooden plank table, toppling Mardon's ale jug.
Truly, it was a strange conversation to be having at Wal-Mart but the furniture delivery was late and the stock clerks were restless.
And Myron the assistant manager was nowhere to be seen; they suspected he and Marge from layaway were off somewhere, uh, laying away.
"I assure you, the ninjas will be there, and they will be bringing with them the lost cheese of Zandlar," said Mardon, scratching his head and tossing the twelve sided dice aimlessly as he was thinking.
Before Halsom's reply, a bay door creaked to life and light flooded the room, casting gold sparkles atop the ale.
"Crap," Mardon hissed, "so much for cheese."
"I thought I told you morons no roleplaying on the job," bellowed Dan Yonker, the wall-eyed night shift manager as he strode through the goldish haze of the loading dock security lights.
And before the clerks could pick up their board, before their last thoughts could return to the loving crush of their mothers' arms, two ninja stars pierced their hearts, thrown from the able and mastered wrists of Dan Yonker, the last remaining ninja of Sheboygan and lone survivor of the Black Ninja Eradication of 2023.
Marcy Here.
Here's an old Hacks post that originated on my blog, Playtime at Hazmat. I meant to post this on the Hack blog a long time ago and never got around to it. Dave, Bryan, and I were playing Lego Star Wars and somehow managed to write this story at the same time. Enjoy!
We'll meet the ninjas at the Barbary Coast
This post brought to you by:
Marcy, the Media Ninja
Dave, Lord Ledley the Ravager and
Bryan, Hooch the Destroyer
I just asked two guys playing video games in the same room as me to give me a sentence to start this story with. Then I made them write it with me off the top of our heads, each of us trading off a sentence at a time. Here's the pathetic but entertaining result:
"We'll meet the ninjas at the Barbary Coast."
"No, we shall not; have you so soon forgotten the Black Ninja Eradication of 2023?"
Halsom shook his head and pounded his fist into the wooden plank table, toppling Mardon's ale jug.
Truly, it was a strange conversation to be having at Wal-Mart but the furniture delivery was late and the stock clerks were restless.
And Myron the assistant manager was nowhere to be seen; they suspected he and Marge from layaway were off somewhere, uh, laying away.
"I assure you, the ninjas will be there, and they will be bringing with them the lost cheese of Zandlar," said Mardon, scratching his head and tossing the twelve sided dice aimlessly as he was thinking.
Before Halsom's reply, a bay door creaked to life and light flooded the room, casting gold sparkles atop the ale.
"Crap," Mardon hissed, "so much for cheese."
"I thought I told you morons no roleplaying on the job," bellowed Dan Yonker, the wall-eyed night shift manager as he strode through the goldish haze of the loading dock security lights.
And before the clerks could pick up their board, before their last thoughts could return to the loving crush of their mothers' arms, two ninja stars pierced their hearts, thrown from the able and mastered wrists of Dan Yonker, the last remaining ninja of Sheboygan and lone survivor of the Black Ninja Eradication of 2023.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Marcy's Hill Story
There was definitely something wrong.
My eyes felt swollen, and my pulse throbbed in my temples. Something was stinging the skin on the back of my neck. It took all of my strength just to push myself up to sitting. Below me I could see the elementary school grounds and the houses that spread out between Greenwood Street and the Canisteo River. I knew where I was sitting - smack in the middle of the “C” on the world-famous living Canisteo sign.
I reached back and gingerly touched the spot on my neck that was stinging and found it raised, scabbed over. There was something hard under the surface of my skin. Then last night’s events came flooding back to me. Bright light … floating … pain … large black eyes staring down at me surrounded by light.
Damn aliens had tagged me again.
I forced myself to stand, my wobbly knees protesting the walk downhill through the cross-country trails I ran when on the team as a teenager. I had to get back home, get out the exacto knife, and remove the tag. Not that it would help, they’ve tagged me three times before. But why make their job easier, right?
My eyes felt swollen, and my pulse throbbed in my temples. Something was stinging the skin on the back of my neck. It took all of my strength just to push myself up to sitting. Below me I could see the elementary school grounds and the houses that spread out between Greenwood Street and the Canisteo River. I knew where I was sitting - smack in the middle of the “C” on the world-famous living Canisteo sign.
I reached back and gingerly touched the spot on my neck that was stinging and found it raised, scabbed over. There was something hard under the surface of my skin. Then last night’s events came flooding back to me. Bright light … floating … pain … large black eyes staring down at me surrounded by light.
Damn aliens had tagged me again.
I forced myself to stand, my wobbly knees protesting the walk downhill through the cross-country trails I ran when on the team as a teenager. I had to get back home, get out the exacto knife, and remove the tag. Not that it would help, they’ve tagged me three times before. But why make their job easier, right?
Monday, February 26, 2007
A Note Found in a Bottle That Washed up on Shore in Oceanside, CA.
The note was scratched onto palm tree bark with a stick or some other such object.
To whomever finds this:
Contact customer service at Daegon Teleporters Inc.
Tell them customer Geraldine Mackovic from Wren Falls, MO is stranded on an island somwhere thanks to their lousy product. I can't remember the order number. I was only transporting to Chicago to help my daugter with her new baby.
I have no sunblock and I'm sick of eating fish and coconuts.
(Posted by Marcy)
To whomever finds this:
Contact customer service at Daegon Teleporters Inc.
Tell them customer Geraldine Mackovic from Wren Falls, MO is stranded on an island somwhere thanks to their lousy product. I can't remember the order number. I was only transporting to Chicago to help my daugter with her new baby.
I have no sunblock and I'm sick of eating fish and coconuts.
(Posted by Marcy)
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Prom Transportation
By Marcy, who has been watching way too much "Super Sweet Sixteen" latey and thinks those spoiled girls need a dose of reality.
Rick Masters asked me to the prom – I was floored! I of course said yes and I skipped school the very next day to find a dress. Daddy gave me his credit card and told me to get whatever I want – like I wouldn’t anyway! I found the most awesome dress ever – it was deep purple satin with a barely there neckline by some designer I can’t pronounce. And I don’t care – I just loved it. It perfectly shows off my new boobs that Daddy gave me for Christmas. I found the perfect shoes to go with it – only $750, a real steal. And the jewelry – oh, god, the jewelry. Diamonds, that’s all I can say. $15,000 worth of sparkle, all on me! I wanted to wear something that would match the tiara when I won prom queen. And I knew they were going to vote me prom queen because I had thrown the most amazing Sweet Sixteen party and invited the entire school earlier that year. They owed me prom queen.
So prom night came, and I was getting dressed after a luxurious spa day to relax from school that week. Daddy had arranged for a Hummer Limo to pick up me and my friends - I was so stoked!! I put on my dress and my amazing jewelry, and my cheap shoes, and checked my hair one last time – making sure the updo had enough room for a tiara in front of it. And when I opened the door to my room …
…I don’t know how to describe it. It was like the house wasn’t even there. Instead there was a dark, torch lit cave. I looked back into my room, which looked perfectly normal. I thought maybe Daddy was playing some kind of practical joke on me, so I walked out and closed the door behind me. I called for him, but nothing changed. And when I turned around to go back in my room, the door was gone. It was just solid rock. I walked through the cave, crying off my mascara in the process. My heel broke on my cheap-ass shoes. I had to find the way out. And I didn’t get any cell phone reception wherever I was. But I have to say, my diamonds sparkled amazingly in the torchlight.
At last I found the mouth of the cave, and there were a group of scummy looking guys sitting around a fire. Three of them wore furs, and had large weapons sitting next to them. One of them wore a grey cloak, and looked at me as if he had seen a ghost. I told them who I was, that I was lost, and that I don’t know how to get home. They spoke in some sort of guttural language I didn’t understand. The scummy guys with the weapons looked like they were going to attack me, but the guy in the grey hood stopped them.
That was 5 years ago. I’m now 20 years old, and I don’t think I’ll ever make it home again. The tribe that adopted me claims I’m some sort of good luck omen. They feed me well and shelter me. I even understand their language now, mostly. But I miss Daddy, and my friends, and I wonder if Rick Masters thinks I stood him up. He had the prettiest green eyes.
Rick Masters asked me to the prom – I was floored! I of course said yes and I skipped school the very next day to find a dress. Daddy gave me his credit card and told me to get whatever I want – like I wouldn’t anyway! I found the most awesome dress ever – it was deep purple satin with a barely there neckline by some designer I can’t pronounce. And I don’t care – I just loved it. It perfectly shows off my new boobs that Daddy gave me for Christmas. I found the perfect shoes to go with it – only $750, a real steal. And the jewelry – oh, god, the jewelry. Diamonds, that’s all I can say. $15,000 worth of sparkle, all on me! I wanted to wear something that would match the tiara when I won prom queen. And I knew they were going to vote me prom queen because I had thrown the most amazing Sweet Sixteen party and invited the entire school earlier that year. They owed me prom queen.
So prom night came, and I was getting dressed after a luxurious spa day to relax from school that week. Daddy had arranged for a Hummer Limo to pick up me and my friends - I was so stoked!! I put on my dress and my amazing jewelry, and my cheap shoes, and checked my hair one last time – making sure the updo had enough room for a tiara in front of it. And when I opened the door to my room …
…I don’t know how to describe it. It was like the house wasn’t even there. Instead there was a dark, torch lit cave. I looked back into my room, which looked perfectly normal. I thought maybe Daddy was playing some kind of practical joke on me, so I walked out and closed the door behind me. I called for him, but nothing changed. And when I turned around to go back in my room, the door was gone. It was just solid rock. I walked through the cave, crying off my mascara in the process. My heel broke on my cheap-ass shoes. I had to find the way out. And I didn’t get any cell phone reception wherever I was. But I have to say, my diamonds sparkled amazingly in the torchlight.
At last I found the mouth of the cave, and there were a group of scummy looking guys sitting around a fire. Three of them wore furs, and had large weapons sitting next to them. One of them wore a grey cloak, and looked at me as if he had seen a ghost. I told them who I was, that I was lost, and that I don’t know how to get home. They spoke in some sort of guttural language I didn’t understand. The scummy guys with the weapons looked like they were going to attack me, but the guy in the grey hood stopped them.
That was 5 years ago. I’m now 20 years old, and I don’t think I’ll ever make it home again. The tribe that adopted me claims I’m some sort of good luck omen. They feed me well and shelter me. I even understand their language now, mostly. But I miss Daddy, and my friends, and I wonder if Rick Masters thinks I stood him up. He had the prettiest green eyes.
Monday, February 12, 2007
Compound Eyes
A parody of Peter Gabriel's In Your EyesBy Marcy
Bugs, we get so lost, sometimes
I’m stuck, in an office with only one door
though I want to fly away
I wound up on this wall
There’s a spider to my left
And a guy with a swatter down the hall
All my instincts, they return
A gazillion lights, in my eyes they burn
without a noise, without my pride
I stick to the wall’s side
Compound eyes
Fluorescent lights
Compound eyes
They burn so bright
Compound eyes
I see the doorway and a thousand doorknobs
Compound eyes
the resolution is so high definition
Compound eyes
If I look, I have a thousand feet
Compound eyes
oh, I want to make my retreat
Everywhere I look I have to see
With compound eyes
Lights, they cause me to see so much pain
I get so tired of working so hard for my survival
It’s all my fault for reading Kafka before going to sleep
All my instincts, they return
A gazillion lights, in my eyes they burn
without a noise, without my pride
I stick to the wall’s side
Compound eyes
Fluorescent lights
Compound eyes
They burn so bright
Compound eyes
I see the doorway and a thousand doorknobs
Compound eyes
the resolution is so high definition
Compound eyes
If I look, I have a thousand feet
Compound eyes
oh, I want to make my retreat
Everywhere I look I have to see
With compound eyes
Monday, February 05, 2007
Marcy's Assignment for This Week
A poem by Sir Marcus Hambone Muzzlefoot
On the first day of spring
1602
Awakening with the dawn I sigh.
My eyes protest the intrusion of sun’s essence.
It is warm and golden,
But still I drag winter in my bones.
I step out into the morning
And in an instant I am Illuminated.
The equinox is upon the world.
The air smells of wet earth,
A muddy gristle of dirt and worms,
And a faint waft of hyacinths.
I walk to the beach, the sun stirring movement,
I can feel the blood of the trees slowly beginning
To move within their bark encrusted shells,
Sap flowing through soft plant matrix
I feel it too, as my bones warm.
A sandpiper chirps, my shoes sink in the wet sand.
Tide has moved out, and the sea has revealed
The morning’s treasures.
I pick up a seashell, pink and orange
Something’s home it was.
I breathe in the sun as the waves lap at my ankle.
And I thaw.
Friday, January 26, 2007
Leprechaun Lament
This week’s assignment, by Marcy
(I was a Leprechaun for Halloween ’06)
I stand, leaning against the cast iron pot, in the shimmering light of the end of the rainbow. It’s freezing in the meadow this morning. All I want is a cup of coffee and some warm soda bread, with butter and honey. But the rainbow appeared in the sky and I was next on the list. At least I have a week off before the list cycles through again.
There are only seven of us in County Cork now. The rest moved on to other jobs or other places. A group struck off for the new world a hundred years ago they’ve been doing quite well for themselves. One of them even landed a few TV spots as a cereal spokesperson. None of that’s for me. I could never leave my homeland. I’m perfectly content among the meadows and the bluebells and the forests. Let someone else hock marshmallow treats shaped like shamrocks.
It’s been forever and a day since someone actually found me. When the rainbow calls and my number is up, I go and stand with the gold, and wait for someone to come along. Used to be that three or four folks at a time would fight each other for it. Now I stand alone with an unclaimed prize, waiting for the sun to pass so that I can go get some coffee. I guess people have more options for fortune these days.
The light shifts, the rainbow weakens. I look up to the sky to see the clouds passing. My time is up. I bury the gold back under the earth, sprouting up some bluebells so I know where to find it next time.
Warming my cold hands with my breath, I trudge toward an inn.
(I was a Leprechaun for Halloween ’06)
I stand, leaning against the cast iron pot, in the shimmering light of the end of the rainbow. It’s freezing in the meadow this morning. All I want is a cup of coffee and some warm soda bread, with butter and honey. But the rainbow appeared in the sky and I was next on the list. At least I have a week off before the list cycles through again.
There are only seven of us in County Cork now. The rest moved on to other jobs or other places. A group struck off for the new world a hundred years ago they’ve been doing quite well for themselves. One of them even landed a few TV spots as a cereal spokesperson. None of that’s for me. I could never leave my homeland. I’m perfectly content among the meadows and the bluebells and the forests. Let someone else hock marshmallow treats shaped like shamrocks.
It’s been forever and a day since someone actually found me. When the rainbow calls and my number is up, I go and stand with the gold, and wait for someone to come along. Used to be that three or four folks at a time would fight each other for it. Now I stand alone with an unclaimed prize, waiting for the sun to pass so that I can go get some coffee. I guess people have more options for fortune these days.
The light shifts, the rainbow weakens. I look up to the sky to see the clouds passing. My time is up. I bury the gold back under the earth, sprouting up some bluebells so I know where to find it next time.
Warming my cold hands with my breath, I trudge toward an inn.
Sunday, June 04, 2006
Why, Teela?
By Marcy
(I will warn our fearless Hack readers right now – this post is riddled with geekdom. Read at your own risk!)
When I was a kid, I was the only girl in my class who liked He-Man and Star Wars. At recess, I always got to be either Princess Leia or Teela, depending on what the boys wanted to play that day. All of the other girls hung out at the swing sets - not me. The jungle gym was the Millennium Falcon, or Castle Greyskull. And I was the token female. It was the good life.
Princess Leia was my absolute idol. She was feisty, fearless, and a cosmic beauty. I still want to be her every time I watch the Star Wars Trilogy. (There’s only one trilogy in my book. And there’s no such thing as Midichlorians, and Greedo most CERTAINLY did not shoot first. But I digress…) And Teela was the coolest too - she fought along side He-man and Man-At-Arms. She kicked butt with a staff, and a sword, and a blaster. She was the red-head captain of the guard in underoos and a tiara, who never backed down to Skeletor and his goons.
Or so I thought.
Fast-forward to this weekend, with birthday money well spent on the whole first season of He-Man on DVD. I’m re-living my childhood as I’m sketching out my own graphic novel from the comfort of my couch. And as the shows progress, it comes to my attention that Teela – the ass-kicking chick of my memory – is a complete fraud!!
Yes, she’s strong-willed. She trash talks Skeletor and Beast Man. She never obeys when Man-At-Arms or He-man tell her to stay put. But when there’s a fight – she does nothing!! My childhood self remembers her being more like Xena, or Leia – fierce with a weapon. In the frey of every battle. But having watched the first two discs (there are twelve total – 68 episodes!!) of this first season collection, I’m feeling like Teela has let me down. Every fight she’s been in so far, she’s been disarmed, and she spends the rest of the fight on the fringes with a worried look on her face, yelling “He-Man – look out!”
Granted, this is early ‘80’s animation. The backgrounds are looped, and lets get real for a second: He-Man wears fur underwear and rides a cat with a saddle. I am fully aware that the show is dated and doofy. But it holds up for me in entertainment value, if sentimentally. I still can’t help but feel, however, that Teela has let me down after all these years. Hopefully I will be proven wrong in the next few discs.
Maybe this letdown is because I started reading Tamora Pierce’s “Protector of the Small” books, in which the heroine is a ten-year-old girl who stands her own ground in training to be a knight. I can’t help think what Teela would do in Kel’s situation…stand on the sidelines and cry for He-man? Food for thought, as I continue to watch the DVD’s and read book two of the “Protector of the Small series.”
Which leads me to ask this question of our Hack fans (if any) – as female readers, what is it you look for in a heroine? And what heroines from your childhood still hold up for you today? Let me know in comments on this blog.
Over and out.
Marcy
(I will warn our fearless Hack readers right now – this post is riddled with geekdom. Read at your own risk!)
When I was a kid, I was the only girl in my class who liked He-Man and Star Wars. At recess, I always got to be either Princess Leia or Teela, depending on what the boys wanted to play that day. All of the other girls hung out at the swing sets - not me. The jungle gym was the Millennium Falcon, or Castle Greyskull. And I was the token female. It was the good life.
Princess Leia was my absolute idol. She was feisty, fearless, and a cosmic beauty. I still want to be her every time I watch the Star Wars Trilogy. (There’s only one trilogy in my book. And there’s no such thing as Midichlorians, and Greedo most CERTAINLY did not shoot first. But I digress…) And Teela was the coolest too - she fought along side He-man and Man-At-Arms. She kicked butt with a staff, and a sword, and a blaster. She was the red-head captain of the guard in underoos and a tiara, who never backed down to Skeletor and his goons.
Or so I thought.
Fast-forward to this weekend, with birthday money well spent on the whole first season of He-Man on DVD. I’m re-living my childhood as I’m sketching out my own graphic novel from the comfort of my couch. And as the shows progress, it comes to my attention that Teela – the ass-kicking chick of my memory – is a complete fraud!!
Yes, she’s strong-willed. She trash talks Skeletor and Beast Man. She never obeys when Man-At-Arms or He-man tell her to stay put. But when there’s a fight – she does nothing!! My childhood self remembers her being more like Xena, or Leia – fierce with a weapon. In the frey of every battle. But having watched the first two discs (there are twelve total – 68 episodes!!) of this first season collection, I’m feeling like Teela has let me down. Every fight she’s been in so far, she’s been disarmed, and she spends the rest of the fight on the fringes with a worried look on her face, yelling “He-Man – look out!”
Granted, this is early ‘80’s animation. The backgrounds are looped, and lets get real for a second: He-Man wears fur underwear and rides a cat with a saddle. I am fully aware that the show is dated and doofy. But it holds up for me in entertainment value, if sentimentally. I still can’t help but feel, however, that Teela has let me down after all these years. Hopefully I will be proven wrong in the next few discs.
Maybe this letdown is because I started reading Tamora Pierce’s “Protector of the Small” books, in which the heroine is a ten-year-old girl who stands her own ground in training to be a knight. I can’t help think what Teela would do in Kel’s situation…stand on the sidelines and cry for He-man? Food for thought, as I continue to watch the DVD’s and read book two of the “Protector of the Small series.”
Which leads me to ask this question of our Hack fans (if any) – as female readers, what is it you look for in a heroine? And what heroines from your childhood still hold up for you today? Let me know in comments on this blog.
Over and out.
Marcy
Monday, May 22, 2006
Solarainne 2
(For an explanation of this project, please see the note on the post entitled "Solarainne 1." Thanks!)
(And sorry - for some reason this won't let me indent paragraphs.)
By Marcy and Bryan
The class filed out quickly, mumbling to each other about the absurdly short class. Connall looked at none of them. He fixed his eyes on the floor, making a line for his professor's desk. He wanted to know what the note meant, or what he should do. This guy says one thing to me and I'm going to deck him. He straightened himself up just in time to see Mary McCrary, a pretty girl that sat in the front, head him off. She was focused on Mr. Durst, and opened her mouth to speak.
"Mr. Durst, this is by far the most outrageous form of sexual harassment I have encountered at this school, and I hang out with rugby players, so that is saying a lot!" Mary said, her green eyes flashing with anger. She held up her essay, which had the same blue-inked message on it as Connall's did.
Mr. Durst laughed.
Connall's brow furrowed. "What is going on here? Is this some kind of joke?"
"Well, at least you both took offense to my little experiment," Mr. Durst said. "That's a good sign."
"A good sign of what? That we're human beings? And that we don't like being treated as objects by a professor who uses his assignments for his own personal agenda?" Mary retorted hotly.
"Exactly, Miss McCrary. That you are humans. And humans with some shred of moral character to boot. It's taken me half a semester to root you out of the crop of this year's pathetic hybrids. Our kind are rarities anymore."
"What the hell are you talking about? Hybrids? Are you on crack?" Connall asked, and then realized that he was simply asking questions that the good professor was already about to explain.
But Mr. Durst simply handed them a small business card. "Go to this address, at precisely four o'clock. Show this card to no-one, do you understand? I will meet you there and show you exactly what I am talking about. I'm afraid this classroom, even this campus, is not the place to discuss such subjects."
"Why should we trust you?" Connall asked.
"Do me a favor," Mr. Durst said. "Go to the coffee shop. Sit down with a mocha and observe your fellow college mates. Really observe them. And imagine that you are watching a cosmic science experiment. You'll be surprised what you see."
He gathered his things and headed for the door, leaving Mary and Connall completely baffled. Before he exited, he turned to them again. "Stay together until you meet me later. It's not as safe for you out there anymore; you're in the know."
He left.
Connall looked at Mary. She said:
"Do you have any clue what he's talking about? I've got another class at four. What's he talking about? He's not getting off that easy..."
But something in the way he said cosmic science experiment didn't sit right with Connall. He had heard those words once before, but where exactly he couldn't recall. Clearly, though, this professor had a plan for them. And it didn't involve wine and cheese in his dining room followed by gladiator movies in the bedroom.
"Look, it's a little weird, but maybe we should do this," Connall said. "And I know you don't know me and I don't know you, but it's probably just part of some lesson he's trying to teach."
Mary's breathing slowed a little. Curiosity began to take over.
"Well, he can't rape us both, can he?" she said, wishing instantly she hadn't. I don't even know this guy, hope he's not offended. His smile told her he wasn't.
"Well, I hope not. Here's what's really wrong: I left my money in my dorm room, so if we're supposed to hang out for the next three hours, I guess you're coming too. What do you think?"
Half an hour later, after money was fetched and more cold braved, Mary and Connall were sitting in the coffee shop, each with a mocha and a chocolate chocolate-chip muffin. They kicked back in a booth and began their people watching experiment, oblivious to what they were actually looking for.
"I can't believe I'm skipping Chem to sit here and ingest carbs with a stranger at the request of a perverted, demented professor." Mary said through a bite of muffin.
"Tell us how you really feel," Connall countered.
"What are we supposed to be looking for, anyway."
Connall sipped his mocha, then wiped whipped cream from the tip of his nose. "A cosmic science project."
"This whole thing is a cosmic science project." Mary mumbled.
Connall scanned the crowd, a regular mix of coffe shop patrons. The punks, the goths, the poets, the preps, and the average joes all mingled and gorged on treats. He watched them for weirdness, but spoke to Mary as he did.
"So where are you from, Mary McCrary?"
"Ohio. You?"
"Buffalo."
"You came a long way for school then." She huffed.
"That's original."
Mary sighed. "I'm sorry. I'm frustrated. None of this makes any logical sense, but it seems to be the right thing to do here."
Connall smirked, and was about to speak, when something caught his eye...
He found himself staring back at an iguana with a pearl necklace sitting atop Ben Ngyuen's shoulder.
Ben took a poetry class with Connall, and Connall remembered his was particularly bad, not just for the writing but because Ben came from Korea, and his r's were sometimes lost in the shuffle. Even with the public readings in class, up until now Connall never saw Ben communicate much with anybody, let alone a pet lizard. Yet here he was, feeding cracker crumbs to it as he read a bike manual in a far corner of the room. And the lizard looked at Connall like it was waiting for him to look away, but he didn't.
Mary saw the confusion smattered on Connall's face.
"What is it? What's the matter?" But before he could answer, she turned around to look at the lizard, which was now whispering into Ben's ear.
Ben's head snapped around to look directly at Connall and Mary. Connall swore he thought he saw Ben's eyes flare a brilliant yellow, and then fade back to normal. Ben pulled the lizard off of his shoulder and carefully placed her inside his backpack. He shouldered the bag, and with a cold glare, turned his back on the two observers and left the coffee shop. The backpack rustled, and the lizard peeked out of the bag, flipping off Mary and Connall.
"Did you see -"
"Oh yes, I saw," Mary replied before Connall could finish.
"How soon until four o'clock?"
Mary looked at her cell phone's time display. "Thirty-five minutes. Should we go? A trained lizard doesn't necessarily constitute a cosmic science experiment."
"But a Korean poet's eyes glowing yellow might." Connall stood and donned his jacket. "Safety in numbers. Let's go."
"How reassuring," mumbled Mary, but she followed Connall out to the bus stop.
(And sorry - for some reason this won't let me indent paragraphs.)
By Marcy and Bryan
The class filed out quickly, mumbling to each other about the absurdly short class. Connall looked at none of them. He fixed his eyes on the floor, making a line for his professor's desk. He wanted to know what the note meant, or what he should do. This guy says one thing to me and I'm going to deck him. He straightened himself up just in time to see Mary McCrary, a pretty girl that sat in the front, head him off. She was focused on Mr. Durst, and opened her mouth to speak.
"Mr. Durst, this is by far the most outrageous form of sexual harassment I have encountered at this school, and I hang out with rugby players, so that is saying a lot!" Mary said, her green eyes flashing with anger. She held up her essay, which had the same blue-inked message on it as Connall's did.
Mr. Durst laughed.
Connall's brow furrowed. "What is going on here? Is this some kind of joke?"
"Well, at least you both took offense to my little experiment," Mr. Durst said. "That's a good sign."
"A good sign of what? That we're human beings? And that we don't like being treated as objects by a professor who uses his assignments for his own personal agenda?" Mary retorted hotly.
"Exactly, Miss McCrary. That you are humans. And humans with some shred of moral character to boot. It's taken me half a semester to root you out of the crop of this year's pathetic hybrids. Our kind are rarities anymore."
"What the hell are you talking about? Hybrids? Are you on crack?" Connall asked, and then realized that he was simply asking questions that the good professor was already about to explain.
But Mr. Durst simply handed them a small business card. "Go to this address, at precisely four o'clock. Show this card to no-one, do you understand? I will meet you there and show you exactly what I am talking about. I'm afraid this classroom, even this campus, is not the place to discuss such subjects."
"Why should we trust you?" Connall asked.
"Do me a favor," Mr. Durst said. "Go to the coffee shop. Sit down with a mocha and observe your fellow college mates. Really observe them. And imagine that you are watching a cosmic science experiment. You'll be surprised what you see."
He gathered his things and headed for the door, leaving Mary and Connall completely baffled. Before he exited, he turned to them again. "Stay together until you meet me later. It's not as safe for you out there anymore; you're in the know."
He left.
Connall looked at Mary. She said:
"Do you have any clue what he's talking about? I've got another class at four. What's he talking about? He's not getting off that easy..."
But something in the way he said cosmic science experiment didn't sit right with Connall. He had heard those words once before, but where exactly he couldn't recall. Clearly, though, this professor had a plan for them. And it didn't involve wine and cheese in his dining room followed by gladiator movies in the bedroom.
"Look, it's a little weird, but maybe we should do this," Connall said. "And I know you don't know me and I don't know you, but it's probably just part of some lesson he's trying to teach."
Mary's breathing slowed a little. Curiosity began to take over.
"Well, he can't rape us both, can he?" she said, wishing instantly she hadn't. I don't even know this guy, hope he's not offended. His smile told her he wasn't.
"Well, I hope not. Here's what's really wrong: I left my money in my dorm room, so if we're supposed to hang out for the next three hours, I guess you're coming too. What do you think?"
Half an hour later, after money was fetched and more cold braved, Mary and Connall were sitting in the coffee shop, each with a mocha and a chocolate chocolate-chip muffin. They kicked back in a booth and began their people watching experiment, oblivious to what they were actually looking for.
"I can't believe I'm skipping Chem to sit here and ingest carbs with a stranger at the request of a perverted, demented professor." Mary said through a bite of muffin.
"Tell us how you really feel," Connall countered.
"What are we supposed to be looking for, anyway."
Connall sipped his mocha, then wiped whipped cream from the tip of his nose. "A cosmic science project."
"This whole thing is a cosmic science project." Mary mumbled.
Connall scanned the crowd, a regular mix of coffe shop patrons. The punks, the goths, the poets, the preps, and the average joes all mingled and gorged on treats. He watched them for weirdness, but spoke to Mary as he did.
"So where are you from, Mary McCrary?"
"Ohio. You?"
"Buffalo."
"You came a long way for school then." She huffed.
"That's original."
Mary sighed. "I'm sorry. I'm frustrated. None of this makes any logical sense, but it seems to be the right thing to do here."
Connall smirked, and was about to speak, when something caught his eye...
He found himself staring back at an iguana with a pearl necklace sitting atop Ben Ngyuen's shoulder.
Ben took a poetry class with Connall, and Connall remembered his was particularly bad, not just for the writing but because Ben came from Korea, and his r's were sometimes lost in the shuffle. Even with the public readings in class, up until now Connall never saw Ben communicate much with anybody, let alone a pet lizard. Yet here he was, feeding cracker crumbs to it as he read a bike manual in a far corner of the room. And the lizard looked at Connall like it was waiting for him to look away, but he didn't.
Mary saw the confusion smattered on Connall's face.
"What is it? What's the matter?" But before he could answer, she turned around to look at the lizard, which was now whispering into Ben's ear.
Ben's head snapped around to look directly at Connall and Mary. Connall swore he thought he saw Ben's eyes flare a brilliant yellow, and then fade back to normal. Ben pulled the lizard off of his shoulder and carefully placed her inside his backpack. He shouldered the bag, and with a cold glare, turned his back on the two observers and left the coffee shop. The backpack rustled, and the lizard peeked out of the bag, flipping off Mary and Connall.
"Did you see -"
"Oh yes, I saw," Mary replied before Connall could finish.
"How soon until four o'clock?"
Mary looked at her cell phone's time display. "Thirty-five minutes. Should we go? A trained lizard doesn't necessarily constitute a cosmic science experiment."
"But a Korean poet's eyes glowing yellow might." Connall stood and donned his jacket. "Safety in numbers. Let's go."
"How reassuring," mumbled Mary, but she followed Connall out to the bus stop.
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