Ah, my friends–gather ’round. It is time for the tale of a tragic queen.
The first mention of the second wife of the infamous King Henry VIII came from the movie Steel Magnolias when I was a child; Olympia Dukakis and Shirley MacLaine were talking about this person named Anne Boleyn–with six fingers on one hand! What? Bemusement reigned. But the image of deformity persisted.
I took a colloquium on Queen Elizabeth I (if you really wanna get me going on the subject, ask me if I think she died a virgin or not) during my senior year of college; The Tudors began its run on Showtime, and we perused it (privately, as it was extremely provocative–but hey, I discovered Henry Cavill) as part of our study. And thus Anne Boleyn surfaced again. As I learned more of her history, another image began to emerge–one of a woman who wanted the best for herself and would not sacrifice her dignity for nothing less. She resisted Henry VIII at the beginning; she did not want to be any man’s mistress, even a king’s. And no matter how she handled herself in the beginning, she still lost her life–for whatever reason you choose, whether you believe Henry VIII simply wanted to get rid of her, or if she really was unfaithful–that tragic day in May 1536.
So, to me, the story of Queen Anne is a cautionary tale. One that might not have such visceral consequences in this day and age but can still be relatable on some simple terms.
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“Anne Boleyn”
Every girl has a charm That she holds dear She believes there’s no harm Letting someone near
But to be close enough to touch Takes a man of certain mettle Can’t let just anyone Give her the urge to settle
To them, virtue is a tease Coveted like the rarest jewel And when they get what they please Their gentle caress turns cruel
You think it’s safe to let go While someone’s plotting your overthrow
The stage is set, whispers are coarse Loyalties are divided down the line
She screams till she’s hoarse
They’ve condemned for the wrong crime
She lost her head in the mix Despite her good intentions She lost everything in the end Sort of like Anne Boleyn
She stands, trembling Goosebump-laden When is it coming? Frozen is this moment Heavy with Longing The silk weighs On her svelte frame Candles hold their breath Don’t even dare to flicker
The walls hush to watch And the wind even hovers to wait Motion ceases Until he breathes life into the frame
Another scene I unearthed from Superhero. I didn’t realize that I had invoked Zora from the past until she emerged in RSA, though the Zora Scott from RSA is supposed to be based on the character I used in Turnabout, a collaboration with another fanfic writer on an Orlando Bloom message board. (Go ahead and laugh. I deserve it.) This Zora is supposed to resemble Felice from Midnight Moon, but without some of her… idiosyncrasies. (I won’t spoil the surprise for you.)
Maybe I love the name Zora. And who better to try out favored monikers than on characters?
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There are times when I find
You wanna keep yourself from me
When I don’t have the strength
I’m just a mirror of what I see
When Mark awoke again, the room was dim.
The drapes on the window were drawn, so it could have been night or day. He could not be sure. Time had slipped by him, slipped by them, without notice and now they could not get it back. How ironic that it had been happening for a long time, and it took a tragedy for him to notice.
Reality seeped into his thoughts. He felt the pain of his broken body as he remembered flashes of the events that led up to that moment, and all of a sudden, he wished he could forget it all. If he couldn’t go back, he opted to just forget it all. It seemed a small mercy for having to deal with the remainder of his life without the woman he loved.
“Abby,” he whispered, awash with sorrow. The trembling began then, and the tears clouded his already blurry vision.
A soft sniffle startled him out of his moment of melancholy.
Her brown eyes shining like orbs watched him closely, as if he were a fascinating display of a form of human life she had never seen before. They peered at him from over her knees that were covered in soft gray fleece pajama pants, and he could not see the bottom half of her face. But it slowly came back to him as she gazed at him unwaveringly, along with the memory of her cries…
She watched as he tried to shift himself into a better position and winced. He griited his teeth together as he bore the pain. Moisture swam in his eyes, and then…
There was a light touch on his trembling leg, not enough pressure to harm but enough to notice. Through the thin blanket he could feel the warmth. Blinking rapidly and trying to control his short breaths, he wondered what touched his leg.
It was the little girl’s hand.
“Don’t cry,” she whispered. “It’ll all be alright.”
He blinked hard, once, then stared at her incredulously. The nurse who was there when he had awoken for the first time since the accident had told him that the little girl had not spoken to anyone, and here she was (having snuck into his hosptial room no less) reassuring him as if he had woken from a nightmare.
In a way, he had– a living nightmare that could not be changed with all the wishing in the world. And that made him want to burst into tears all over again.
He swallowed the lump he had in his throat and focused on the little girl. He forced his mind to operate on more practical terms for the situation at hand. After all, didn’t she have parents? A brother? A sister? Someone who worried about her while she sat here with her knees to her chest looking curious and scared all at the same time?
“I was scared,” she went on, simply, answering his unspoken question.
Mark’s lips twitched in a movement that could have been taken as a smile or a grimace. The fact that she had no one to comfort her at this time of upheaval in her fragile existence grieved him greatly. However, he could not help be warmed slightly that she felt his presence would chase away apprehension. She barely knew him and here she was…
“So you thought that I could keep you company,” Mark commented, voice strained.
She merely blinked at him, saying nothing. He supposed that was a yes.
He chucked sardonically, an effort that made his chest hurt. “I’m not sure I can help you with that, kid. I’ve got enough shadows of my own.”
Her eyebrows came together in a frown. “Is that why you were crying?”
He had the overwhelming urge to take up a shield, as if he were more vulnerable than he wanted to be. “That is none of your business.”
The way her face shifted implied that she was pouting. “You can’t send me back. I won’t go.”
“Wait.” Mark leaned over, ignoring the pain, and grabbed the little girl’s arm lightly. “I’m sorry. I…” They locked eyes, one watery gaze to another. “I didn’t mean to yell at you. I…”
“Somebody died and you didn’t want them to,” she said in such a way that made his blood freeze. “That’s what the nurse lady said.”
“Tell me your name,” Mark murmured. “They never told me your name.”
“My mama named me Zora,” she told him. “What did your mama name you?”
“My mother named me Mark after her own father.” He placed his bigger, lighter hand on hers, taking note of the flicker in her eyes when he did it. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Zora.”
In a movement that shocked him a little, she placed her free hand on his.
“Likewise.”
He was to learn soon that being shocked by Zora was to be a mundane, habitual event.
I think of parts of this song sometimes like a schoolyard chant; the first part came to me while I was at my previous job (I had a lot of idle time on slow nights). The message of this little diddy is, I know what I am looking for and don’t you tell me different *headswivel
This feels more like Real Talk…ah, maybe I need a new category?
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“What I Want”
Three little girls sitting a tree Birds didn’t know what they heard But the beat was rockin’ They didn’t mind bein’ disturbed
Ever since I could tie my shoe
And kick ass at four square
I wasn’t like the others
Sycophants couldn’t compare
They were hoping for Cupid
I found I didn’t care
‘Cause what I want is bigger than his name in a heart
What I want won’t fit in my shopping cart
From the clearance bin at Wal-Mart
Or dance on my screen when I press start
So hey (yeah) you (uh huh)
You say you do what you please
But no (ho) oh no (no oh)
Looks like you’re on your knees
Three little girls walkin’ down the street Voices high to spread the word Even motes were hoppin’ No one cared they were perturbed
I had a frog a time or two
Made me wanna be a nun
Too bad – woe is they
‘Cause I’m made of sterner stuff
Not gonna stick when it’s dire
Don’t need a bloke to have fun
Cuz what I want is better than rattling box springs
What I want is better than matching rings
What I want is not on that list of small things
That make up fancy flights and pipe dreams
So hey (yeah) you (uh huh)
You say you are emancipated
But no (ho) oh no (no oh)
Looks like you’re constipated
Three little girls rockin’ to the beat Walls shakin’ enough to crash No one’s keeping their seat Girls holler back as they ask
So hey (yeah) you (uh huh)
You say you’re elated?
But no (ho) oh no (no oh)
Why you still hanging on to that jerk you dated?
‘Cause what you want is better than him
Than the nights you spent in the dim
Wallowing low in the grim
Wondering if he was really out with his friends
So hey (yeah) you (uh huh)
When are you gonna get the point?
It’s time you get what you want
Quentin Tarantino is a genius in my opinion. If Kill Bill does not properly demonstrate his creative dexterity, I don’t know what does. (Though I am wondering how Django Unchained will turn out; damn right I’m gonna see it!) The allure of Kill Bill, in my opinion, lies in the tale of Beatrix Kiddo, the Bride. That first image of her lying on the ground, panting and bloody, coupled with the polarity of her at the end, still panting and bloody but stronger now, piques the mind of a girl like me. I can only wish to create a character as compelling as the one Uma Thurman brought to life.
Kill Bill entered my life in 2003 when I was a freshman in college and dating a man who was nearly a decade older than I was. He was my first in everything. I was young. I loved him.
So you can guess I was pissed when I found out he was cheating on me. Bastard! oh well.
So I did what any nerd girl writer who has been jilted would do. I wrote a story about it. Fictional but inspired by actual events. Like to hear it? Hear it go!
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Prelude
The pain she felt was like oppression. It tied down her every muscle, every tendon, and it felt like a thousand agonies when she turned and lifted her head to look at her assailant. The smug look in his brown eyes—brown eyes could at one time stare into endlessly and thought were beautiful—burned some of that pain away as adrenaline made its healing track through her veins.
She was down right now, being held down by one of her assailant’s henchmen, but she wasn’t going to stay down. It wasn’t her way.
It had been a strange set of events that had landed her at this moment. One night, she’d stumbled upon the indiscretions this same man standing over her with a gun in his only hand. He had been cheating on her for several months, and when she had tried to show her disapproval in a more physical manner (by kicking his ass), his bodyguards had surfaced to remove her from scene. In the attempt to shake her down, they were accosted by two guys and a curly-haired brunette who kicked their beefy, overpaid and pampered asses. For their good deed, she found herself repaying the deed by becoming a domestic in the infamous Munsey House. Before she had realized what she was doing, she had ended up inadvertently making friends with some of her deceitful ex-boyfriend’s mortal enemies. Not to mention living in the spacious mansion of one.
It was a small world, after all.
But her experiences there were not without their lessons. Karate lessons, to be precise. By day, she picked up after a man she hardly saw in the light of day without incident and his baby sister, who had become her best friend. And by night, she strengthened her body and mind with martial arts. It didn’t take long before the idea of revenge blossomed in her head. (Too bad she hadn’t read the disclaimer about the consequences. Would have helped, wouldn’t it?)
“So you thought that you were going to drop in here like some kind of fucking superhero and beat me didn’t you?” he asked, his voice echoing throughout the high-ceilinged room. Her nostrils flared out of anger, but she didn’t answer. She didn’t feel like dignifying that with an answer—which was enough for him. He cackled and stepped around her. He’s really getting off on this beating me down and shit, she mused. She glared at his pricey leather loafers spotted with blood and tried not to think about whose blood that was. Fucker.
As if he could read her ill thoughts about him, he placed his foot deliberately on her flattened hand. She heard the crush and crackle of her own bones and thought of something else to avenge.
“Leave her alone!” cried the girl tied up in the chair behind him. The reason why she was here. She tried not to look at the blonde because the bruises and cuts on her beautiful face would have angered her past any rational thought. And she had to keep her head in the game as much as she could. “You’ve hurt her enough.”
As if the young blonde with the large blue eyes in bondage were a mere fly skimming across his coveted morning cup of Maxwell House coffee, he flicked a hand at one of his associates. Her indignant cries were soon silenced with duct tape. Anger burned in her belly at the sound of the blonde struggling against the rope and tape. She added that to the list of things he would surely pay for.
Once that little irritation was taken care of, he looked down at her and continued speaking in that same impudent tone.
“I must say, I didn’t think you were capable of even getting in here,” he admitted as he paced around her body. “You were never known for your fighting skills. Always were a scaredy cat.” He tapped his chin pensively with the tip of the gun barrel. “I guess you’ve changed it up a little. But not enough to beat me, baby.”
Goddamn. He called her baby. He had some nerve. But that was the kind of smart-ass thing he was famous for. “You forgot,” she said in a deep, husky voice that shocked herself and dimly made her think of Uma Thurman in Kill Bill, “we fought before and it didn’t have such a favorable outcome for you.” She mustered up some buried defiance and smugness of her own. “You’re still missing a hand, aren’t you?”
Above her head somewhere, she heard someone snicker in the silence that had fallen. Her lips curved at that sound. She heard his yells for quiet and the sound of a fist making contact on flesh. Rapid footsteps echoed around her then she felt the toe of his shoe in her ribs. She gritted her teeth against the pain as it assaulted her body again. Instead of focusing on the pain, she fixated on the triumph of it. She’d wounded him without lifting a finger and he’d lashed out at her because of it. Sticks and stones her newly toned ass.
“Shut up!” he yelled at her tense, prostrate form. “You shut up before I kick you again.”
“The truth hurts, doesn’t it?” she inquired, listening to his heavy breaths as she rode on her triumph. Prudence told her to stay quiet and bide her time until the others made it there, but her mouth ran on despite itself. Come on cavalry! Anytime now… “I may be down on the ground here about to die but you’ll live on with the knowledge that I amputated you. I made you a cripple with a mere flick of my wrist. I cut off your calculating, cheating, fornicating right hand—and it felt so fucking good.”
“It’s not going to feel good when I kill you, you can be sure of that,” he spat at her. “That motherfucker Mark Munsey is going to regret the day he sent you after me, bitch.”
“Mark has nothing to do with this,” she said firmly. “So putting him into the middle is not going to justify what you’re doing.”
He chuckled sardonically at her statement. “Oh don’t even go there. You’re a tool to him, just as much as the women he plays with on a daily basis.” At that, the blonde tried to refute the claims about her big brother, but they only came out as a string of intelligible, muffled words. A nudge with a semiautomatic had her going quiet. “He used you to get back at me because you are too easily manipulated to think for yourself. You were a tool that fell right into his hands. You mean shit to him.”
Even though she knew intellectually that he only spoke those words to get under her skin, the possibility of the veracity in them burned her. She thought of the seemingly unflappable, sometimes aloof, and shrewd young man in question and found that she didn’t know what he was capable of. And that one fact almost loosened her grip on everything she’d built during the past several months. Hastily, she pushed it aside, knowing that it was best handled later when she got prove it herself. She would make sure that there was a later, somehow.
“Oh look,” he said, tone mocking. “It looks like I’ve shut her up.”
“Say what you want about him,” she found herself saying, “but at least he’s honorable enough not to make me promises he knows he can’t keep. As I recall, that was a bit of a problem with you.”
“Comparing me with that asshole is not going to wound me.”
She couldn’t help it. She had to say it. “Well, there’s that and then the fact that he’s still got both hands.”
In response to that little fleshy barb, he dug the toe of his shoe into her hurt ribs, flashing a feral smile as she tensed in her effort not to show her pain. He tilted his head thoughtfully. “I think we oughta send him a package for his efforts, don’t you think?” His brown orbs gleamed with malice and she could see the intent in them. “Every good deed should have its reward.”
“It’s the golden rule,” she murmured. “And so then you’ll get yours. Be sure of it.”
He shoved her onto her back so that she stared up into his face. The sudden movement had her taking a sharply indrawn breath. A part of her realized at that moment that her own death was imminent, but the rest of her didn’t care. Death did not scare her. The only thing that infuriated now was not Death—it would not be culpable. No—this bastard would be at fault for bringing her to Death.
“No,” he corrected her arrogantly. “You are gonna get yours.” He aimed the gun at her head and the blonde’s muffled screams of protest pierced the air. “You’re gonna die knowing I bested you. Fuck my right hand. I got the last laugh. Good night, bitch.”
I know! It’s the holidays! This is sooo bad. But I need an Inner Bitch Moment. Comin’ up, amigos!
It’s June 2011. I had just gotten home from the first (and only) date I had with a guy I had met online. (I can feel you all rolling your eyes. I hardly blame you.) He happened to matriculate at my alma mater, which was kind of known as a party school. So he thought I was of a certain caliber. Being a rather diligent student in undergrad, I ended up disappointing him. Poor baby.
I went home, channeled my inner Maggie Mallone, and here we are!
If I had any musical talent, I would record this (and “What I Want”–what? Soon, promise). But oh well.
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“I Am Not the One You Want”
Wanna give you this PSA
It’s just better before
I wear too many layers When the temperature starts to soar In the middle of the party I want a corner where I can snore Oh surprise, you find yourself Talking me into acting like a whore (Spoken: It’s been a while, damn!) But when it gets To the sticking point I’m just a bore
Here’s the news flash You’ll get it when your head’s out of your ass I am not the one you want
I can use Twenty-dollar words I learned in school But if you wanna get ahead You’re not gonna use me as a tool Try and get me mad I’ve got a handle on this glacier cool (Spoken: You done lost your mind) Mama taught me well So I won’t stoop to act a damn fool
Here’s the real —- Maybe if you open your eyes it would transmit I am not the one you want
So walk on I’m looking for an actual man You’re mistaken ‘Cause you’re really less than Anything I want Is gonna do more than entertain (Spoken: Aw, that’s really cute) And I don’t have the time To sit through anything you’re gonna feign
Here’s the deal, love I’m getting zilch in the sec it takes you to come You are not the one I want
Don’t be upset With this verisimilitude It’s constructed From the stink of your attitude So excuse me If I possess this sudden latitude (Spoken: On my level–please!) If you left right now We could end on an air of gratitude
One more time, just to make it done You are not the one I am not the one you want
Watching from the shadows an injustice so brutal— It cleaves the heart from atrium to ventricle. Everyday something new bursts the breath From that internal balloon, leaving flatness in its wake. Brief moments of refuge are taken clandestine For now nothing is quite sacred or private— Sleep is even elusive, and there are no dreams To provide a vibrant escape from consciousness.
However there is a place, happily and blithely kept, That provides a space for open hearts and minds That are ingeniously crafted of a particular mettle. Affection and Caring gush from every crevice— There is no one person in the world who more deserves The sense of tender welcome that never wears thin, For it provides the sustenance to surge ahead And break oneself from insidious imprisonment.
The foundation has been forged, 608 days strong, And day after laborious day the building blocks are Gently added by hand, a careful work of camaraderie That is accommodating for every sort of emotion And permutation of liking in human existence, Standing discreetly in the distance, out of the way, Able to easily be reached by a leisurely walk down A path filled with beauty anywhere else unimaginable.
For the valiant heart, the soldier who has not lost The deadly weapons he has in a forgotten arsenal, For the artistic mind, the poet who has not mislaid The intrinsic words he has in a secret place, For the attentive soul, the gentleman who has not squandered The amiable ways he lavishes on those around him, This is the truth from my heart.
Fear Not Productions 