Monday, November 17, 2008
I'm g'wan to Louisiana, my true love for to see
You never thought these two worlds would collide did you?
I'm going to Louisiana to visit Emily on Friday! Countdown to LA and Twilight starts now!
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Friday, November 07, 2008
The Second Time
By Krisserin Canary
It was the second time, but she would never get used to it.
Her mother was in the next room, either pretending not to know what was happening or willfully allowing it to take place. She hated her for it. To her it was her mother's fault. Her mother told him about the bowl of Halloween candy hidden under her bed, that she'd eat snack sized bar after snack sized bar before sleep. She was being punished, but she knew she didn't deserve it. No twelve year old does.
A light hung above her lazily illuminating the room. She squeezed her eyelids shut, blocking out the familiar shapes and haunting shadows. She refused to watch him do it, wouldn't give him the satisfaction of showing him fear.
He sat down next to her and placed his hand on her cheek. It was warm despite who it belonged to.
"Relax. It shouldn't hurt too much."
Her face radiated heat from the pounding in her chest. She opened her mouth, wide, before he could ask. She knew what he wanted, and didn't want to hear his voice again. She prayed it would be over soon.
There was pressure, a pinch. Her mind fumbled trying to think of other things. Her birthday was next week. Maybe grandma would make her a cake.
She could hear him turn on his favorite toy, the whining and buzzing closed in on her from a distance. This was the part that always hurt the most. She anticipated the pain.
She went numb.
School parties with cupcakes covered with rainbow sprinkles. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with a tall glass of milk. Oreos and milk. Chocolate milk. His scent accosted her. Her eyes rolled upwards, away. Her eyelids fluttered.
His sterile smell stung her nose. He'd swabbed himself with alcohol in an attempt to disinfect the evidence of previous tortures. It failed to mask his ripe odor. What would he smell like after he was done with her? She hoped he smelled like blood. A rancid metallic sting that would prove to her mother that he'd hurt her, maimed her.
She gave up hope quicker than she took it up. Her mother didn't care.
He leaned in closer and the heat of his breath mushroomed. It was wet and smelled of processed cheese. She squeezed her eyes harder until her temples throbbed. He was too close, his hand pressing down on her shoulder. A small yelp escaped her throat, giving her away. His hand was on her cheek again, patting it as you would an obedient dog. She tried to understand why he felt the need to touch her face.
Fatigue was catching up with him. His breath sped up; she could feel the exhales increase on her cheek. He was almost finished. He always got like this when he was close.
The buzzing stopped, the pressure of his hand disappeared. Feeling returned to her fingers. Her lips tingled. She closed her mouth, the corners torn from being stretched beyond their limits. She kept her eyes shut until she was sure he'd left the room. Thankfully, he hadn't felt the need to say anything.
Her mouth was sore. Globs of drool lay heavy on her chin. He must have really enjoyed himself this time.
A few minutes later her mind settled down. It was over. Hopefully it would be awhile before it happened again. Maybe this was the last time. She contemplated a life without pain.
A minute later she swung her feet over the edge and made her way out into the hall, tiptoeing to the bathroom. When she emerged a strange woman was waiting for her. She was smiling.
"Sarah?"
"Yes."
"Please come with me."
The woman opened a file with Sarah's name on it and ran her finger down the middle of the page.
"I think that's it for now. We'll see you in six months for your regular cleaning."
She considered the possibilities. Six months of sleeping in on Saturday mornings. Pop tarts in front of the television. Cool Cokes on hot summer days spent next to the pool. She swallowed it, nodded in acceptance.
A glass bowl filled with sweets lay glistening on the counter before her. She grabbed a purple sucker and stuck it in her mouth on her way towards the door. The sugar seeped into the sores in her mouth and stung.
A lot of damage can be done in six months.
It was the second time, but she would never get used to it.
Her mother was in the next room, either pretending not to know what was happening or willfully allowing it to take place. She hated her for it. To her it was her mother's fault. Her mother told him about the bowl of Halloween candy hidden under her bed, that she'd eat snack sized bar after snack sized bar before sleep. She was being punished, but she knew she didn't deserve it. No twelve year old does.
A light hung above her lazily illuminating the room. She squeezed her eyelids shut, blocking out the familiar shapes and haunting shadows. She refused to watch him do it, wouldn't give him the satisfaction of showing him fear.
He sat down next to her and placed his hand on her cheek. It was warm despite who it belonged to.
"Relax. It shouldn't hurt too much."
Her face radiated heat from the pounding in her chest. She opened her mouth, wide, before he could ask. She knew what he wanted, and didn't want to hear his voice again. She prayed it would be over soon.
There was pressure, a pinch. Her mind fumbled trying to think of other things. Her birthday was next week. Maybe grandma would make her a cake.
She could hear him turn on his favorite toy, the whining and buzzing closed in on her from a distance. This was the part that always hurt the most. She anticipated the pain.
She went numb.
School parties with cupcakes covered with rainbow sprinkles. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with a tall glass of milk. Oreos and milk. Chocolate milk. His scent accosted her. Her eyes rolled upwards, away. Her eyelids fluttered.
His sterile smell stung her nose. He'd swabbed himself with alcohol in an attempt to disinfect the evidence of previous tortures. It failed to mask his ripe odor. What would he smell like after he was done with her? She hoped he smelled like blood. A rancid metallic sting that would prove to her mother that he'd hurt her, maimed her.
She gave up hope quicker than she took it up. Her mother didn't care.
He leaned in closer and the heat of his breath mushroomed. It was wet and smelled of processed cheese. She squeezed her eyes harder until her temples throbbed. He was too close, his hand pressing down on her shoulder. A small yelp escaped her throat, giving her away. His hand was on her cheek again, patting it as you would an obedient dog. She tried to understand why he felt the need to touch her face.
Fatigue was catching up with him. His breath sped up; she could feel the exhales increase on her cheek. He was almost finished. He always got like this when he was close.
The buzzing stopped, the pressure of his hand disappeared. Feeling returned to her fingers. Her lips tingled. She closed her mouth, the corners torn from being stretched beyond their limits. She kept her eyes shut until she was sure he'd left the room. Thankfully, he hadn't felt the need to say anything.
Her mouth was sore. Globs of drool lay heavy on her chin. He must have really enjoyed himself this time.
A few minutes later her mind settled down. It was over. Hopefully it would be awhile before it happened again. Maybe this was the last time. She contemplated a life without pain.
A minute later she swung her feet over the edge and made her way out into the hall, tiptoeing to the bathroom. When she emerged a strange woman was waiting for her. She was smiling.
"Sarah?"
"Yes."
"Please come with me."
The woman opened a file with Sarah's name on it and ran her finger down the middle of the page.
"I think that's it for now. We'll see you in six months for your regular cleaning."
She considered the possibilities. Six months of sleeping in on Saturday mornings. Pop tarts in front of the television. Cool Cokes on hot summer days spent next to the pool. She swallowed it, nodded in acceptance.
A glass bowl filled with sweets lay glistening on the counter before her. She grabbed a purple sucker and stuck it in her mouth on her way towards the door. The sugar seeped into the sores in her mouth and stung.
A lot of damage can be done in six months.
Alright Wolcott, you hate Stephenie Meyer, we get it.
I was compelled to pick up this month's issue of Vanity Fair for several reasons. First, Kate Winslet is on the cover and I love Kate Winslet. Second, there is a large spread for Nike and LIVESTRONG.com in this month's issue. Lastly and most importantly, there was an article about the upcoming film version of Twilight.
Where I was hoping to read about the movie I was disappointed to find a half-assed under-researched criticism of the Twilight Saga by James Wolcott. I'll be the first to admit that the books have their faults, but Wolcott's review did little to shed new light on the series or the phenomenon of its cult status. Instead he chose to compare it to Buffy and the slew of young-adult vampire books that have hit the stores since Twilight became a mega-success--touching on points that have been discussed and making comparisons that had been made years ago when the books first came out. It wasn't well written (he referenced Sarah Palin for christ's sake), and most of the article was wasted on quoting passages from the book that do little more than criticize Meyer's writing style. Here are some choice quotes:
"Happily, the forthcoming film of Twilight (based on a sample tasting) sweeps away the trite chatter of Bella's interior monologue and the clumpy pace of Meyer’s storytelling with one swoop of the camera across the mist-wreathed pine forests of the Pacific Northwest..."
But wait, there's more:
"Meyer’s "Twilight Saga" is light on bloodsucking lore, heavy on high-school humdrum. "My fourth hour class got out late, and the lunch table I always sat at was full by the time I arrived. Mike was there, Jessica and Angela, Conner, Tyler, Eric and Lauren. Katie Marshall, the redheaded junior who lived around the corner from me, was sitting with Eric, and Austin Marks—older brother to the boy with the motorcycles—was next to her." Glad we got those seating arrangements sorted out!"
"In the novels it gets monotonous having Bella sigh over how breathtaking Edward is every time he materializes, subjecting the reader to dumb-bunny clunkers such as this beaut: "Edward stood in the halo of the porch light, looking like a male model in an advertisement for raincoats.""
So he didn't like the books. He thought they were poorly-written. Fine. Explain it with a little less disdain. Give me reason to take your opinion seriously. I felt like I was reading a book review in the Daily Bruin rather than Vanity Fair. Read it for yourself and let me know what you think.
Where I was hoping to read about the movie I was disappointed to find a half-assed under-researched criticism of the Twilight Saga by James Wolcott. I'll be the first to admit that the books have their faults, but Wolcott's review did little to shed new light on the series or the phenomenon of its cult status. Instead he chose to compare it to Buffy and the slew of young-adult vampire books that have hit the stores since Twilight became a mega-success--touching on points that have been discussed and making comparisons that had been made years ago when the books first came out. It wasn't well written (he referenced Sarah Palin for christ's sake), and most of the article was wasted on quoting passages from the book that do little more than criticize Meyer's writing style. Here are some choice quotes:
"Happily, the forthcoming film of Twilight (based on a sample tasting) sweeps away the trite chatter of Bella's interior monologue and the clumpy pace of Meyer’s storytelling with one swoop of the camera across the mist-wreathed pine forests of the Pacific Northwest..."
But wait, there's more:
"Meyer’s "Twilight Saga" is light on bloodsucking lore, heavy on high-school humdrum. "My fourth hour class got out late, and the lunch table I always sat at was full by the time I arrived. Mike was there, Jessica and Angela, Conner, Tyler, Eric and Lauren. Katie Marshall, the redheaded junior who lived around the corner from me, was sitting with Eric, and Austin Marks—older brother to the boy with the motorcycles—was next to her." Glad we got those seating arrangements sorted out!"
"In the novels it gets monotonous having Bella sigh over how breathtaking Edward is every time he materializes, subjecting the reader to dumb-bunny clunkers such as this beaut: "Edward stood in the halo of the porch light, looking like a male model in an advertisement for raincoats.""
So he didn't like the books. He thought they were poorly-written. Fine. Explain it with a little less disdain. Give me reason to take your opinion seriously. I felt like I was reading a book review in the Daily Bruin rather than Vanity Fair. Read it for yourself and let me know what you think.
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
Tuesday, November 04, 2008
Monday, November 03, 2008
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