I was lucky enough to have an older brother who shared the splatter flicks with me, and I had parents who were cool and involved enough in my life to allow me to see them. I think my folks appreciated that I looked at these movies as a creative outlet... almost like magic shows, if you will.
She chews her lip, staring into my eyes. "Okay... Why did you kiss me in Austin?" I laugh softly and she frowns. "Sorry. That one's too easy." My gaze flicks to her mouth and back. "I'd wanted to kiss you ever since Quinton suggested playing spin the bottle, and by that night in your room, I'd run out of willpower to fight it.
Much-derided chick lit, chick flicks, and chick magazines have left ambitious women in a bind. Why is it that I, a young woman, can read 'GQ,' enjoy 'Fight Club,' and subscribe to 'Thrillist,' while the idea of a guy doing the same with 'Glamour,' '27 Dresses' and 'Daily Candy' is nearly unheard of?
I turned to face Audrey, and everything I loved was right there in her eyes, the memories tangible: the schooldays and sleepovers, the cheap bottles of wine and sappy chick flicks. She was there for my mother's drunken relapses, there to hold me until I fell asleep the first time the ex from Seattle hit me. It was all there, and my God, each memory was suddenly sacred and the sun rose and set upon it.
The summer gig turned into my day job. I was an arts administrator who helped make indie flicks. At the filmmakers' encouragement, I tried shooting a couple of shorts of my own. Directing was stressful, it was not my strength. But writing the scripts and helping others with their scripts - that was a gas. Making stuff up the way I wanted to see it was the biggest kick I ever experienced.
I WAS RAISED IN THE HOOD SO WHAT THE HECK SO I REPRESENT THE WOOD AND GET RESPECT CATCH ME IN THE CLUB PARLAYIN' TAKING FLICKS WITH ABOUT HUNDRED DIFFERENT 'CERTS UP IN MY MIX I NEVER KNEW NOTHIN' BUT THE HUSTLE I WAS ABLE TO DEAL WHAT THEY CALL THE ROOT OF EVIL GOT ME LIVING ON THE HILLS STILL ROLLIN' CHROME BOY, IT'S ON BOY YOU CAN TAKE THE BOY OUT THE HOOD BUT NOT THE HOOD OUT THE HOMEBOY
Mack 10 F/ T-Boz
Here we find the moat of thieves. And just as a lizard, with a quick, slick slither, Flicks across the highway from hedge to hedge, Fleeter than a flash, in the battering dog-day weather, A fiery little monster, livid, in a rage, Black as any peppercorn, came and made a dart At the guts of the others, and leaping to engage One of the pair, it pierced him at the part Through which we first draw food; then loosed its grip And fell before him, outstretched and apart.
I don't want to live in a world where the strong rule and the weak cower. I'd rather make a place where things are a little quieter. Where trolls stay the hell under their bridges and where elves don't come swooping out to snatch children from their cradles. Where vampires respect the limits, and where the faeries mind their p's and q's. My name is Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden. Conjure by it at your own risk. When things get strange, when what goes bump in the night flicks on the lights, when no one else can help you, give me a call. I'm in the book.
I would have done anything for him. But these days, I don't want to do anything. I don't want to get drunk or go to a wild party or make out with random boys-not that I've ever wanted to. I don't want to watch chick flicks or eat ice cream or get a haircut or buy out half of the mall. I don't want cold, cruel revenge. I don't want to see him suffer when karma catches up with him and kick his ass. I don't even want to talk to him right now, simply because it would be awkward and pathetic and I wouldn't know what to say to him. Yes, there is self-control, preventing me from being stupid and acting like a desperate doofus in the manner most heartbroken people do. But there is also a weary numbness threatening to consume every inch of me: Isn't there a way for me to skip straight to the part where I'm fine again?
It looks like fallen petals, and it looks like rain. It looks like the sounds the birds make at dawn. It looks like the aisle of grocery stores when a song I love suddenly begins to play overhead, and I cannot help but dance a little dance. It looks like a sigh, a kiss, an unmade bed. It looks like Cheerios in a white bowl with a bit of silence on the side. It looks like a plain vanilla cupcake in white paper, a dance with the wind, pink toenails, warm socks. It looks like a fire against the cold of winter, and a deep lake cool against a summer sky. It looks like chick flicks, books that make you cry, and all the candles blown out on the first try.
D. Smith Kaich Jones
It's only sixteen ninety-five, " I say with a flutter of my lashes. "You're serious." I prop my hands on my waist and stick out a hip, striking a pose worthy of a supermodel. "Look at me. Don't I look serious?" She collapses into the chair outside the dressing room in a fit of giggles so cute they make my insides fizz. "No! You must be stopped, " she says. "Why?" I strut down an aisle of yellowed lingerie, swiveling my hips, batting bras with flicks of my fingers. "I will be the king of the disco. I will be-" I spin and strike another pose. "An inspiration." She sniffs and swipes at her eyes. "The real Dylan would die before he'd be seen in public in something like that." "The real Dylan is boring." I brace my hands on the arms of her chair and lean down until our faces are a whisper apart. "And he's not one fourth the kisser I am." "Is that right?" Her lips quirk. "You know it is." Her smile melts, and her breath comes faster. "Yeah. I do.
What's up with your hair?' I ask. 'Aren't you worried you'll be spotted by angels flying above with all that blue?' 'War paint, ' says Dee, fastening his seatbelt. 'Except it's in our hair instead of on our faces, ' says Dum, starting the engine. 'Because we're original like that.' 'Besides, are poisonous frogs worried about being spotted by birds?' asks Dee. 'Are poisonous snakes? They all have bright markings.' 'You're a poisonous frog now?' I ask. 'Ribbit.' He turns and flicks out his tongue at me. It's blue. My eyes widen. 'You dyed your tongue too?' Dee smiles. 'Nah. It's just Gatorade.' He lifts up a bottle half-full of blue liquid. 'Gotcha.' He winks. ''Hydrate or Die, ' man, ' says Dum as we turn onto El Camino Real. 'That's not Gatorade's marketing, ' says Dee. 'It's for some other brand.' 'Never thought I'd say this, ' says Dum, 'but I actually miss ads. You know, like 'Just Do It.' I never realized how much of life's good advice came from ads. What we really need now is for some industrious soul to put out a product and give us a really excellent saying to go with it. Like 'Kill 'Em All and Let God Sort 'Em Out.'' 'That's not an advertising jingle, ' I say. 'Only because it wasn't good advice back in the day, ' says Dum. 'Might be good advice now. Attach a product to it, and we could get rich.