I actually watched the 2016 Ghostbusters movie the other night. I also recently (as in a couple months ago) saw The Last Jedi. These two movies are connected to some of the most relevant content of my life. I refer to, of course, the all too godlike films of the 70’s and 80’s which now sit on irrevocable pedestals in the minds and hearts of so many people around the world. I felt like I needed, as a writer, to make a statement about these two films, because I loved the originals so much, and the studios are cashing in on nostalgia.
Ghostbusters 2016 had a lot of potential to be a funny movie, even though sequels are usually not that good. (Except for some movies, especially Temple of Doom, I would be a different person without that movie. A sadder person with a hole in my soul, unsure from whence said hole had come from.) I liked the actors, but the writing wasn’t worthy of them, or the franchise.
The Last Jedi also had a lot of potential, and I am sorry to say that the writing was lacking as well. By the end of the movie, I didn’t feel like anything had happened. Well, people died, but nothing meaningful happened, and that’s pretty depressing.
I was guilty of wanting sequels, because when you fall in love with a character, you want to see them more. Unfortunately, that leads me to something else that I can say about these movies. Maybe a group of people catching ghosts is an archaic idea in this day and age. Maybe the Star Wars universe just doesn’t have enough happening for 9+ movies. ( Also, I wish they weren’t making a Han Solo movie, because I’m pretty sure Disney doesn’t believe that Han shot first.) Maybe I don’t want my heroes old, dead, or obsessed with how many wontons are in their soup. Maybe I got what I wished for and I didn’t want it when I got it. I suppose that’s life, and they are just movies,but that doesn’t make me feel any better about it.
I would like to apologize for the the blank post,”Abusive Relationship”. I’m saddened by the loss of the poem, and it was actually a comedy piece, but, alas, it has dissipated as so many digital works.I would like to submit in its stead, this short piece. As always, thanks to our readers:)
The vague fuzziness became thought, and as Edgar felt the thought, he became conscious of himself. There was a golden warm light, and he felt a little cold. He didn’t know his name. He didn’t know he was Edgar, but consciousness now had him, and he felt cold, despite the warm air that was drying his wet skin.
Someone was standing over him, and there was sound now, but he did not understand. He didn’t remember that he had once worn glasses, and he didn’t know that he was naked. He simply knew that he was cold, and faced with such strangeness, he began to cry in long, wailing gasps.
Amy sat in the waiting room, across the desk, an attractive un-gender figure called West was scrolling through the forms that Amy had signed on the little screen. West nodded and slid the tablet back into its charger.
“Now you see, Miss Eden, your relative is cured from his illnesses, but he will need to come back twice a week. We usually suggest more, but the payment plan that was selected at the time that Mr. Eden was initiated only covers two. His integration into proper society will take longer than the optimal 6 weeks, as you have stated that you do not wish to enroll in any of our convenient payment plans We could safely say, “the un-gender paused while they looked down at a chart on their desk, “six months until he will be able to live alone.”
“Six months?!” Amy started. “I can’t have him living in my apartment for six months!”
West inclined their head. “I realize it is inconvenient, but, as your relative has to catch up on over two hundred years of scientific advances, history, and societal norms, well, he’s pretty much a child. For him to not have a guardian is not only unethical, it is illegal. Your family signed documents of responsibility when this contract was made. Until he is deemed acceptably integrated, you are his legal guardian.”
“Bloody Hell.” Amy said under her breath.
A heavyset nurse with large breasts came in the side door. “He’s awake!” She said, handing a tablet to the un-gender. “I hope you have informed your employer that you will need a few days off.” The nurse made a pouty face, “ The poor old boy is having a difficult adjustment.
Amy slumped even further into her chair as the open door let in a grown man’s child-like wail.
“Going back to what we were saying, before you so rudely interrupted me, tell me again why Skuzo is first on the door?” Amy asked, her feet propped up on the desk, her overpriced pumps crossed. She stared down Hank at his desk across the room.
“I told you, your money bought you into the business, but it was MY business. You wanted your name first, you should’ve started your own detective agency.”
He blew a cloud of cigarette smoke out the open window.”
Amy grabbed her chest in mock horror, her eyes wide, “It’s because I’m a woman! You, you, you-”
The phone on her desk rang.
“Little and Skuzo!” She answered, sticking out her tongue at Hank.
She listened intently, and then her face fell.
“No, thanks, not interested.”
She hung up the phone and sighed heavily.
“I’ve been here three hours, and this is worse than that time I temped at a pillow factory. I organized four years worth of files. And you know what it-”
The phone rang on Hank’s desk. He picked it up.
“Skuzo and Little.” He said.
He listened as the caller talked for a moment then he said,”Is your refrigerator running?” he paused, “Good, go fuck yourself.” He said, and he hung up the phone.
“Jesus.” Amy said. She had sat up in her chair. “That was a little harsh.”
“Yea, sorry.” Hank said, “It was some idiot.”
“What did they want?” Amy asked.
“Stupid thing about winning a vacation.” He said.
“Oh man, I hate those!” Amy said, putting her feet back up at her desk.
“What,” he said, “Vacations or telemarketers?”
“Fake Vacations.” she said, “You know, the ones that aren’t real.”
Hank’s brow furrowed as if the girl across the room was unfathomable, then he shrugged and leaned back in his seat.
Audrey sat her butt against the street lamp and struck a match for her cigarette.Her cherry red lips pillowed the loosely rolled paper. The shops on both sides of the street were going out of business,
and her old neighborhood was turning into a ghost town. From the corner of her eye, she saw a shadow come ambling up the street, his chin tucked into the collar of his coat, and a 45 revolver shaking wildly in his left hand.
“I thought they put you away for good.” He grunted.
“She killed herself.”Audrey said as
she tore the cigarette from her lips and ground it out below a leather pump.
“She would never!”Clyde screamed,his hand shaking violently. The gun fired at an angle and ricocheted off of the sidewalk and took out the streetlamp. The two stood silently in the dark, a dog barked at the end of the street, and then another.
“It’s not as if I had wanted her dead, she was my best friend.” Audrey said between gritted teeth.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore.” Clive said as the moon came from behind a cloud. He stood with the gun pointed at Audrey, hand no longer shaking.
“You won’t be around to remind me about it though.” The hammer started to ease back.
Audrey bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut, but when the shot rang out, she was still standing. She was wondering how long the shock would last when she heard the thud of Clyde’s lifeless body hit the ground.
She opened one eye.He lay face down,motionless.
“Christ.” She muttered, her body relaxed, and she pulled out her cigarette papers from her clutch.
“What am I going to tell my probation officer.”
For the wedding, I got fake nails. They were beautiful, and fun for the time needed, but then, they were completely in the way. I ripped them off after soaking them in acetone, them being, not all of them, but most of them, and most of my real nails. It’s a good thing I did it in the dark of my balcony in the evening, because in the light, they remind me of the girl’s nails from Silence of the lambs, after she clawed, or rather, attempted to claw her way out of Buffalo Bill’s pit.
After some severe neglect of my section of the Skirts Up Writers I am happy to say, I am back in action (cliche’,yes, touche). Writing for Maylanna’s Homeric journey from her homeland of Atoria to the mountains of, OH-MY-GOD-I-HAVE-TO-REREAD-MY-STORY-AGAIN-BECAUSE-I-FORGOT-WHAT-I-NAMED-EVERYONE-AND-EVERYTHING-IN-IT has been slow, and Hank just won’t perform how I want him to, isn’t that just like a man(cliche’,doubles). All bullshit aside though, it’s time to get serious about writing. It’s not about looking cool,it’s about being cool.So, typing with fake nails was a stupid experience, and it was standing in my way.So I ripped them off.
Time to shine.(Cliche’,triples ;p)
It’s all fun and games,until someone dies.
Its natural,everyday,to get wrapped up into my daily life.Hell, on a good day,I could work myself into an anxiety attack between the speaker box and the pay window at McDonalds, usually over some dumb thing I said five years ago. My brain asserts the idea of death pretty constantly to me, so I spend a lot of time wringing trivial moments for some facet of intimacy,in case the person I’m speaking with dies,and this is our last conversation.
When somebody dies that you know, it is an interesting catalyst.It reminds you that time is passing, and one day, far off in the future, or nearby in the next week, it will be your turn.
I think of it this way.We’re all standing in the middle of a tractor trailer ridden interstate,and eventually, we will get squished.Maybe it’s a truck hauling baby diapers,driven by a born again Christian who used to be a meth head, or maybe it’s a truck hauling canned goods for a relief effort.Maybe it’s a truck full of hats, or stuffed cats,but we all get squished eventually, and you never know which truck is yours until its too late to dodge.
Aunt Nona 1922-2016
Clad in such trappings,
who is this mistress?
who waits in shadows,
and echoes sad prayers.
What is her purpose,
whom is she pleasing?
Standing so motionless,
but diligently there.
Is she in want of kindness?
Does she dream during wakeness?
Is there something she's needing?
Shall I offer her tea?
Are her shudders silent laughter?
Is she sobbing and weeping?
What the hell does she want?
Why has she chosen me?
Did I step on some gravestone,
that had been long forgotten,
buried under the concrete,
of a now busy street?
Does she wish some forgiveness,
from a scorned peaceful lover?
Is she somebody's mother?
What the hell does this mean?