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The KCSC sent more than 20K requests to delete posts related to prostitution and porn to Tumblr from January to June 2017.
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"Motion"
Blurs of bright deep aquamarine and phthalo trees against a fuschia sky, as the bus’s body snaked across the highway. Its chrome glowed naked and with streaks of neon gold. It was oregon, maybe bordering california now. We waited patiently, in our scratchy cocoon of that recognizable bus seat print, limbs twisted in immobile, odd positions as we travelled 70 miles per hour down the winding highway onto the prospect of possible success.
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Buttercups
Cups of melted butter margarine like lemon drops in an Emerald Lake sugar crystals and its sweet perfumes floating among fallen white stars. scattered by a careless hand or overflowed from the too small palms of a joyous child. I bet they are sweet even if a little soggy *submitted to in-house publication*
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Symbol- Curtain
Curtain- intimacy and personal barriers (modesty, secrecy, concealment) "Intimacy is a delicate and personal barrier" Window Treatment Monk first saw her that night. The sky was losing its grasp on its cyan brightness, giving in to the expanding blot of inky indigo. It was maybe 6. He hassrd just finished his last interview of the day, and whistled his relief to the empty street. (shadow behind the curtain) It was open this time. The sun bleached coral sheerness gave way to her.. Him inside. He saw the sun, its dappling rays squeezing through the sheerness of the drapes to stain the room a tender blush. Spilled wine on the curtain. They had too much too drink that night, and voices got loud, and louder. It escaped through the spaces between woven threads and echoed into the street. Monk hoped nobody heard. He wasn’t proud of what he did, and the purple stain reminded him of it every day and night. It has been 3 months. Monk still walked past that street every day, precisely. The sky darkened earlier now in the October chill. And in this darkness the window shone brighter. The curtain allowed just the slightest glimpse... Two weeks later, the curtain was replaced by a blue.
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White Ferrari--- adapted
Bad luck to talk
on these rides
With a fur dice
Faded pink against aquamarine window tint
Mind on the road
Your dilated eyes
Wandering, out beyond
And lingering on my lap
49th ride on the 99 (road)
One too many years
Some tattooed eyelids on a facelift
Forgotten memories, cipher etched on the lid of sight
Some wrinkled artwork below a surprised brow
I wonder if the sun shines through its shaded lines
And etches black patterns against the rosy glow of skin and flesh
Mind over matter is magic
I do magic
*submitted to in-house publication*
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Buttercups --- “Sonnets on Buttercups”
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He has got it all going in, as fast as he could shovel it.
Red, dry dirt swirled in the arid air, coating his limbs and each strand of his sweat-drenched hair.
The mustard wool cuff still stuck out in the earth beside his canvas loafers, and he seethed, doubling his efforts.
It went, in, up, out, dropped, here, there.
But it’s not enough, he’s got it all, done it all, gave it all but it’s not enough.
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Love Disaster
That one, the fairest of all rivers, love
Disaster, to fill its confines with drink,
And overflow its green and rocky brim.
To grasp stooping, tentative willow tips,
And the outstretched hands of frolicking young.
It lends its tops to ripe blossoming red,
Acres of crimson blood, rose petal song.
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Sonnets on Buttercups
Elizabethan:
Like cups of melted butter margarine.
Like lemon drops atop an Emerald Lake,
with sugar crystals, yellow tangerines,
among white stars strewn ‘cross a jade palate.
As scattered by some careless fickle mind,
or overflowed from a child’s too small hand.
I bet they’re sweeter than our hearts combined,
and melts like melodies of your favourite band.
I smell its’aroma in the air embalmed,
among the dew from last night’s meddling rain.
It fills me full and with a sense of calm,
it scattered settled dust and stifling pain.
Oh, all my senses crave this yellow treat,
if soggy from the night, might still be sweet.
Petrarchan :
Its rounded petals strewn across the mess,
as scattered as with no attention paid.
Embossed in glossy shine as bright as jade,
just little flowers, yellow happiness.
Its petals smile of childish innocence,
like golden stickers from the second grade.
It glitters, holographic gems inlaid,
congratulations that now makes no sense.
So these now question with a slight mischief:
How many yellow smiles did you seek?
How many expectations yet to meet?
It knows of all the goals you’ve yet achieved,
it probes within and to your pride it speaks,
rescinds its smile from your achievement sheets.
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Viewfinder #3
The fruit’s juices stained her fingers like a wine-colored birthmark, crawling across the webbed part between her fingers and creeping into the lines above her knuckle. It marred the powdery smooth fingers in a beautiful way, and I imagined if it was blood. Her fingertips escaped the stain, though, its creamy beige sinking instead into the fresh flesh of the fruit, and glistened with fresh, sticky sweet nectar.
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Viewfinder #2
A dark pink cavern threatened to envelop the white pearl.
Hot breath,
Slithering tongue.
It opened, closed and swallowed.
It glided smoothly into its monstrous depth, the poor thing, carried along by warm flesh.
I suppose it was a familiar home, if you think about it.
And she didn’t even taste it.
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Viewfinder #1
Her cheeks glowed under the last rays of the sun, backlit by a cool icy blue as if in moonlight. Her flushed lids fluttered, her lashes lush as she leaned into the sweet temptation in front of her. It seemed to beckon to her, its vibrant, warm flesh promising the citrus sweetness of familiar marmalade. She closed her eyes, and leaned in.
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The night Vincent was shot
The night Vincent was shot, he saw it coming. He had sat on his dark wood porch, gazing over the ashes drifting up fro his silver ashtray. The sky shone like a dull, dove-grey pearl, silently, understatedly beautiful yet decidedly ominous.
As the clock struck for five, edges of crimson crept around the seams of the horizon, staining its dove grey purity like blood.
In the rustling shadows Vincent thought he heard the distinct release of safety; in the inky black he thought he glimpsed the smooth metallic gleam of a barrel.
Vincent sat, smoked another cigar, and just watched it all.
*submitted to in-house publication*
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Sabine- expanded
They sat together on the old braided rug in his dark bedroom, legs crossed, knees almost touching. The sunlight outside filters a dark musty green through the old gold curtains, exposing the dance of dust speckles across the air. An old white fan whirls nearby. He takes a deep drag, then offers the joint to her with lightly trembling fingers, but without looking at her. She purses her lips as she studies his profile: the golden boy looks and the curling honey hair, before dropping her gaze down to the dancing joint in front of her. A few ashes spiral down to the carpet before she finally takes it in her red manicured hands. He doesn’t seem to acknowledge her perusing glance, choosing to stare out to the blinding cerulean of the sky outside. Or he doesn’t notice.
Her eyes stay on him as he exhales shakily, the cloud of white streaming from his dark pink lips to smooth the crevices of his features and expand to fill the air around them. “Sabine…” He croaks. The syllables of her name linger and float in the air like the white smoke, their particles hanging on for a moment before dissipating. It reminds her that the way he says her name isn’t hers forever either. It’ll be gone soon too, evaporated into air. Impermanent, indistinguishable. She senses a question coming amidst her melancholy, and brings the joint to her lips to escape it. He asks anyway. “You’re leaving aren’t you?”
Damn it. She takes this in as her lungs take in the heady smoke, and close her eyes, forcing the question to linger. He watches the flutter of her lashes in the sun as she exhales, the smoke seemingly opaque and moving viscously as it hides her face from him for a brief, frustrating few seconds. He suddenly leans up on his forearm, his abdominals clenching, and rocks unsteadily back and forth. “Tell me Sabine. Are you?” His bloodshot eyes look frantic even through the fog and through her criss crossed lashes. The wisp of honey hair hanging over his eyes swings in time to his rocking like a pendulum, and his jaw alternates rapidly between tension and release. When she didn’t answer he threw his head back and grimaced. Sabine sighs. All she could do was lean forward to his exposed neck to graze the tender skin lightly with her lips. What other condolence could she give?
Sabine slumps back against the driver’s door of her car sometime later, though she couldn’t say how long. The effects of the hallucinogen had worn off, yet her time in the dim golden olive room felt as if distant reverie, an odd vacuum. Sabine observed that by now the sun had fallen— the bright cyan she saw out the window now stains with a dark bleeding warmth on the sky’s ice blue edges. Its rays felt almost cool on her skin, the way moonlight does. She allowed herself to relish in that gentle graze upon her skin for a few seconds, closing her eyes and trying to enjoy the luxury of the simplicity of that pleasure. But it all comes back.
The second she walked out of that room’s golden dance of dust and mild smoke, Sabine understood it as the end of a chapter. Something shifts in her step, something lifts in her gaze. Goodbye she knew too well, an episode repeating as if written by a worn out writer, or a young visionary too fixated on some subject, of which Sabine was always the star. She really wished she wasn’t. In that wearisome repetition she learnt to reinvent herself to break the monotony— the brief connections with others provided some relief and interest, but the impermanence ultimately made her apprehensive. How much would you invest, in a person, in a place, if you could see the looming end even during the hazy, adrenaline driven budding first days? Sabine only held on to snippets of feelings now, ones she could reflect on and dream about— these snapshots she considered too artistic to discard.
Sabine opens the car door now, and rips off her bag of incense hanging from the rearview mirror. She rubs the delicate marble-stained paper packet between the pad of her thumb and forefinger until it breaks open, and discards the dry herbs onto the sidewalk. There was no wind, and so Sabine didn’t smell anything as they spiraled onto the pavement. Perhaps it had long lost its scent anyway, but she had really kept it for the look of it. It had matched terribly well, the perfect accent to set it all off. With the tangled hair, hammered silver rings, incense in her car and lighter in her tan flannel pocket, it made the perfect Californian hippie, another perfectly mastered character. Sabine stared at the incense on the ground, and thought it looked like the result of a hippie’s rude awakening. In a way that’s true, she mused.
When Sabine drove again she felt better. She convinced herself that the dropping dial on her gas tank as she shuttled north translated to a numbness in distance. She drove in silence, and even began humming some note she didn’t know in harmony with the mechanic drone of the engines. The note was flat, empty of her former melancholy. It only blandly inquired at the future.
Her father’s appointments had brought him to the new county a few weeks before he expected to move with her, so now the car was only burdened with a single person’s worth of belongings. She hoped to make it before the sun fully sets, so she could glimpse her new home. Look for palm trees, he said. And a slide.
Sabine imagined a white motel, two stories with white metal curving fences and textured cement walls. The slide would be slightly worn, with paint peeling, and empties into a pool lined with smooth aquamarine tiles. She hoped there was a Jacuzzi, even better if it had lights. Sabine flicked on the local radio, and let the mood of the music plan her next character.
(She didn’t notice the red Camry trailing behind her, a shock of golden hair illuminated by the setting sun on the horizon.)
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Query- Sabine
VICE MEDIA CANADA
78 Mowat Avenue
Toronto, ON
Canada
M6K 3M1
January 12, 2018
Subject: Manuscript Submission Request
Status: Propriety submission— manuscript near completion
Dear Josh Visser,
I am requesting permission to submit my manuscript for your evaluation. The working title“Sabine” is a typed multi-chapter manuscript in progress, to be complete with my personal illustrations in various selected chapters. It tells the story of a girl named Sabine, who leads a life of constant travel due to her father’s work— her life, and thus identity, is inconstant and short-lived, the monotonous repetition of moving cities is broken only by characterized moods of each place and the rare human contact that touches Sabine, all of which is understood as fleeting. Each chapter draws from some specific moment that stood out in that repetition of novelty. The first chapter sees Sabine through a tense, expectant meeting with her lover over a shared joint, where goodbye is on the horizon outside the safe darkness of their golden-olive room and Sabine reluctantly grapples with the impermanence while struggling to etch the current sensations into her brain. There is a strong sense of mood that is unified in Sabine’s experience, but varied through the chapters as the experience varies, as within artistic works and portions of film, television, or an album. As well, the writing is highly focussed on sensation, almost likening surreal, deeply personal reveries, which is depicted through a varied range of heightened sensory details and vivid imagery to thoroughly explore and paint the raw, personal teenage experience dealing with pain, loss, novelty, the feeling of impermanence and human connection. This manuscript will be professionally edited, fully illustrated, and ready for publishing within 2 months.
The market for this book will be artists, or anyone who takes inspiration from art, film, or poetry, and has an appreciation for sensory details and an immersive, transportive experience (many of which platforms are already thriving in Vice). I believe the raw experience will be appealing and relatable to young adult audiences, which I understand makes up the majority of your existing audience, but the depth in Sabine’s experiences and the relatively mature writing style can easily appeal and convey to older audiences as well. Furthermore, the artistic element and the short-chapter format make the submission adaptable to a variety of publication formats, such as online and through separated scheduled postings.
Thank you for taking your time to consider this project. I have enclosed a self-addressed and stamped envelope for your ease in communication, and look forward to hearing from Vice.
Sincerely,
Shirley
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Film Script- Marigold
SCENE 1- INTRO 1 FADE IN:
2 DRIVEWAY, DUSK 2
In a remote suburb in sunny California, at the end of summer.
A shot of the street shows identically designed houses, cloned except for a slight variety of inoffensive, washed out neutrals and pastels. The driveways were simple curves, the lawns cut but not manicured. No artistic thought had been given to the design of the neighbourhood: it was clearly built with only functionality in mind.
Leaves slowly rustle, and a car starts up in the distance. Red mountains stood at the edge of the horizon. All seemed beautiful, peaceful, and most of all, simple.
DISSOLVE TO:
3 EXT. WINDOW OF A POWDER BLUE BUNGALOW HOUSE, LATE AFTERNOON3
The house stood against a hazy orange sky, basking the powder blue in a bright honey glow.
Music flows out of the tilted opening of the white chipped-paint window.
CUT TO:
4 INT. OF BUNGALOW- KITCHEN 4
EMILIA sits at the small wooden round table near the sink, mindlessly picking at a leftover cherry pie on the table with a silver fork. She seems to be thinking hard, but her glances stray to her sister in the living room with visible distress.
Her phone buzzes on the table. Her whole face changes with an unmasked look of hope as she glances over at the screen. Her expression hardened as she did not find whatever she was looking for, and she dropped the fork onto the plate with a visible clatter.
The springs of the living room couch creaked in response, and EMILIA started, letting her straw coloured hair fall as she recomposed her face to nonchalance.
CUT TO:
5 INT. OF BUNGALOW- LIVING ROOM 5 A white plastic fan is in the corner, and whirls louder.
SIERRA lies on an old, velvet floral upholstered couch. Her golden limbs glowed against the marigold coloured upholstery. The sun bathes her in its warm glow: it with her aura seem to make the fabric’s stains of vibrant oxblood red flowers look alive.
SIERRA’s eyes flutter, half shut, her dark lashes shadowing her lovely cheeks. A smile plays at her lips as if she held some coy secret.
SIERRA’S phone buzzes on the stack of books on the wooden crates that the sisters used as a makeshift coffee table.
SIERRA languidly rolls over on the couch, the sagging velvet mass cradling her gazelle-like body perfectly. Her long fingers search for the phone, and flip it over a fraction.
CUT TO:
6 EMILIA THROUGH THE DOORWAY BETWEEN THE LIVING ROOM AND
KITCHEN 6
She is watching all of this with careful calculation. Her eyes traces the lovely curve of her younger sister’s arm in the golden sun.
CLOSE UP- Her lips twitch quickly with envy at its grace.
CUT TO:
7 LIVING ROOM COUCH 7
SIERRA’S smile grows bigger as unmasked joy floods her face, showing her pearly teeth amidst the orange glow of the room. It disappears as quickly as it came, however, as if the joy came from a secret place.
CUT TO: EMILIA’S FACE CLOSE UP, BACKLIT BY THE KITCHEN WINDOW
But EMILIA’S face truly changed when she caught the smile playing at her sister’s lips. Her pale complexion darkened, and she swallowed thickly. Cold malice looked out of place on her delicate features, but it passed quickly. It was replaced with furrowed-browed reserve.
(CONTINUED)
2.
CONTINUED:
3.
EMILIA (coughs, and calls from the doorway sweetly)
SIERRA!
8 LIVING ROOM
CUT TO: 8
SIERRA untangles herself from the couch, and walks over to the living room. Her gait was light, but dreamy slow, and her thin cotton dress flowed against her.
CUT TO: 9 KITCHEN 9
SIERRA (cheekily)
Hey sista.
SIERRA reaches around the back of EMILIA’s chair, and scoops the whipped cream on her now disassembled pie.
SIERRA plops down on the chair across from EMILIA, and licks it off her fingers innocently.
EMILIA smiles wryly at this act of inconspicuous sensuality before bitter jealousy crept up her face again. She swallowed it away, her white throat writhing and straining against the sweetness of her previous bite.
EMILIA opens her mouth to say something, but her attention is intercepted as the screen of SIERRA’s phone lights up again with a buzz.
CLOSE UP- THE NAME "TYLER" IN EMILIA’S EYES-- DARKENED IRISES, DILATED PUPILS
SIERRA has finished the whipped cream, and now looks at her sister’s reaction with puzzled concern. She drums her long fingers on the wooden table, oblivious to the flash of her screen.
SIERRA Did you want me for something?
EMILIA studies her sister’s look of pure concern with isolated contempt.
EMILIA( V.O.) Could she really be this oblivious?
Coincidences in love doesn’t happen (MORE)
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED:
4.
EMILIA( V.O.) (cont’d) in a town as simple and undesigned
as this. EMILIA hides that thought with a quick tight-lipped smile.
EMILIA Did you want the rest of this pie?
The sugar’s making me woozy. And reminds me of old things, I hate it.
SIERRA Old things! Sister you’re so
practical. I love reminders of old things. Look at our house! Our couch! Remember how we got it?
EMILIA’S smile lights up in candid genuinity as she recalls that hot June day.
SIERRA I’ll have it. T- My friend always
takes me to have them. They’re wonderful: they remind me of sunsets by the beach. Oh I have to take you there soon, you’d love the place. We have to go before the summer ends, so we can catch the orange skies, the saltwater-
(SIERRA’s voice fades into the background)
EMILIA( V.O.) She really is ignorant. It’s as if
she’s reciting my past: taunting me with the most beautiful Déja vus, playing my dreams with puppet strings, chanting the anthem of my past.
EMILIA (cutting her off)
Yes! Yes you’re right. That’s exactly what I liked- I like. Yes, I’d want that.
EMILIA’s candid smile retreated behind a cold mask again.
There’s a moment of silence as the two sister’s took in the abruptness. They sat opposite, backlit by the darkening orange sky. The faucet drips.
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED:
5.
EMILIA This pie’s really getting to me, I
can’t even think straight.
SIERRA (yawns languidly)
I think you’re right. I think I’ll lie down again.
EMILIA watches SIERRA’s dreamy steps through the doorway. There’s a heaviness to the way her body hit the velvet couch, but with no less grace or beauty.
SIERRA’s phone lights up again. She had left it on the kitchen table. EMILIA stares steely ahead. She doesn’t have to look to know who it is -- her hands tighten on her vial under the table.
FADE TO: 10 LIVING ROOM- DUSK 10
SIERRA reclines on the couch on her side, her face serene, one arm over the arm of the couch. The orange of the sky outside has turned fiery, and SIERRA’s skin is fire-lit despite the serenity.
The waving leaves outside leave shadowy prints across SIERRA’s golden sleeping form, before being blocked out by EMILIA’s approaching shadow.
EMILIA moves quietly towards the edge of the couch, and sits, knees tucked under her, at the head of the couch.
EMILIA’S POV-
EMILIA looks at the dark lashes gracing her sister’s face, and the naive curve of her red lips. Her body softens at this display of innocence, and she thumbs her vial absent-mindedly. Her other hand reaches, as if by instinct, to lightly tuck a stray mahogany strand behind her sister’s sun-grazed temples.
EMILIA( V.O.) (tensing quickly)
Did Tyler see this same innocence as she laid? Did they lay together at all?
EMILIA’s fingers lingered on SIERRA’s temple for a light second, before dropping to the side onto the velvet couch, tracing its worn texture. She looked deep in thought as she relished in its comforting touch.
11 DRIVEWAY,
FLASHBACK- NOON, TWO YEARS AGO 11
NARRATOR (FEMALE) It was two summers ago. The sisters had found it in the thrift store on
the corner just 3 blocks away, and carried it back with laughter and sweat in the late august sun. Their hair was lighter then, their laughter unrestrained. Their limbs heavy but free. A treasure found, and relished together. There was no sense of ownership, only "Us".
12 PRESENT- LIVING ROOM COUCH 12
EMILIA sighs as SIERRA stirs lightly, her body shifting with the velvet and making it glow differently in the bleeding light.
Goosebumps arise on SIERRA’s arm. NARRATOR (FEMALE)
It was either from the proximity of EMILIA’s tracing finger, or perhaps from the creeping night. Or it was the sense of lethargy from the slipping summer, and the sobriety with the inconspicuous chill of the approaching fall. A cold realization clearing the romantic, thoughtless, Id-driven adventures and mind games.
EMILIA shivers, and grips the vial. She holds it in the bleeding orange light, next to SIERRA’s golden temples and red unparted lips, and watches the contents shine with fascination, but new disgust. The dark contents struck a morbid contrast with the sleeping girl’s innocence, and EMILIA shook at the vision.
EMILIA stands up, and throws the vial out the window as hard as she could.
It shatters the window, and the silence. The trees bristle at the force, its leaves shaking.
SIERRA opens her eyes, and smile at the sunset-lit sight of her sister beside her.
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In North Africa... searching for a glimpse of god
In North Africa, people would dance a sacred dance until dawn. They danced, with fire, with reverence in the sultry lavender and orange creamsicle sky, bathed in the dry acrid white smoke suspended around them.
And they danced harder as indigo falls around them, their bodies hitting the ground and the air with more force and purpose. Limbs move in freakish frenzy in anticipation of some golden light that would stream everywhere, shooting above their raised arms to the sky and below their feet to light the sienna earth.
Their eyes dance too, searching for a glimpse of god.
(I hope they found it. Whatever it was.)
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Poem- Noun/Verb
Shower mirror. Look.
Sin bait, sin allure, sin reasons rash fun— sip drink, swing dance, lick skin, age wine
Find love, break trust, act, move, hide, run, change address.
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