Shadow Girl Reflects V: Silent

So, you may have noticed that I’ve been rather silent this week. Or, maybe you haven’t….

Anyway, the reason why Shadow Girl has been on the down-low these past few days is because she is currently–and unfortunately–without a reliable mode of access to the digitalscape ūüė¶

Last Wednesday, in fact, my laptop decided to–moment of silence–die. At least, that’s the official diagnosis till I hear back from the repair techs. (And, tbh, they’re outlook was not very encouraging.) Since, I’ve been relegated to an ancient–see, shitty–tablet that I haven’t used for a while. As you can imagine, my internet travels have been quite slow. I wish how much is a cartier love bracelet 2013 I could bracelet replica cartier say I’m taking the, uh, scenic route but, I can’t really see the images yet. They’re still loading….

To make a long story short, I was unable to play around on Audacity this week or with using sounds to create a narrative. Hopefully, I will be able to do that soon but now was a really bad time for my laptop to pull a kamikaze. (See, financially) But, I will figure something out.

Sorry to ditch once more on an opportunity for me to share my voice. Keeps seeming to happen…. First on the Studio Visit and now with Audacity T_T For some reason, the universe is conspiring against me, it seems. (Vengeance shall be wreaked, mark my words. My revenge will be inevitable, Universe.)

Creative Enterprise

Despite my difficulties–see, struggles with ancient relics of the technological age–I was able to add to my own creative pursuits. A poem and a story.

Attrition~ poem I posted to YWP about how hard hope can be to welcome inside, more, how hard it can be to accept an invitation out. (Look out for more posts from me on YWP!)

Split Girl~ Another twisted tale ^.^ This one may be a little disturbing for anyone struggling with their gender identity–may evoke gender dysphoria–so fair warning.

**My writing is never meant to offend but I am aware that it still¬†can. And, I’m sorry if that happens. Let me know if there are any Tags I can add to help that be less of an issue :)**

Aside from these new works, I’ve a few others I’m rather proud of (All can be found under the Killing It¬†tag):

Bone Girl~ If they could be read, what fortune would your bones hold for you?

Bone Girl .V~ Every bird hatches from some egg…

Wasteland Girl~ How dangerous can you be?

Dream Girl~ How much can you take before you crack?

It Will Be Satisfied~ Bad karma’s a b*tch.

Ghost Girl~ Loss like dust on glass always lingers…

And, my long-running series (which should be back to weekly updates by next cartier bracelet week, fingers crossed….)

Living Dead Girl

Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV,

**All are inspired in some way by random, bot posts. Some more closely, other loosely. In my opinion, using bot posts for writing prompts is an easy way to incorporate technology into the classroom in a meaningful way and, it is lots of fun ^.^ Unexpected and nonsensical but full of endless creative, well, enterprise.

Speaking of….

Not digital storytelling related exactly but, remember that scalex analogy I gave at the end of this post? Remember that scalex protects one side of a metal piece while replica cartier love bracelet the other is enameled? Well, I’ve finally¬†finished¬†that piece I was working on!

 

Untitled (Working On It) Copper, enamel, epoxy & resin

Like I said, this isn’t related to digital storytelling, per say, as it is to creativity itself. But, all of my work is related in some way to my writing and this piece will certainly be a part of my future combined-thesis-&-show ^.^ Does it look like how I write?

Final Thoughts

I’ve had a rough week. Productive in some ways but disheartening and aggravating in others. Hopefully, next week will be something worth writing home about!

Catch you all on the flip side!
 

 

 


Tagged: digital storytelling, netnarr, Networked Narratives, personal, reflection, rough week, storytelling, thinking out loud, weeklies, word weaving alchemist

Attrition

Behind the barrier are bits and pieces,
shards of shattered glass, fragments of battered bone, a girl

in slices of herself, writing

each down, committing the splinterings to memory

through word weaving,

through cathartic construction of confession into bite-size commodity for consumption–predominantly hers.
Beyond the threshold is Pandora’s reverse–curse–a home for holdout hope who couldn’t escape so stashed her whole self away.¬†Endlessness

encapsulated. The opposite

of liminal space. Comprehension rendered obsolete in the face

of an open door,

an invitation to extend yourself, to hope for more than

brokenness.

~KJH

****

You can find this poem on YWP here ^.^ It was written in response to this challenge on the site. Obviously, I went for a more, shall we say,¬†abstracted¬†approach. What can I say, I’m a bits n’ pieces kind of gal. No duh.

Hope you enjoyed~

(Share your own responses to the challenges in the comments below is you want)


Tagged: anguish, creative writing, hope, mine, netnarr, Networked Narratives, personal, poem, poetry, sad, YWP

Attrition

Behind the barrier are bits and pieces,
shards of shattered glass, fragments of battered bone, a girl

in slices of herself, writing

each down, committing the splinterings to memory

through word weaving,

through cathartic construction of confession into bite-size commodity for consumption–predominantly hers.
Beyond the threshold is Pandora’s reverse–curse–a home for holdout hope who couldn’t escape so stashed her whole self away.¬†Endlessness

encapsulated. The opposite

of liminal space. Comprehension rendered obsolete in the face

of an open door,

an invitation to extend yourself, to hope for more than

brokenness.

~KJH

****

You can find this poem on YWP here ^.^ It was written in response to this challenge on the site. Obviously, I went for a more, shall we say,¬†abstracted¬†approach. What can I say, I’m a bits n’ pieces kind of gal. No duh.

Hope you enjoyed~

(Share your own responses to the challenges in the comments below is you want)


Tagged: anguish, creative writing, hope, mine, netnarr, Networked Narratives, personal, poem, poetry, sad, YWP

Split Girl

See.” Auntie would hiss, breath-half mist-half piss–spit splattering across my face like soggy freckles. “Don’t you see?”

Spittle soaking deep into bone, I’d bob my neck up down. A metronome kicked on its side. But¬†that was never enough.

My compliance meant nothing till it suffered. Till I suffered.

Till I looked.

“Can’t you see?” A banshee-screech that bounced off mirrored glass like my small skull in Auntie’s gargantuan grip. Bang. Bang.¬†

“I see.” My raspy exhale fogged the glass.

“See what?” Bang.

“I see a sister slayer.” Yours. “Mommy murderer. Blood traitor.” The worst kind of betrayer. The kind that¬†bathed in their¬†victim’s¬†blood and cried out in wailing victory.

“What else?” Auntie pressed–my head harder into my fisheye-like reflection.

“I see,” I swallowed. Chewed the tip of my tongue.¬†Bang. “a pretty dress.”

“And,” Auntie dragged the consanent across her crooked incisors. ¬†“what do you say?”

“Thank you,” Bile slid down my throat. Spit settled on my face. “Auntie.”

I was released with a huff that coated me in another spray of slimy, grimey, salted spit. Tasted like Mommy‘s tears. Probably. I wouldn’t know. Won’t. I¬†sagged into myself.

“Good boy.” I’m¬†not.

Satisfied, Auntie would slink off and I would scramble back from smudgey glass. Smooth my hands down silk. With fingertips, find frills, find something like-comfort-but-not-quite in the edges.

I’m¬†not.

What? Auntie’s¬†spit simmered on my skin. My fists clenched frills flat.

Boy. Bang. Good. Bang.

I’m¬†not.

****

Auntie comes to see that for herself. Eventually. She has no choice but to.

Not when my shoulders brush the height of hers. Not when my eyes meet hers on an upward climb. An ascent.

The few photos kept reveal Mommy had a good head above Auntie. My good head, now. The only good thing about me, according to Auntie.

Still, Auntie takes me to the mirror. Stands me before myself and demands–See.

See what you’ve done to your mother, boy. To me. ¬†

Auntie reaches for my lengthy curls–for leverage–but the bang is already echoing in my ears. The spit already boiling¬†fresh on my flesh–each drip of dribble like a teardrop at the corner of two lids kissing. I flutter.

Auntie is against the glass in a spin that twirls my skirt.

“What, bo–”

See.” It isn’t a hiss. Nor, an order. It’s the slightest, crunchy-squish of a hard-shut eye opening. Blossoming. Ricocheting ad infinitum off mine and Auntie’s super-imposed reflection.

“Wha–” Bang.

See.” Frills brush Auntie’s skin like eye lashes, gentle but coated black so they curl. “Can’t you see?”

Another bang and she does. She looks and–

“I see.” Of course, Auntie spits¬†it–in our shared face. My glassy-eyed part of the reflection doesn’t relent. though. Not now.

What?” Bang. Red joins spit. “Auntie, what?”

“I see,” She huffs when struggling only intensifies red. “a sister slayer.” Mommy’s. I bob my head. Auntie’s lip curls sharp. “A Momma’s bo–” Bang. The mirror cracks.streaming film 47 Meters Down

Auntie gasps, splattering crimson in our splintered reflection. It’s splitting down the middle. Like a large eyelid.

“See what?” Like glass, my voice cracks. Auntie can’t stifle her snicker. Bang. Bang. Bang. She stops. “You see Mommy’s what?”

“–aughter.” Auntie spits between a newly chipped tooth and mouthful of shards. I crook a brow and she tries again, “Daugh…ter.”

“What else?” I roll her limp head till she’s staring straight at the split separating as it joins. “What else do you see?”

“Blood…” Her gurgle hides her reflection’s eye beneath a red coating. Again, a try. A cry. “blood…tr…blood-y….dr….ess….”

She slumps into herself like one lid folding down and I rise from her like the other lid sliding up.

“Thank you, Auntie.”

My fingers find wet frills, edges soaked in and dyed a colour they’ve always been afraid of. Blamed for. A colour I’ve not worn since my first and only–till now–victory.

What would Mommy say?

See?

I wipe the glass before my eyes till I peek through red. Split open and smiling. Fingertips brush the toothy slash.

Good girl. I nod.

I am.

****

fullsizerender-1

Tweet, tweet…

Hope you enjoyed reading ^.^ For more twisted and delightfully disturbing tales, check out my Killing It tab~ I usually most twice a week.

**This is the painting in the Featured Image for this post. Saw it at a recent trip to the Whitney Museum in the city and–fell in love–but also felt like it would be perfect for this sweet little story**


Tagged: abuse, blood, creative writing, disturbing, dysphoria, flesh, gender dysphoria, Killing It, let me know if there are any tags I need to add, mine, netnarr, Networked Narratives, not meant to offend anyone, personal, physical, psychological, sorry if it offends you, story, storytelling, trauma, twisted

Split Girl

See.” Auntie would hiss, breath-half mist-half piss–spit splattering across my face like soggy freckles. “Don’t you see?”

Spittle soaking deep into bone, I’d bob my neck up down. A metronome kicked on its side. But¬†that was never enough.

My compliance meant nothing till it suffered. Till I suffered.

Till I looked.

“Can’t you see?” A banshee-screech that bounced off mirrored glass like my small skull in Auntie’s gargantuan grip. Bang. Bang.¬†

“I see.” My raspy exhale fogged the glass.

“See what?” Bang.

“I see a sister slayer.” Yours. “Mommy murderer. Blood traitor.” The worst kind of betrayer. The kind that¬†bathed in their¬†victim’s¬†blood and cried out in wailing victory.

“What else?” Auntie pressed–my head harder into my fisheye-like reflection.

“I see,” I swallowed. Chewed the tip of my tongue.¬†Bang. “a pretty dress.”

“And,” Auntie dragged the consanent across her crooked incisors. ¬†“what do you say?”

“Thank you,” Bile slid down my throat. Spit settled on my face. “Auntie.”

I was released with a huff that coated me in another spray of slimy, grimey, salted spit. Tasted like Mommy‘s tears. Probably. I wouldn’t know. Won’t. I¬†sagged into myself.

“Good boy.” I’m¬†not.

Satisfied, Auntie would slink off and I would scramble back from smudgey glass. Smooth my hands down silk. With fingertips, find frills, find something like-comfort-but-not-quite in the edges.

I’m¬†not.

What? Auntie’s¬†spit simmered on my skin. My fists clenched frills flat.

Boy. Bang. Good. Bang.

I’m¬†not.

****

Auntie comes to see that for herself. Eventually. She has no choice but to.

Not when my shoulders brush the height of hers. Not when my eyes meet hers on an upward climb. An ascent.

The few photos kept reveal Mommy had a good head above Auntie. My good head, now. The only good thing about me, according to Auntie.

Still, Auntie takes me to the mirror. Stands me before myself and demands–See.

See what you’ve done to your mother, boy. To me. ¬†

Auntie reaches for my lengthy curls–for leverage–but the bang is already echoing in my ears. The spit already boiling¬†fresh on my flesh–each drip of dribble like a teardrop at the corner of two lids kissing. I flutter.

Auntie is against the glass in a spin that twirls my skirt.

“What, bo–”

See.” It isn’t a hiss. Nor, an order. It’s the slightest, crunchy-squish of a hard-shut eye opening. Blossoming. Ricocheting ad infinitum off mine and Auntie’s super-imposed reflection.

“Wha–” Bang.

See.” Frills brush Auntie’s skin like eye lashes, gentle but coated black so they curl. “Can’t you see?”

Another bang and she does. She looks and–

“I see.” Of course, Auntie spits¬†it–in our shared face. My glassy-eyed part of the reflection doesn’t relent. though. Not now.

What?” Bang. Red joins spit. “Auntie, what?”

“I see,” She huffs when struggling only intensifies red. “a sister slayer.” Mommy’s. I bob my head. Auntie’s lip curls sharp. “A Momma’s bo–” Bang. The mirror cracks.

Auntie gasps, splattering crimson in our splintered reflection. It’s splitting down the middle. Like a large eyelid.

“See what?” Like glass, my voice cracks. Auntie can’t stifle her snicker. Bang. Bang. Bang. She stops. “You see Mommy’s what?”

“–aughter.” Auntie spits between a newly chipped tooth and mouthful of shards. I crook a brow and she tries again, “Daugh…ter.”

“What else?” I roll her limp head till she’s staring straight at the split separating as it joins. “What else do you see?”

“Blood…” Her gurgle hides her reflection’s eye beneath a red coating. Again, a try. A cry. “blood…tr…blood-y….dr….ess….”

She slumps into herself like one lid folding down and I rise from her like the other lid sliding up.

“Thank you, Auntie.”

My fingers find wet frills, edges soaked in and dyed a colour they’ve always been afraid of. Blamed for. A colour I’ve not worn since my first and only–till now–victory.

What would Mommy say?

See?

I wipe the glass before my eyes till I peek through red. Split open and smiling. Fingertips brush the toothy slash.

Good girl. I nod.

I am.

****

fullsizerender-1

Tweet, tweet…

Hope you enjoyed reading ^.^ For more twisted and delightfully disturbing tales, check out my Killing It tab~ I usually most twice a week.

**This is the painting in the Featured Image for this post. Saw it at a recent trip to the Whitney Museum in the city and–fell in love–but also felt like it would be perfect for this sweet little story**


Tagged: abuse, blood, creative writing, disturbing, dysphoria, flesh, gender dysphoria, Killing It, let me know if there are any tags I need to add, mine, netnarr, Networked Narratives, not meant to offend anyone, personal, physical, psychological, sorry if it offends you, story, storytelling, trauma, twisted