A Screenplay: Inspired By A Piece Written By Molly Ivins..
"Yea, Come On, We got the call! Get the jeep ready!!!" Commander-Seargeant Nicki Smitall hollred at the attache who sat opposite her in the enclosed bunker. The chocolate colored, short haired woman, dressed in a fatigue jumpsuitgrabbed the plastic bags and water cooler from the table she sat next to and hastily followed her wispy, blond commander out of the top of the bunker. They jumped into the jeep, surrounded by the sta blue early evening sky and shot off into the belly of the desert where they had been called. "There're two over there and a third-a boy-he just ran in the way, about fourteen or fifteen-laying over there." The helmeted white soldier informed the pair when they arrived at the site of the battle. The Black medic, Roxie, who had been on duty for more than three months now, immediately went over to one of the bodies, pulled out her knife, scaling back the skin oif the boy who had run into the white gunman's fire, the basket of apples he carried, strewn about the place in total ruin. "C'mon!" We've gotta get these skins off so they can be shipped back to the organ banks in the States. They've been waiting on these for days!" called Cdt. Smitall. The Black woman worked diligently to get the skin off of the carcus before her. She had been trained carefully and was most expert at carving organs and delivering them to the proper agencies. She grew tired of her superior screaming at her s if she needed the simplest instructions for the work she did. But she gritted her teeth and bore it, determined to do the best work she could possibly do. She was a good soldier....
"Oh doctor, Ive been thinking. Wouldn't I look absolutely better if my lips were bigger.
I think they'd work wonders for my career." She said, commenting critically as she
pursed her lips together in front of the mirror. Harvestia Michaels was one of the queens
of the queens of low and nonserial movies. Movies that you get only from the far back shelves of
select videostores. Not prono, but the plots of her movies were so cheap that they were often
hallmarked as masturbation for the mind. Generally regarded as sleaze. Her standing was only
helped by the fact that she was the wife of Palisades mogul, Georg Valentinoff, a man who had a
reserved chair at the Table of the Big Boys. He dabbled in real estate and stuck his fingers into
the film industrry and other profitable deals. Needless to say, what he did was highly
undefinable. "Yes, think some nice, succulent lips might serve you well." "Great" Harvestia
said, finally looking up from her image in the mirror. "When an I schedule to have it done?"
"Well, first I'll have to run some tests on you. Then I'll run some samples for you to choose
from. I should have a new package coming in Wednesday." The doctor said, grinning into her
face as he contemplated the costly procedure. "Fabulous! I'll be by Wednesday to set up an
appointment with you." She said touching her lips in front of the mirror. "I need to have it soon
though . I want them to be ready for the Cable Ace Awards. I'm presenting and doing a closeup
for ET-and I know there'll be cameras around for the afterparty.
Othman Salid lived in an apartment four floors from the ground with his parents, Mohammed,
One of the most important writers in Iraq before Saddam Hussein came into power, and Hanan,
who had been an established historian and social critic, as well as a model in her earlier years.
She came from a well-positioned family in Iraqi society. Othman had been mostly educated by
his parents who protected him the best they could from the terrors that surrounded them. They
constantly smuggled in British, French, and Muslim newspapers which he read, and
indoctrinated him in the teachings of Marxist philosophy, Maoism, and Che Guevara. They were
committed progressives and lived their lives carefully. Othman had been crossing back from the
black market spot where he often went to buy apples, that he then sold for money. His bicycle
came to a halt that day as a hail of gunfire ravaged his body, leaving him torn to pieces on the
dry, sandy spot on the outskirt of the city, less than ten minutes from his home. As the black
medic scaled the skin from his body with a scalpel that had been made for fish, his wilde- terror
filled eyes stared up at her from what remained of his body, pasted there on the ground.
The flashing cameras only half lit the darkened room, the timbre of which was intensified by the
deep, rich burgundy of the carpet that flowed down from the door into the auditorium. Harvestia
pegged her claim to the privileged walkway, decked out in a jungle brown, shimmering wrap
dress that came down her thighs and draped he right shoulder that contrasted her tepid, eggshell
skin that had been the curse of her genes. She never let anybody know that her mother was
black-a brown skinned woman of Black and Irish ancestry , yet she always resented her
mother, that she had left such a permanent stain upon her skin, keeping her from that lily white
color that she always desired. She hadn't seen her mother since she was seven years old, when
she left her with her father's sister in the Valley. Her father died not long after her mother left,
and her aunt, whom she called The White Woman, raised her until she left her house for good
when she was sixteen. She had pressed and pressed until she finally broke into film-and was
now happy to live as one of the countless white women who graced the covers of gossip
magazines, even though she would never be beautiful as she wanted to be. "Harvestia, how do
you think the awards are going tonight?" a reporter asked her from the sidelines. "Fabulous,
darling," she smiled in reply, extending her luscious, newly full lips. "Oh Harvestia," cooed
Nadine Spielberger-wife of a media magnet and one of Harvestia's best friends, " "your lips
look wonderful!" "Shhh!" Harvestia said, holding her finger to her lips. "I just got them done
Friday. They don't hurt a bit." She smiled, showing them off. "Harvestia, they're almost ready for you." A grip called to her, shaking her forearm. She turned and then glowingly took the stage, showing off her perfect lips. " And now, the nominees for Best Actress in a comedy are...." She turned towards the screen to read off the names. Instead, what she saw when she looked was a terrifying scene taking place where the names and faces of the nominees should have been. In their place was the silhouette of a young boy riding across the screen on a bicycle and the piercing butt of a gun as the boy fell to the ground. The sound of the gunshots pierced her ears. Her face fell in a terrific horror as she looked on, her hair was turning completely white.....
"Father?! What am I doing here?!" The boy cried out in a delirous fit. " Hush now, you're safe." The Voice assured him in a deep, settling tone. The boy opened his eyes an dlooked around. "You're in a new, safe, and quiet place." The Boy felt the voice place an arm around his sholdiers. He felt reassured, at ease. "There are two women who have come into the spectre of your existence... You will visit each of them. I want you to be a lesson for them and for the world." The voice pointed down at the revolving crystalline sphere that sat in a puddle of clouds and directed the boy to look at the two women, each of them enmeshed into their routine. " Do you feel up to the work?" The voice asked. Without any thought, the boy looked up in the direction of the voice and responded, "Yes."
She was sleeping on her cot in the adjacent corner to the one her superior slept in. The room was partially partitioned, and they had that much privacy for themselves in their spare time. Roxie was sleeping hard and noisily as she had spent a long, hot day inthe desert. Suddenly, her breathing stopped short and she was erked awake as she felt something terrifying hovering over her. She had always believed and been scared of haints, as he grandmother had impounded the reality of these creatures into her head as a little girl. " What's that?" She called out , questioning as she stood next to the bed, her eyes darting about her as she drew her ahands into her chest in a defensive motion. "What is doing this?" She hollered out in rising anger and fright. It hovered over her head and thehn she saw the silhoueete sitting at her end table, a knife situated next to his hand. "What are you doing here? What do you want? " She asked. Her head turned as if a reflex from an oncoming strike to the face, at which she saw a scene which made her gasp with horror. A look of stun rose on her face, as if she had been struck by the hand of god. The silhouette began with the boy riding his bicycle through the hail of fire, and as he continued, her face grew frighteningly white and the heat and electricity from her hair grew with increasing intensity. Her ordeal carried on for the rest of the night.
"Harvestia, are you ok?" the grip shook her as she stared at the screen, her mouth open and
foaming a bit, her hair frizzled and completely white. She came to, still in a haze, feeling as if
she had been submerged in water and baptized by fire. Suddenly, she didn't want to be there
anymore, and the world around her seemed a big pool of pretense and insecurity. " Yes, Im fine.
Leave me alone." She saaid, after a pause, at which she shoved the strong, masculine hand that
gripped her shoulder off of her. She turned and walked off of the stage and exited the buidling
through the back door.
That next morning, the sun was up bright and early and Roxie was in a trance as she trailed the
desert looking for the dead. Twenty-five had been killed early that morning and they had been called to scavenge the area. Sheworked like a trained dog on alert. "Roxie, get over here! There're five of ‘em over here! Get over here now!" Cmdr,. Smitall yelled at her from about 100 feet away. Roxie slowly made her way over to the place where her superior was hunged over, tugging at the bodies. She began to carve the body of a young girl dressed in red, starting at her fingers. " No Roxie! Start at the scalp! You know it worked better tat way! Start from the Scalp!" Roxie's nostril's flared as she listened to her commander's domineering voice. Suddenly, she dropped the hand that she was holding, its white flesh wet with the newness of death and struggle. She then kicked off her shoes and stood, feeling strong and erect for the first time in perhaps forever. "What are you doing?" Smitall asked, befuddled. " You do your own dirty work." She quipped, looking down at Smitall's face, still hunched over. At that, she turned and walked off into the desert. The sand felt good beneath her feet.
Causes Brandon Wallace Supports
Free Mumia, Justice for the Jena Six, Justice for Katrina, Justice for Assata Shakur, Anti-Patriarchy work, the Bolivarian Movement...social justice...