An excerpt from the speculative fiction piece I wrote, “The Scarlet Bracelet,” initially published in the flash fiction anthology, Possibilities.
Of all the things Jemory remembered about the body hanging from the tree, those yellow baby doll shoes haunted her the most. They were patent leather and newly polished, as if the dead woman had been on her way to a dance. From where Jemory stood at the edge of the crowd that day, she couldn’t make out the woman’s features. The dead woman’s sleek black wig was askew, caressing her broken neck. Jemory wore a similar wig. The only adornment on the woman’s lifeless arm was a thin red bracelet, the size of a hospital wrist band. The mark of an outlaw.
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About twelve years ago, I was having lunch with a friend and I mentioned that I wanted to be a director. At the time, I was taking screenwriting courses at UCLA Extension and had completed my first script, Bless the Mic. Film school seemed like the natural progression in my quest to create compelling, entertaining and memorable vehicles for people of color to star in.
The word “director” hung in the afternoon air, mingling with the laughter of the UCLA students dining at a nearby table and my friend’s cigarette smoke. It was the first time I had mentioned the desire to direct, and I was as surprised by this pronouncement as she was. My friend took another puff of her elegant cigarette, shook her head and mused that film school meant “years and years of extended poverty.” Continue reading