Break

Chantal pushed up from the padded gym floor and sucked deeply against her mouth guard. She ran her tongue against the front of it. The plastic device was smooth, but bulky. It pushed on her upper lip and forced it into a pout. No you can’t pout with your top lip. This was an overbite. Chantal sucked at it again, swallowing the excess saliva it was so great at provoking.

I am never going to get used to wearing this thing… any of this stuff.

Chantal tilted her head back and rolled, shoulder to shoulder. The helmet wasn’t heavy, but the extra weight was enough that she could feel the shift in balance. The thick foam pads squashed her cheeks and turned her into a puffed up, sweaty mess. Chantal shook out her gloved hands and thickly padded shins and feet, took a deep breath, and steadied herself. She raised her gloves to head height, one slightly in front of the other, and looked toward her opponent. He was watching her, hands always at the ready, his stance steady. Getting used to the gear was hardly her biggest worry.

Chantal gave a short nod. Her muscles tensed.

Devon moved in. He closed the gap and struck, one fiery punch after the next. Chantal barely managed to block the first few, but she quickly recovered and was soon moving in a familiar rhythm, blocking and ducking and shifting away from danger. And that was a problem. As long as Chantal didn’t counter, didn’t land any blows of her own, Devon had the advantage. All he had to do was keep coming, keep moving with her, and eventually her guard would falter, eventually he would find ribs or stomach or one of a thousand other soft spots the body housed. And when he did, Chantal would find the floor. Again.

It happened quickly this time. Chantal misstepped, putting herself off balance. Devon saw it the moment it happened. He swept low, aiming his kick at Chantal’s faltering foot. Her leg buckled, and there was nothing she could do but tuck into the fall and brace for impact. Chantal’s forearm hit the ground first, swiftly followed by the rest of her. The contact reverberated through her bones.

“Bleh!”

Chantal rolled over onto her back and stared at the ceiling. Devon stood in the blurry periphery of her view. A giant from where she lay. A testosterone filled, muscly giant who had no issues with hitting anybody. It wasn’t fair. Why couldn’t she hit anybody? Why couldn’t she hit him?

“Do you need a break?”

Chantal shook her head. No. She didn’t need a break. She needed to break. That was the whole damn point of this exercise. They had tried the gentle approach. They had tried to ease into it, but that hadn’t worked. Chantal had learned the techniques: how to move, how to block, how to punch. But she still couldn’t hit people. Every time it came to actually striking another living, breathing human being, Chantal faltered. She seized up and held back. That’s why they were doing this. If Devon pushed her, she would push back. That was theory.

In practice, it wasn’t working.

Chantal let her frustration out in a low growl. She should want to hurt Devon, but the only aggression she felt was to herself. Why could she not break past this barrier? Had generations of patriarchal rule lodged so firmly in her mind that nothing could shake it? She was a feminist. She didn’t believe all that bullshit about women being passive and soft and needing men for protection. Hell, women needed protection from men. That was why she was here. That was why she had picked up that martial arts flier and called the number. She had had enough of girls’ night being interrupted by over entitle- jerks. Enough of smiling at them for fear that outright rejection would make them aggressive.

And then there was that Tinder date… why had she ever thought to go on a Tinder date?

Men were horrible. In so many different ways, and yet, there was this wall telling her that hitting someone was wrong, regardless of what that person was doing to her.

Turn the other cheek.

That was her church upbringing talking, but the church wouldn’t serve her here. It was as entangled with the patriarchy as any other institution. Chantal didn’t need the church. She needed a new God.

“Oh praise be to the feminine power,” she muttered under her breath.

“What was that?”

Chantal stood up and settled into her fighting stance, “I said, fuck the patriarchy.”

“That’s the spirit!”

Chantal didn’t wait for Devon to attack. She stepped in, feinted and landed a low jab to his side. The punch wasn’t hard, and she had hesitated slightly before impact, but it was a start.

Devon laughed as he countered her cross.

“Better!”

And then they were caught up in the dance once more. Devon pushed faster and Chantal kept up, this time adding her own attacks through the onslaught. Chantal lost herself to the rhythm. Lost herself to the idea that Devon would block any punch she threw at him. Her mind switched to autopilot and in one swift motion, she swept Devon’s attack aside and countered with a punch to the gut.

Devon’s stomach folded in as air rushed from his lungs. Chantal froze. She stared, wide eyed, as the “oomph” left Devon’s lips. Her mind screamed at her.

What have I done?

The punch came from nowhere. Chantal felt it like a distant echo in her ear, and she staggered back. Her brain fogged over, and she forgot to keep her guard up, forgot, for a moment what she was supposed to be doing. Devon came in fast, three shots to the abdomen and then a sneaky sweep that knocked her off her feet and back down to the floor once more.

Chantal blinked back the shock.

“Why did you stop?”

“What?”

“Why did you stop? That was good. But if you want to land my ass on the floor you can’t hes-”

Chantal lunged toward Devon’s ankle. She had his toes, for just a brief moment, and then he bounced out of harm’s way. He was smiling when Chantal got to her feet. She wasn’t. His last attack had been sneaky, low. It had quivered through her body and snagged against something important. Somewhere in the aftershock a part of her had come undone. Before, it had just been training. It had just been Devon doing his job, but the punch felt dirty. Chantal raised her gloves and began to circle. Devon mirrored her actions. He was grinning like an idiot. Chantal wanted to wipe that smirk off of his stupid, dirty face. She moved in.

“Yes! Playtime!” Devon cheered.

Chantal narrowed her eyes at him. “No,” she said. “Playtime is over.”

The blows came thick and fast. Each grunt a promise of the bruise to come. Chantal found her moment. She struck. Devon’s excited “Whoop!” echoed through the room as his body crashed to the floor.

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Return

Dust lay thick on the furniture. Spots of sun leaked through the worn curtains. Somewhere, a rodent skittered away on clawed feet. Kayla stood in the middle of the living room and sighed. She wasn’t sure why she had come. She had given so many years to this place, to the waiting. It hadn’t given back, yet she couldn’t help but feel guilty for having abandoned it.
Kayla stepped around the couch and into the kitchen. Her breath caught in her throat as her hand grabbed toward the nearest wall. She swayed on the spot, fighting against what her eyes saw but her brain refused to believe. Standing beside the antique stove was her sister. Her twin sister. Gone was the unsure teenager who Kayla remembered. In her place stood a confident woman with beaded dreadlocks gathered atop her head and a hand resting easy on a solid fighting staff. The strangeness was still there. That haunting way she tilted her head as if listening to something a million miles away. The way her eyes looked glossed over yet swam with swirling clouds. And the voice, as if speaking from another place:
“Kayla. I have been waiting for you.”
Kayla didn’t know if she should laugh or cry or scream.
“Waiting for me? You’ve been waiting for me?” She shook her head. “I waited for you. For six years, Ruta, I waited.”
Ruta closed her eyes and lifted her chin, catching a breeze that wasn’t there. No, that wasn’t here. How easy it was to watch her sister drift between two worlds and feel that anger rise again, anger at not being given the same gifts as her twin.
Anger at being normal.
Kayla thought she had moved past all of that, but this shock and storm of emotions thrust her back into childhood. She knew how hard it had been on Ruta -she had watched her sister struggle with even the most mundane of tasks- and still Kayla had wanted to be the one that was different.
Ruta came back to the room. Her eyes focused on Kayla. Ruta didn’t look like she struggled with things anymore. Ruta didn’t look like someone who saw her gifts as a disability anymore.
“Why did you stop waiting?”
It wasn’t an accusation; just curiosity. Kayla let her body slide down the wall. Her eyes stared at nothing.
“I lost hope. I started to believe mom was right. You had to be dead.”
“I was dead. I will be dead again. We are all trapped in the cycle of life and death. Living is just unbecoming and reconstructing. Death and rebirth. You die too. We all do.”
Kayla looked long and hard at her twin. Ruta was right. Kayla could not find even a spark of the teenage rebel she had once been: a young girl willing to take any risk just to be different, to feel different. That girl had died.
Kayla could feel herself dying again. A cycle of unbecoming and becoming again.

Buhle Process Videos

Hey guys!

Here are the process videos for my Buhle Painting. Still a bit skwonky and all over the place, but I am starting to feel more at home in Photoshop. Huzzah!

The first Video is the initial sketch. I took a pretty long time figuring out how to place her arms. This video is mostly me drawing arms and then erasing arms and then drawing arms and then erasing arms… you get the idea. 😛

The second starts with a few quick colour comps before diving into the final piece.

Disclaimer: Yes, I know I shouldn’t do backgrounds last. 😛

Another MerMay! Another Video!

 

Here is MerMay number 6! I went with a barnacle and seaweed look for this Mermaid. I rather like the barnacles and think I will explore them further throughout Mermay.

Video wise I have mostly removed the wobble. Except for that time I hit my phone with my shoulder… 😛 There is a small bit of sketch lost on the top of the screen which I do need to address, but otherwise I am pretty happy with my “making videos for YouTube” progress.

I hope you enjoy and Let me know what you think! 🙂

 

 

 

Blobby Body Manequins

When it comes to activities like painting or writing, being interrupted every few minutes is kind of infuriating. There is something beautiful about the creative process and getting into “the zone”,  but if you’re like me, the big blocks of time are limited. What I do have, though, is loads of little bits of time. I have started using those little bits for simple exercises. First one?

Blobby Body Manequins!

 

Yes, there is probably a more eloquent way to express what I’m doing, but it sure as heck won’t be as fun as yelling BLOBBY BODY MANEQUINS!

 

In an effort to train myself to draw from memory, I’m… dun dun dun… drawing from memory. These little sketchy guys below are all about trying to understand the body posture, weight distribution etc. You can see that the earlier ones the weight is way too much to the back of the figure. I’ve been gradually bringing the weight forward, but I’m not quite there yet. How the body moves is a subtle thing with lots of little moving parts.

Heck, I HAVE a body. I move it ALL THE TIME. Surely I know how it all works?

Ha. ha. ha.

 

Ocasionally I will do the movement myself, and then get back and try to draw it. What I won’t do is look at actual reference for this. This is all about translating what I know into a visual form. In theory, I understand how it should look.

Now its up to the practice.