"Along the path, shrouding the dusty trail in broken shadows, were rows of juniper trees. The berries glistened in the early morning dew like rubies as the sun rose above the horizon. I saw a young woman with wispy blonde hair gathering the berries in a little wicker basket that hung from the crook of her left arm. On her neck was a string of pearls, and on her finger she wore an amethyst ring. She heard me approach and lifted her sea colored eyes to meet mine. She seemed to smile, but her lips were strained and her skin was a ghostly white, as if she were unwell. Slowly she outstretched her hand and placed it in mine. I felt myself grow light and the world around me fell out of focus and faded away into nothing. I knew then that my journey had come to an end."
~Nathaniel Forester~"The Juniper Journey"
Allow me to introduce my humble little self. I am Jennifer Lynn Hughes, better known as Juniper, Journey, or more recently, Camper. I'm merely 19 years old, but I have a one-year-old son named Ryan and am married to a talented guitar player named Justin Hughes, also known as Possum Willy.
I have been having strange dreams recently. I have them written down somewhere, and I mean to post them on this site, but I can't find the notebook that I wrote them in. One of them involves Christopher Walken and Robert Smith from The Cure and Heath Ledger and David Bowie and vampires...and I had one recently which involved dancing with a co-worker at a wedding (he was a terrible dancer, it didn't surprise me). I'll put my dreams up on the site whenever I find out what happened to my notebook.
Recently I have been in a rather poetic mood. A lot of weird things have been popping up in my life, and each one has brought me down a peg. I am struggling to be happy in some areas in my life, whereas in others I am perfectly contented. The bottom line to my unhappiness is the fact that I feel rather lonely. Not all the time, mind you, but more recently than before.
As a tribute to my "Emily Dickinson" mood I am dedicating poetry to a few people I know. I hope you enjoy it.
First of all, to my husband I dedicate a poem of my own creation, because I searched for one to describe my feelings and no one else could explain it quite right. I call it "On Those Blackened Shores."
All living creatures wake
From the depths of those blue lakes
They peer out from the endless deep
Watching as I rise from sleep.
I see them scamper about behind
Within the vast portals of your mind.
Those creatures, swimming in your sea
Have taken hold and captured me.
On my ship I take my ores
Until, landing on those blackened shores
In the long, black grass I leave
Drops of dew upon the eve.
This next poem is for my friend Kevin. I think he's probably the only person in this world that knows everything, and I appreciate him for it.
"Drunkenness"
By: Anvari
I drink but I don't get drunk:
I abuse nothing but the goblet:
I worship wine in order to avoid
Worshipping self, like you.
This poem is for a co-worker, Justin Dodd, who was kind enough to listen to my problems when I was feeling down. He sympathized with me and shared his secrets, which shows trust, and I hope the feeling is mutual.
"To ________"
By: Edgar Allen Poe
I heed not that my Earthly lot
Hath - little of Earth in it
That years of love have been forgot
In the hatred of a minute.
I do not mourn that the desolate
Are happier, sweet, than I
But that YOU sorrow for MY fate
Who am a passerby.
I dedicate this one to myself. I'm not sure why I chose this one for me. It's an old Armenian poem from 1592, and I had it marker in my poetry book with a paper I wrote in French and can't understand anymore.
"I Was Suffering Exile"
By: Nahabed Kouchag
I was suffering exile like a rambling
Madman and then of a sudden I met you
When I thought there was no hope
As a parched man comes suddenly on a fresh spring
Plunges his head in and drinks
Until he placates his fever.
Here I have posted the beginning of my story titled "Necromance." This story actually is back story for a comic book my husband, his friend Eric and I have been working on called "Angel With an Uzi." I didn't intend it to be when I had the original idea, but I pitched it to my husband and he pointed out that the two stories could be easily connected. So, this is what I have so far.
"Necromance"
By: Jennifer L. Hughes
“She was such a nice young woman…”
“…tragic, really…”
“…parents were so upset when they heard she was gone…”
Carter Lester stood near the door of the funeral home, nervously adjusting his black silk tie and trying not to eavesdrop on the various whispered conversations that stirred from the people around him. Every once in a while a stranger would approach him and comment on how nicely the flowers were arranged and how lovely the casket was. Carter would murmur a polite thank you and offer his condolences. Then the strangers would smile weakly, some with tears in their eyes, and wander off to talk with people they knew.
Carter glanced up at his brother, Jim, who sat behind a desk in a secluded corner of the room. Jim was busy fiddling with the pile of papers on the desk and speaking to one or two of the strangers with a distracted look on his face. If Carter wanted to sneak out of the room without his older brother noticing, this was his opportunity. Carefully he edged his way through the open door and tip-toed into his office. Slowly he shut the door behind him with a small *click!* and took a deep breath.
“I hate this job,” he muttered to himself as he plopped down into his leather office chair. He removed his suit jacket and loosened his tie. On his desk sat an old coffee mug, a calendar, a rubber band ball, an appointment book, and a telephone. Lazily Carter picked up the rubber band ball and tossed it so it bounced from the wall to the floor and back into his hands. He continued to do this methodically as his mind shuffled through images of the various strangers he had encountered. Some were silent and miserable. Others attempted to be cheerful, convinced that the deceased would have wanted it that way. Carter wondered about what dead people really wanted. He thought that, when he died, he would want to forget everything and everyone he had left behind.
The office door creaked open, but Carter didn’t stop tossing the rubber band ball. Instead he spoke, his voice surprisingly soft and immature for his age.
“Are they gone?” he asked, referring to the horde of strangers that had been gathered in the other room.
“Yeah,” Jim answered, “So you can stop sulking in here like a little kid. I gave you this office so you could work, not so you could use it as a blanket to hide under whenever the monsters come out.” With a quick stretch of his arm Jim caught the rubber band ball in midair. He gave his younger brother a meaningful look, which Carter dodged by quickly averting his eyes.
“You’re a waste of space, you know that?” Jim huffed, “I could hire a fichus tree to do your job. No wonder you can’t get a girlfriend.” Jim whipped the rubber band ball at Carter and it bounced lamely off of his right shoulder.
“I’m going to meet Gloria at Old Zinger,” Jim continued as if nothing had happened, “You finish up here, alright?”
“Sure,” Carter mumbled. Jim strode out of the office and shut the door firmly behind him.
Carter stayed in his office watching the minute hand of his wall clock tick until he was sure that his brother was gone. Cautiously he crept out and stole a glance around. The funeral home was completely empty except for the corpse that lay deep in a casket surrounded by a variety of floral arrangements. Carter went to the door and locked it.
The young woman’s name had been Emily Normandy. She died at twenty-three years old of leukemia. Her hair was shoulder length and was a sort of non-descript wavy brown. Her skin now had they grayish-green tone of the embalming fluid that had been pumped into her veins. Once could see from the pictures that surrounded her, however, that her cheeks had once been a bright, delicate pink.
Carter’s heart pounded in his chest and he felt the familiar pulsing tingle. Gently he stroked her hair and her face. Her skin was ice cold. Methodically he undid the buttons on her blouse and tugged on her bra until her breasts glared freely, almost accusingly, up at him. His breath quickened as he slid her silk undergarments from her stiff thighs. He closed his eyes as he worked his own trousers off. He could see in his mind how she would have moved and gripped him and whispered his name. Carter licked his palm until it was dripping with saliva and he began to tug himself. Through his closed eyes he saw her warm lips massaging and curving around the contours of his body. Carefully he climbed into the casket and slid himself into the body of the young woman. He could almost hear her gasp with pleasure as he pounded her. She would have put her arms around him, and she would have nipped at his neck and earlobes. She would have told him that she loved him.
In a moment of throbbing the excitement was over. All at once he was flooded with a mixture of shame and guilt. His cheeks burned as he quickly dressed himself and the corpse, and he almost thought that he would cry. He always hated himself afterwards, but he knew that he would do it again. There was no stopping the strange addiction that had come over him.
Carter was twenty-eight when he accepted the position his brother offered him at Lester Funeral Home. He had tried several occupations before hand and had failed miserably. His mother, who had always tried to be positive, said that he simply “lacked direction” and needed time to “discover himself.” His father, who was much less forgiving, always referred to Carter as a “mistake” and that they should have stopped reproducing after Jim was born.
Jim was an annoyingly perfect model of what a son ought to be. He worked hard through high school to buy his own car, and before he was even out of college he owned his own house and was engaged to Gloria Hill, one of the wealthiest girls in town. After Jim graduated he and Gloria were married, and Jim was running his own business. The only thing that ever went wrong in Jim’s life was discovered after his marriage. Gloria, it seemed, had a weak reproductive system, and it was highly unlikely that she would ever be able to have children. In all other respects, however, Jim was amazingly successful.
Carter had dropped out of high school during his Junior year. He was smart enough to pass his subjects, but was not really motivated to do the homework. After a report card of thronging D’s and F’s, he had completely given up. After that he worked a variety of jobs. He had been a gardener, brick layer, model, and a marijuana dealer. He still lived with his parents and spent most of his time hiding out in his bedroom and listening to records. His father snubbed and insulted him, and his mother coddled and smothered him. It was after months of her begging that Jim finally gave in and offered Carter a job.
Carter was not the ladies man that he had envisioned himself to be. He had dozens of failed relationships, and none of them had actually put out. His ex’s claimed him to be ignorant, selfish, superficial, lazy, and clingy. One of them, who had been a psychology major, labeled him as a “sociopath.” The only good thing that had been going for him was the fact that he was fairly good looking, and he was conscious that this was fading away with each passing year.
That's all that I really have for now. I'll be updating again soon, though. Sorry for the lack of interesting news.
One more thing... I'll be posting pieces of my short stories on here soon. Come back again!
11/14/03
Jennifer "Camper" Hughes
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