Post by Bee on Apr 18, 2008 22:43:34 GMT -5
So, I decided to write little snippets about each of my characters. Each have one theme, and exactly 100 words. Well, 100 words according to Microsoft Word, which we all know is Satan Incarnate. Anyway, enjoy, if at all possible. XD
Thalia, Doors
She wakes in the night to Monty gnawing on her ankle. This was nothing unusual, but typically it was just light nibbling. Tonight s/he had broken flesh. Thalia scowled, and kicked hir off the bed.
Then she saw it. Dark cherrywood, carved with swirling patterns, adorned with a shining golden handle. It seemed to glow, beckoningly, in the darkness. It took her a moment to register that she was seeing a door.
There were more out the window, floating, glowing, inviting. Passerby on the dark street seemed not to notice them.
She grinned at Monty. “We’re going on an adventure.”
Mnem, Aftermath
Partially-emptied bottles littered the floor. Wine glasses, martini glasses, and teacups joined them; some broken, some intact, most dripping liquid. On the coffee table was an abandoned joint. Half-hidden under the couch, some Checkmate.
Mnem blinked blearily against the morning sunlight. Her head pounded. She felt like vomiting. She was naked and entangled with—Minh.
“Fuck!” she said, pulling away. Minh stirred, eyes red, blinking rapidly. Mnem faintly recalled swearing off dick forever and screaming about the wholesale slaughter of the male sex. “How stoned was I?”
She looked around. Ah. That stoned.
“We will never speak of this again.”
Tripsei, Order
Her fellows like to say she’s scatter-brained, but in reality her mind is ruled by order. Twenty-four flowers in a daisy chain crown, or all your fur would fall out. Twenty-four was a good number. You could cut it a lot of ways. Six and four. Eight and three. Twelve and two.
Twelve steps from the door of her room to the bed, two lovers to share it. Eight minutes, three times in a row. Six hours lying there alone afterward, with four wearied limbs. Twenty-four hours a day, thinking, longing.
A contented sigh, and she slips off to sleep.
Vishne, Poetry
He’s long been acquainted with the fact that his thoughts are inconsequential, his opinions aren’t valued, and his wants and desires are not respected. And why should they be, really? He’s just another boychild; a pretty, useless footnote to his twin’s life story; of the inferior sex, of inferior intelligence, of inferior everything.
His journals hear his unvoiced thoughts, pages upon pages and volumes upon volumes of awful clumsy handwriting and tear-stains:
Shout, stab, rip, pull, shriek.
Hearts jerked out, thrown down.
Blood pumps still; the foot looms over.
Squish.
His poetry is terrible, but nobody cares about that, either.
Iphis, Dolls
The dolls sit cheerfully around the little table, sipping their tea and talking about shoes. He has his tea parties with people, whenever possible, but sometimes the old gang gets lonely, and Clara starts pouting about neglect. So he catches them up on his life. The dresses he’s made, the people he’s met, his theories as to why Se tries so hard to act like he wants them all dead.
“He doesn’t live in reality,” says Isabelle, giggling. “Neither do you.”
Delight, delirium, delusion. He laughs it off. He’s the only one of them who’s really happy, in any case.
Ezra, Party
There is little to celebrate in Torquehelm. Understandable, as they’re all cursed. But today the family has gathered for Ezra’s twelfth birthday. It’s summer, but it’s still as dark and gloomy as ever. Now it is oppressively warm as well.
No one brought presents. There is no cake. Everyone sits on the porch, silent, eyes closed. The first stage of every birthday party is to pray for the Curse to be lifted, for the evil that seeps into their land from the Tulgey Wood to finally be conquered.
Stage two is like any other family gathering. Alcohol and awkward conversation.
Somhairle, Cake
Filling, layers, icing, piping. Artsy but tasteful decorative touches. He likes making dessert most of all. The best desserts are complicated, but sweet, and well worth the effort. He’s making this one for Remmington, so that he may share it with his Does in privacy.
Something knots painfully in the pit of his stomach. He knows better than to call it hunger, but dismisses it as such. He thinks about slipping some kind of love-token to Chelan, but abandons the notion.
He likes his heart beating safely and lonely in his chest, not dripping in the hands of a Jack.
Helena, Love
Mom likes to call her pathetic: the way she throws herself at people; the way she clings like a limpet; the way she abandons all self-respect when someone shows even a passing interest in her. Sometimes she feels pathetic. But mostly she’s in love with love: the racing pulses, the round red marks on the neck, the obsessive attachment. Leaping from one love to the next keeps any other feeling at bay. It’s compulsion, and it makes her happy.
She spots prey. A jaguar, long and slinky. Tasty. She kicks back another drink. She’s due to fall in love again.
Thalia, Doors
She wakes in the night to Monty gnawing on her ankle. This was nothing unusual, but typically it was just light nibbling. Tonight s/he had broken flesh. Thalia scowled, and kicked hir off the bed.
Then she saw it. Dark cherrywood, carved with swirling patterns, adorned with a shining golden handle. It seemed to glow, beckoningly, in the darkness. It took her a moment to register that she was seeing a door.
There were more out the window, floating, glowing, inviting. Passerby on the dark street seemed not to notice them.
She grinned at Monty. “We’re going on an adventure.”
Mnem, Aftermath
Partially-emptied bottles littered the floor. Wine glasses, martini glasses, and teacups joined them; some broken, some intact, most dripping liquid. On the coffee table was an abandoned joint. Half-hidden under the couch, some Checkmate.
Mnem blinked blearily against the morning sunlight. Her head pounded. She felt like vomiting. She was naked and entangled with—Minh.
“Fuck!” she said, pulling away. Minh stirred, eyes red, blinking rapidly. Mnem faintly recalled swearing off dick forever and screaming about the wholesale slaughter of the male sex. “How stoned was I?”
She looked around. Ah. That stoned.
“We will never speak of this again.”
Tripsei, Order
Her fellows like to say she’s scatter-brained, but in reality her mind is ruled by order. Twenty-four flowers in a daisy chain crown, or all your fur would fall out. Twenty-four was a good number. You could cut it a lot of ways. Six and four. Eight and three. Twelve and two.
Twelve steps from the door of her room to the bed, two lovers to share it. Eight minutes, three times in a row. Six hours lying there alone afterward, with four wearied limbs. Twenty-four hours a day, thinking, longing.
A contented sigh, and she slips off to sleep.
Vishne, Poetry
He’s long been acquainted with the fact that his thoughts are inconsequential, his opinions aren’t valued, and his wants and desires are not respected. And why should they be, really? He’s just another boychild; a pretty, useless footnote to his twin’s life story; of the inferior sex, of inferior intelligence, of inferior everything.
His journals hear his unvoiced thoughts, pages upon pages and volumes upon volumes of awful clumsy handwriting and tear-stains:
Shout, stab, rip, pull, shriek.
Hearts jerked out, thrown down.
Blood pumps still; the foot looms over.
Squish.
His poetry is terrible, but nobody cares about that, either.
Iphis, Dolls
The dolls sit cheerfully around the little table, sipping their tea and talking about shoes. He has his tea parties with people, whenever possible, but sometimes the old gang gets lonely, and Clara starts pouting about neglect. So he catches them up on his life. The dresses he’s made, the people he’s met, his theories as to why Se tries so hard to act like he wants them all dead.
“He doesn’t live in reality,” says Isabelle, giggling. “Neither do you.”
Delight, delirium, delusion. He laughs it off. He’s the only one of them who’s really happy, in any case.
Ezra, Party
There is little to celebrate in Torquehelm. Understandable, as they’re all cursed. But today the family has gathered for Ezra’s twelfth birthday. It’s summer, but it’s still as dark and gloomy as ever. Now it is oppressively warm as well.
No one brought presents. There is no cake. Everyone sits on the porch, silent, eyes closed. The first stage of every birthday party is to pray for the Curse to be lifted, for the evil that seeps into their land from the Tulgey Wood to finally be conquered.
Stage two is like any other family gathering. Alcohol and awkward conversation.
Somhairle, Cake
Filling, layers, icing, piping. Artsy but tasteful decorative touches. He likes making dessert most of all. The best desserts are complicated, but sweet, and well worth the effort. He’s making this one for Remmington, so that he may share it with his Does in privacy.
Something knots painfully in the pit of his stomach. He knows better than to call it hunger, but dismisses it as such. He thinks about slipping some kind of love-token to Chelan, but abandons the notion.
He likes his heart beating safely and lonely in his chest, not dripping in the hands of a Jack.
Helena, Love
Mom likes to call her pathetic: the way she throws herself at people; the way she clings like a limpet; the way she abandons all self-respect when someone shows even a passing interest in her. Sometimes she feels pathetic. But mostly she’s in love with love: the racing pulses, the round red marks on the neck, the obsessive attachment. Leaping from one love to the next keeps any other feeling at bay. It’s compulsion, and it makes her happy.
She spots prey. A jaguar, long and slinky. Tasty. She kicks back another drink. She’s due to fall in love again.
