Another practice piece

[the Lady of Shalott]

I admit that I was a bit uncomfortable in History class, sitting beside a girl who was obviously stalking me, but I couldn’t help but be intrigued by how she presented herself and her peculiar personality.

Ashley was a sophomore as well, and she looked her age on a good day, aged to the point of lost innocence on a bad day where she had a withered and tired look to her, as if she saw things the way we do when we grow older, with a worldly knowledge that pains us.

She dressed herself magnificently, almost as if her goal each day was to amuse people, entertain us with what type of get-up she would be wearing that day. Generally it was something punk-rock looking, but with an artistic twist that wasn’t always appealing. However there were other days when Ashley would adorn herself in clothing that turned her into a Sixty’s preppy girl, a Renaissance noble, a Bollywood princess. She made herself a walking canvas for her art. Never could she stand to be treated as if she wasn't there, to be walked by without recognition.

Although she was usually quiet around me, I was able to gather a broad idea as to who she really was during those long months of sophomore year, despite how so many people viewed her. It’s true that I did think her a bit insane when I first met her, trying to break into people’s lockers, screaming at her friends for odd reasons, laughing to herself during class, but after someone ‘coincidentally’ shows up everywhere you frequent all year, you start to see things you didn’t see before. I quickly realized what a dramatic person she was, not always in a good way. She had few close friends so she confided her stories and her secrets to everyone. Each emotion that swept over her was known to all around her. It wasn’t obnoxious at all, but it was almost what made her as charismatic as she was.

People liked Ashley for her open and honest ways, yet it was obvious that she was unwilling to hurt anyone’s feelings so she locked up nearly as many opinions as escaped from her bright-red painted lips. Those were the times when the pained looks flashed over her, only to be quickly replaced by her good-natured expression that everyone thought so silly.

She was a contradiction of herself. No one would have guessed that she was a pious person had she not carried a Bible and worn a crucifix around her neck. Far too many of her friends were gay, or punk rock, or atheist for her to seem religious. Yet she was, though overwhelmingly open-minded. She seemed the part of the typical dumb-blond, though she was in some of the highest courses she could take, and she valued that about herself, because she defied peoples’ expectation.

Nick told me she was crazy for me. He really meant ‘crazy’, too. I say she was just a hopeless romantic, I guess it was in the way she watched me, as creepy as that seems. It was the way she would have to look away if I stretched out my legs, how she stopped breathing if I touched my hair, how she shook her head in exhaustion if I sighed or cleared my throat. She couldn’t get enough of romance and all she wanted was love; it was what she lived for. I admit, I’m sorry that I never fulfilled that dream for Ashley, because she really was a unique girl.

 

[Presea]

Oo, how intriguing.

--------

In a dark room, someone stirred.
Moonlight trickled lazily through the open window encased in the wood of the side wall. It formed a dim and hazy path through the shadow of the night, and fell silently on a mound of rose-coloured blanket. There was no sound - only the gentle lapping of a damp breeze against the roof tiles outside; a watery hiss.

Presea sat upright.
Eyes wide open, burning, she clutched her neck tightly. It throbbed - her breath was fast, and heavy like a weight in her throat; her heart pounding fiercely in her chest.

She ran her trembling fingers over her forehead. Sweat still formed on the brow and continued slipping down and trailing from her cheeks; her head nearly mimicking these actions - pictures spun madly in her head, blurred, unfocused. She tried in desperate attempts to catch any glimpse of them, but like water through fingers, they slipped away quickly.

Still breathing fiercely, she leant to her side and searched frantically in the darkness with her hands. After a moment, a dim light abruptly flooded the area around her bed.

Presea sat back upright, and clutched her neck again. She began to rub it softly, allowing her breathing to slow, and letting her Jade-coloured eyes scan the room.

It was small - only just able to fit the bed, a desk and two wardrobes in comfortably inside it's walls; the light did not reach the corners of the room, but a strong smell of the decaying pastel plaster-paper crept into the centre and lingered on the air, clashing with the dusty odour of constant heat emanating from both her active television and whichever games-console she had fallen asleep indulging herself with.

She pushed herself up from her bed, letting her feet fall lightly. The floorboards creaked considerably with the few steps it took for her to reach the open window, push it closed an hurry back to climb onto her bed, ready to pull the blanket over her tightly. She suddenly paused; noticing, with a little suprise, her own movements inside the frame of the full-length mirror at the opposite end of the room.

A range of mixed feelings swamped Presea whenever she took the time to look at her reflection. At moments the way her night-dress clung to her broader shoulders and hips pleased her. It was her height and her curves that she felt most confident about at times. However, a split second may pass and she may feel completely inadequate - instead seeing infront of her a girl who will never be as small and as thin as her assosciates. She had been referred to as attractive in the past, but equally had been ugly. It had been a conflict of wills within herself that she had not yet conjured the strength to win.

Though all was not lost, she knew. Her skin was nearly as white as snow, untouched by warmer climates - yet she liked it. Her face consisted of fair, yet determined features; with a small, buttoned nose and at any other time in the day she would have painted her lips with a red stain. The fringe of her hair covered one eye, and the rest of it fell losely down to her waist. It was of raven colour - atleast, to those who didn't know otherwise.

Presea sat upright for a few moments, drinking in and quelling every feeling that was summoned, as she stared again at herself in the mirror. Afterward she turned and lowered herself in order to lean against her pillow; looking out of the window, across the stars.

-----------

Yeah, that was more difficult than I thought it would be. >< I wonder, how many people actually find it easy to describe themselves?

 

[Nuggetpunk]

All I could ever say of him for sure was the way he stood; Stretching out, as if he wanted to be taller. He'd let his stubble grow unchecked till the flavour of the month would complain about the scratching bristle then he'd shave, but no amount of complaint would make him touch his hair. His hair was long, spilling over his shoulders and down his back, grown perfectly straight and kept shining by the only intense grooming schedule he believed in.
Once, long ago, a girl had come that had convinced him to cut the long, chestnut mane, but he'd long realised that she had been the Delilah in his own personal story of Samson.
His eyes were sharp and distrusting, a weakness in him that saw only bad.
His frame was slight and gangly, but taut with what little musculature he could build up. In black and grey he looked menacing but in pale colours he looked like his Dad, except that he had only the one scar, above his left eye, where a Weegie had ripped out his piercing in a fight.
He seemed ready to weather any challenge, but he always saw it as a willingness to fail.

 

[Aes]

I might as well give this a shot, as it might help chip the rust away.

- - -

I looked around frantically for some indication as to what time it was. I already knew I was going to be late, there was no way around it at this point. Still, since this line wasn't moving, I figured I might as well know just how late I would be.

There was a heavy shuffling behind me, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw an incredibly large, unkempt womanbeast stop mere inches away from me. Her rancid body odor and rough breathing sounds began their assault upon my senses, and I could feel my nose begin to water. Next up, my eyes began to feel her wrath, but curiousity compelled me! Her face was chubby, red, and she had a small patch of dried ketchup on her left cheek. Her hair was thin, stringy, oily, and if I didn't know any better, I'd say she might be going bald. Her shirt and sweatpants had several holes and were decorated with spatters and smears of something, probably food related. The fact that her bulbous gut was hanging down past her shirt didn't make things any better. There was no way I could face such a monster, so I quickly turned away! I'd have to ask someone else what time it was.

The person in front of me seemed like a much better choice. He was a lean, well-groomed fellow who seemed pretty indifferent as to just how long this line was. He just stood there, with one of his hands partially in his jeans pocket, and the other holding open some magazine from a nearby rack.

"Excuse me," I said as I tapped his shoulder. "Could you tell me what time it is?"

He turned to face me for a moment, as if still lost in thought about something. His appearance was well-kept, with even his messy, dark-brown hair seeming to have special care put into it. I looked into his bluish-grey eyes and blinked, somewhat shocked. At first, I thought he couldn't have been any older than 18 because of his healthy skin and distinct lack of any real facial hair, but his eyes seemed to suggest many more years than that.

"Uuh," he paused, regarding me with more indifference than I had expected. "Sorry, I don't have a watch." His eyes wandered to the creature behind me for a moment, then back to me. "You could probably ask the person behind the desk, assuming this line ever moves again."

With that, he turned back to his magazine and pretended to thumb through it as if actually interested in its content.

- - -

I'm the second one. I just figured it'd be fun to get people going for a moment, assuming anyone reads this.

 

[Coolhand]

The Target strolled through the sniper-scope unaware, and The Assassin eased the scope left to follow his route along the street. Regular as clockwork, heading to the local Starbucks to drink coffee and write fiction.
The Assassin knew this would happen, because he’d carried out an in-depth investigation into The Target. To do anything else would be unprofessional. You had to know as much as possible in order to kill them effectively.
The Target was male, tall but not exceptionally so, in pretty good physical shape, though apparently his sports and gym habits suffered from bouts of laziness. He had the kind of messy, unkempt haircut that took a lot of time and effort to maintain, and dark stubble that he obviously hoped was stylish and cool. Pretty good looking. Not great, a little gawky. But not bad either.
The Target appeared to be something of a social paradox. Whilst apparently very friendly on the surface, in almost thirty years of life he had gained very few close friends. No significant other, though he had managed to stumble from one disaster to the next whilst trying to alter that situation. He seemed to make a habit of falling for women he couldn’t have, or who were no good for him. Femme Fatalles, thought The Assassin with a dark smile.
Maybe one of them had been the anonymous client who’d paid for the hit.
The Target’s life seemed to be stalled. He wanted to be a writer, but worked with computers because writing wasn’t yet paying. And he was a man of extremes. If he liked something, he loved it. If he didn’t then he hated it. The Target was passionate about things.
The Assassin placed the crosshairs of the Heckler&Kock PSG-1 over the Target’s skull, and smiled slightly. The Target would probably have appreciated being taken down with such a sweet piece or hardware, what with his somewhat morbid interest in weapons, martial arts and action adventure fiction. It was one of the reasons the Assassin had opted for a long-range kill. The Target’s martial arts training would make him tricky to take down in a face to face encounter. Though not impossible. The Target wasn’t THAT good.
But there were redeeming features. The Target had a pretty decent sense of humour, a soft spot for cats, and by all accounts wrote pretty good fiction, even if it hadn’t been published yet. He seemed loyal to his friends, easy going and usually tried to do the right thing, even if he didn’t always do it well.
Heroic looser or just a looser? In The Assassin’s world, there was no difference between the two.
But then, The Assassin lived in an unforgiving world.
He pulled the trigger.

 

[ice.monkey]

She'd known him for quite a while now and today he didn't look his normal self. Today he was dressed in suit and tie, his shoes polished, his stubble shaved and his medium-length hair groomed. He almost looked like a regular nine to fiver but there was something in the way he carried himself that made him look out of place, like he was a fake or he was playing a role in a play. But his incongruous attire hadn't dampened his usual cheerfullness and she was glad to see his eyes were vivid blue and shone, not the dulled grey they took when life had dealt him a particularly cruel hand.

He spotted her, flashed her a smile and strode over. Average build, average height but she was glad there was no sign of the middle-age gut that afflicted so many. She returned his smile as he sat down opposite and comfortably maintained eye contact.

"Well I'm glad that's over," he said as he pulled the knot of his tie down and undid the top button of his shirt. Now he was beginning to look like his usual self.

 

[JDP]

I shifted uncomfortably as he slipped into the seat next to mine. He seemed agitated. I edged a little further away.

He wouldn't meet anyone's eye, I noticed; his dark gaze flickered from here to there, only resting on the dead space between bodies. The veins stood out on the backs of his hands and his fingernails needed to be trimmed. He tugged back a cuff to look at his watch.

With a sudden, sharp motion, he raised a hand to his face. He scratched like a dog at one broad, fuzzy sideburn and then absently adjusted the spectacles perched on his large nose. The hand dropped to his lap as quickly as it had been raised. Shifting once more, he began to tap at the handrail beside him. His nail beat a slow, unsteady rhythm. I gritted my teeth with frustration.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.


Tap.


Tap.
Tap.

Finally, I turned, looking him full in the face.

"Could you stop tapping, please?" I asked, perhaps rudely.

He looked at me for a long moment as if noticing me for the first time. His wide lips were pursed for a second in thought, then broke into a small, tight grin. The tapping stopped. His hand rose once more, judiciously flattening an unruly outcrop of hair protruding from the crown of his head. Satisfied, it fell back to his lap. The dark brown thatch remained unchanged. His foot began to tap.

Forcing back a frustrated snarl, I deliberately looked the other way. The doors hissed open and I rose to my feet. To our mutual surprise, he rose next to me; he seemed to struggle not to slouch. Our eyes met for a moment. I looked down at them, then swiftly away, and I stepped out onto the platform.



Hmmm, that's a bit weird. Not a lot of straight-up physical description in mine but, hey, you go where the wind takes you, eh? I was going more for the 'suggested' than the 'direct' approach. Wonder if this thread'll come back from the dead.

 

[ice.monkey]

A bit weird but I liked it JDP. Still trying to work out if you are 'I' or the tapping guy, but it's kinda neat to be left wondering.

Wonder if this thread'll come back from the dead.

I'm hoping so. It'll be interesting to see how people view themselves and create themselves as a character.

 

[Cal20]

Her dark hair fell loose around her face. It was neither straight or curly but a wavy in-between. It also looked like it hadn't been brushed that day, probably because it hadn't. Or the day before that, or the day before that... She wore no make-up for two reasons. The first one was that she couldn't be bothered. The second was that if anyone was to find her attractive in any way she wanted them to like her real appearnace, not a fake one. Her deep green eyes were framed by long lashes, her nose was a little pointed and her lips were in no need of collagen. Her skin was marked here and there with a few spots and freckles, and also a small scar on the side of her forehead. She hated that scar. Her body had been thin once, though she only believed that because there were photos to prove it. She described it as 'curvy' and believed as much. She liked herself for the most part and was never one to value appearance over personality. She would much rather be viewed as 'the smart one' than 'the pretty one', and she was.

Hope this is ok!

 

[Erin99]

Dwndrgn, you've already summed me up in your first post.

"She was tall and graceful, with the kind of hair one could describe as dirty blonde. Although I had only met her a couple of times, I already knew she had a wicked sense of humor and a very sharp tongue. When angered, she could take you down with just a few words."

Except I'm not graceful or tall -- but I do have the dirty blonde hair.

 

[Interference]

He looked like he'd been Simsonised. In fact, when he sent his picture to Simsoniseme, the result hardly looked any different. It had the following note attached: "Please return at your earliest convenience. The family can't go on without you. Love, Marge."

"D'oh!" he exclaimed, in his customary fashion as the memory of his past life tapped at the window of his conscious mind. He was just getting used to being in 3D.

(Yup, I'm bald and overweight, but cuddly.)

 

[Saltheart]

There was something odd about him, though he stood there laughing with his friends.

Under normal circumstances, I would have thought he was drop dead gorgeous, a male model or something. He had a perfectly featured face. Dreamy eyes, a radiant complexion, shining white teeth that sparkled in the sun. He had a great frame too - if he buffed up just a little, he could easily have become an actor, with his soft, stylish hair, and his sense of style. Yet there was something about him that seemed to outweigh all these things, something inherently unattractive that defied the senses, that prevented me from being able to feel that way about him.

Then I saw his walking cane.