dragonqueen

Upon waking, Jem was pressed into service by his mother. Word of the attack reached the household, and Jem was, of course, cautioned to stay inside. But he just had to see for himself. Rushing through his chores, he escaped the house as soon as possible. With his usual exuberance he ran down to the town square. What he saw there brought him to an abrupt halt. The carnage was just being cleaned up, and for a moment, Jem wished he'd obeyed his mother's warning. All the usual characters were already present, talking amongst themselves. Enipul Mai's words seemed nonsensical as usual, and Jem spared a thought of annoyance for the man. To Jem's surprise, Ezekiel Llewleyn was in the street, interrogating various villagers. While it was unusual to see the nobleman consorting with villagers, he genuinely appeared not to know anything of the attack. Jem slipped into the tavern, his usual source of information, looking for someone who might know what was going on. It was crowded today, and he found himself in a less than optimal position in a corner. Grumbling, he began to elbow his way towards the fire, but out of the corner of his eye he caught a flash of red. Turning, he found Xander, looking as disconnected as ever. Jem stared at the artist's left sleeve. He couldn't be sure, but it looked like it'd been drenched in blood. "Xander." He couldn't catch the artist's eye, and Jem raised his voice to be heard. "Xander! What's that on your sleeve? It's blood, isn't it? Why is there blood on your sleeve?" Jem eyed the man somewhat nervously, his imagination easily jumping to conclusions. OOC: Vote for Patrick/Xander

Jeremy 'Jem' Williams His father is a clerk of some kind - Jem isn't exactly sure and doesn't really care. At fifteen years old, he's more interested in girls and adventure. He's constantly hanging around at the tavern or the smithy or anywhere there's a gathering, wanting to know what's going on. He is rarely home, which frustrates his mother, as she would like to groom her son into a respectable gentleman. But Jem would rather live a more exciting life. Energetic and inquisitive, Jem can often be persuaded to perform errands for villagers. He is a familiar sight around town and liked well enough, despite his tendency to get underfoot. He is disdainful of anything he deems childish, and considers himself an adult, despite others' opinions.

Hey, I'm in. Character to come.

I'd definitely be interested in playing...it's nice to see some familiar faces again.

Not college so much as collage - I've spent the last weeks cutting up images from magazines and what not and gluing them back together in creative ways. Thanks for your input, everybody!

I slit their pretty white throats. My knife is sharp, sharp, sharp. One after the other, their pretty smiling heads separate from their slim, dainty bodies. Running, leaping, loving, I get them all. I slice and dice and rearrange. I am Dr. Frankenstein with paste. Beauty fragmented, reinvented. Necks, arms, legs, all at the wrong angles. Beauty composite. My mad creatures come to life, spinning, dancing, leaping across the page in a frenzy of smiles and pale skin and dewy eyes. They jump to my command in a whirlwind of twisted limbs. And then it's snick, snick, snick. On to my next victims.

Hey, I really like this. From the first line it was instantly relateable - I can definitely understand the feeling. The imagery of the second stanza was very evocative, and the rest of it followed well - you never lost me. I particularly liked the third stanza.

The deliciously illicit glug glug glug as amber liquid pours forth from a bottle held furtively behind the refridgerator door. Who knew bottles actually make that sound? Fear that the sweet pulsing sound of alcohol might reveal us. Or is it only our ears that hear it so loud like the beating of a heart?

Xethel and the Desert Cat were ruining my party. Oh. My. God. HOW could they do this to me? Their very own flesh and blood. Men these days. There's just no living with them I'd dearly love to investigate the option of living without them. Regrettably, as a young lady of respectable standing I've yet to lay my hands on a pistol. I twirl my parasol menacingly. But Aunt Tabitha's got contacts in the underground. I'm sure she'd understand. They WERE ruining my party. It seemed only fit I ruin their lives. New line: Making love to my microphone

Dear Diary, Today there was a high of 92 degrees Fahrenheit. I wore jeans. Retrospectively, this may have been a mistake. I came home right after gym and it was very hot and I was sweating. Diary, I do not sweat. Sweating is something other people do. It is a gross dirty and disgusting habit. I was hot. I was tired. But I had calculus to do. The door was open, The fan was on, And those cloying jeans. So, dear diary, I removed the offending garment and did my calculus in my underwear. Dear Diary, Today I did calculus in my underwear. Forever yours, Sara Beth

virtue

Prophets preaching to pharaohs. A delight in alliteration. My tongue takes to it eagerly, Slipping and sliding over this gem of a phrase like sugar-sweet candies. new line: If it had been lead

...had your mother try to convince you to cut work and have some fun and hated her for it because you just can't do that, and just because she hates that she spent her whole life being responsible doesn't mean you shouldn't go to work? ...called in to work faking sick, but then felt so guilty you went in and by that time actually been sick from guilt? ...stayed at work, even when you're supposed to be sick, even though you're not doing anything, just because it's the right thing to do and you feel guilty for lying in the first place? ...ever wondered how you got into such a ridiculous predicament, but known that no matter how bad it is, it will all blow over in a week or so?

I slammed the piano bench down in the dust And furiously sat down to play, My fingers danced over invisible keys, Picking out a melody heard only to me. They gathered round and stared, bemused onlookers one and all. I shouted at the page turn, But none stepped forth to do the deed. The dust flurried up around my feet, As I thumped pedals maniacally. The sweat began to fly at the accelerando, While my fingers flew ever onward. Slow down, they said, you'll hurt yourself. What in heaven's name are you doing? But I plucked notes out of the air, And they saw no ebony and ivory. A madman, they muttered. Get some help. I shook my head, pounding away. Madness, it might have been, But I could not stop for the life of me. The music possessed me, The muse seduced me, And I sat, on my piano bench, Going mad in cut time.