Post by TETRIS on Jul 15, 2010 20:14:39 GMT -5
HER PROFILE
ORIGIN APPLICATION
Diet: Ceras eats her vegetables because she has to, but is a carnivore at heart. Not red meat, either. She'll eat pork and steak, but her forte is poultry and fish. She doesn't like carbs and tends to pick at her bread if she's given any.
Skills: She is surprisingly artistic, a good photographer (albeit a rather morbid one) and very intellectual in the literary routes. She writes well, analyses writing even better, and is familiar with a surprisingly broad repertoire of literature. Her favourite authors, however, are Nietzsche, Camus, and Sartre. Shocking, no?
Schooling: She doesn't like to talk about school much. Or really, anything about her former life. Too many painful memories.
Habits: Since she started shifting, Ceras no longer smokes because it nauseates the bird in her. She still drinks however, and is an absolutely terrible drunk. She also has a nervous habit of clicking her pen against a solid surface.
Criminal Record: Clean, if you don't count the two suicide attempts, only one of which was actually discovered.
Roleplaying Experience: 4-5 years.
Sample: Ceras likes to photograph car accidents, roadkill, disaster scenes, and human suffering in its most brutal and vivid.
She doesn't do nature scenes, animals, trees, or flowers.Cause that's majourly boring shit.
ORIGIN APPLICATION
Diet: Ceras eats her vegetables because she has to, but is a carnivore at heart. Not red meat, either. She'll eat pork and steak, but her forte is poultry and fish. She doesn't like carbs and tends to pick at her bread if she's given any.
Skills: She is surprisingly artistic, a good photographer (albeit a rather morbid one) and very intellectual in the literary routes. She writes well, analyses writing even better, and is familiar with a surprisingly broad repertoire of literature. Her favourite authors, however, are Nietzsche, Camus, and Sartre. Shocking, no?
Schooling: She doesn't like to talk about school much. Or really, anything about her former life. Too many painful memories.
Habits: Since she started shifting, Ceras no longer smokes because it nauseates the bird in her. She still drinks however, and is an absolutely terrible drunk. She also has a nervous habit of clicking her pen against a solid surface.
Criminal Record: Clean, if you don't count the two suicide attempts, only one of which was actually discovered.
Roleplaying Experience: 4-5 years.
Sample: Ceras likes to photograph car accidents, roadkill, disaster scenes, and human suffering in its most brutal and vivid.
She doesn't do nature scenes, animals, trees, or flowers.
k-shck.
I wonder if his wife will see these pictures in the paper, centered in grainy black-and-white above a bold witty headline.
I wonder if, this time tomorrow, she'll be a widow. Appraising her red eyes and hollow cheeks and new black wardrobe in the mirror.
Or maybe she'll be sitting in an austere room in the hospital, morbidly fascinated by the plastic tubes and silver valves disappearing beneath a linen bedsheet.
k-shck.
She's not paying any attention to the lone photographer amidst the news crew, the microphones, the flashing sirens. I have my flash on to snap each shot in brighter-than-day clarity, but I probably don't even make her brain's short-list of imminent sensory feedback.
I think her tears are beautiful.
That, right there, was a real keeper. I don't have to develop the film to see the picture; my zoom lens and adjusted contrast froze a drop of moisture on her upper lip in a close-up of her face. Her closest eye is swelling already and the lashes are gummed with cloyed blood from a cut across her forehead. She looks wild with raw trauma and emotion.
Fast-forward ahead to tomorrow, then another day, then another week. It sounds insensitive, but she'll want to trade her rigor mortis of facial expression with the current hysteria. I know I would. Because it would mean that for another minute, right then, right now, she still sees another outcome. That's what makes her anxious, that that outcome is becoming less likely with each passing second.
k-shck. -flash- k-shck.
It's not like I tell anyone else these perverse things I think. The screwed-up ways I see the world. My fisheye-lensed reality.
Maybe I'm fortunate because I don't have to, or rather, unfortunate because I can't. The one person whose judgment I fear will pore over these rolls of film with me. We'll mash them together in every possible way, throw out a set and scrabble to together fling a new one, our collaboration sectioned into agreements and arguments by new updates from the phone. When we retire in the morning, all the vitality will be gone from the photos and whatever sanctity of life they once guarded can't be retrieved.
That's the penchant of our trade. Scavenging and devouring, we beat the dead horses, strip the flesh, and carve combs from the bones. Like a great swarm of locusts, we'll rise and move on to the next kill only after draining every last drop from this one.
In the wake of our yellow journalism and sensation-mongering, we leave behind empty tubes of films and used-up notepads and a series of frozen frames that capture a life shattering in slow motion.
k-shck. k-shck. k-shck.
Oh, the joie de vivre. Why, it's to die for.
