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mind the gap. Genevieve Charlotte Porter
joie de vivre
cover of the book ;; Madame de Sucre
Je sais ton amour
Je sais l'eau versée sur mon corps
wheels of a dream
minimalist ;; Gen, Lottie
steps on the stair ;; 23
going nowhere ;; Of the softer sex- female
swing set in motion ;; Every man is a gentleman
wouldn't you like to know ;; singular, not plural
standing on the curb ;; tamer of words
Tu sais mon amour
Tu sais les mots sous mes silences
never heard music quite like yours
lookin' good ;; Little Lottie
up against the wall ;; 170cm/5'8" & 55kg/122lbs
exhibitionist ;; storm clouds over blue sky
shake your mane ;; molten gold never looked so soft
under this skin ;; she has the complexion of a white peach
far from home ;; german/irish
say what? ;; never in her life have scissors touched her hair && she has a small scar on the pinky of her right hand
Je fais de toi mon essentiel
Tu me fais naître parmi les hommes
it's my party
hand over my heart ;; Life is waiting. It is a thing of limitless beauty and infinite opportunity, and it takes only letting go of fear, of guarantees, of the known to experience it's possibility. But letting go of so much, letting the unknown take over, letting the safety that envelopes you evaporate takes a kind of courage, a bravery that is basic, and yet utterly heroic. So simple, to want. You give up nothing living through others. But life wont wait forever.
bullet to my brain ;;
»strawberries- the smell, the flavour, the look, all of it. She simply can't get enough.
»learning- a virtual well of information, she lives for answers and new things.
out of this world ;;
•musty old books
•the wind off the beach
•the smell of the sea
•candles
•the sound of a fountain pen on coarse paper
•romance
•art
•interior design
•wingback armchairs
•bookshelves
•picture frames
•spaguetti
•Jane Austen novels
•going to the theatre
•graphic novels
•the idea of Paris
•long, made up words
•poetry
•old victorian-era costumes
•animals- mostly cats
•chess
•french
oh fiddlesticks ;;
«the lingering smell of cigarettes
«the jittery stomach she gets when she's nervous
«television
«silence
«heartbreak
«styrofoam
«taxi cabs
«wet denim
«how your face gets all blotchy after a good cry
«loud, rude slang words
«surprises
«mold
«spiders
«chewing gum
this is how i roll ;;
movie ;; Shakespeare in Love
book ;; This is All- The Pillowbook of Cordelia Kenn by Aidan Chambers
food ;; strawberries
dessert ;; chocolate covered strawberries
drink ;; strawberry daiquiri (virgin, of course)
holiday ;; easter
weather ;; hazy sunshine
music ;; violin
colour ;; peach
place to be ;; by the ocean
Je fais de toi mon essentiel
Celle que j'aimerais plus que personne
something beginning
an era exploding ;; whispy, poetic, indecisive, bright, passionate
centuries spinning ;;
--the second pregnancy, only birth to her mother and father.
--made it to the terrible twos.
--entered private school.
--skipped from the fours group straight to kindergarten.
--mummy has a hospital scare. her uterus is removed.
--won the third grade spelling bee by correctly spelling 'hippopotamus'.
--skipped grade four.
--joined the chess club and book club in high school.
--nearly breaks her arm falling off the choir risers.
--has her first kiss behind the library at sixteen.
--graduates with a 4.3 grade point average.
--wins a full-ride scholarship through a writing contest.
--meets boy.
--publishes her first short story to mixed reviews.
--participates in a chess tournament.
--with the help of her father, gets a job at the mayors office.
--signs contract with publishing company for a three part fantasy/romance series, --which ends up being very popular with the stay at home mom, supermarket reader crowd.
--graduates from the university summa c** laude, english major.
--boy leaves her, citing her indecisiveness as the major reason.
--contemplates not leaving the house for a week, until she realizes she has to go back to work.
--moves into her own apartment in the archipelago.
--discovers a love for interior decorating.
--realizes how terrifying grocery shopping is.
--locks herself out of the house again.
listen to the music ;;
»tends to ramble and daydream
»loves to be alone, hates being lonely
»doesn't like to have her photo taken alone; if there's someone else in the shot, she's fine
»obsessively reads the paper
Si tu veux qu'on s'apprenne
take me out
cradle to grave ;; Mon Essentiel- Emmanuel Moire
 Madame de Sucre · Thu Aug 09, 2007 @ 04:59am · 0 Comments |
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And this is why I love my fiancee, 'Enri. <3 |
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stranded
Heart of Darkness: Madame de Sucre
Soul of Light: Font color(s)
[INSERT QUOTE/SONG LYRIC HERE]
who am i?
Signature: Benjamin Antony Kobayashi
The Winding Road: 22
Two Paths Diverged: Male
The Dollhouse: Straight/Uninterested
Heartstrings: Mind
[INSERT QUOTE/SONG LYRIC HERE]
behind the looking-glass
[INSERT QUOTE/SONG LYRIC HERE]
into the woods
Never to Return: Obsessions, listed
The Tollbooth: Likes, listed
Disappearing: Dislikes
[INSERT QUOTE/SONG LYRIC HERE]
under this skin
Hands Up: Personality - One paragraph
Crack the Safe: History - One paragraph
Maybe Perhaps: Quirks, listed
[INSERT QUOTE/SONG LYRIC HERE]
troubadour
Sing Your Song: Theme song
Madame de Sucre · Thu May 24, 2007 @ 07:02pm · 0 Comments |
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This is why I love my fiancee, Vis |
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^Say I refered you if you decide to enter.
If you don't decide to enter, shameshameshame!!! <3
Madame de Sucre · Thu May 17, 2007 @ 12:20am · 0 Comments |
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Ariana Shayde
>>Signed in Blood: Tatiana Sarai Williams
>>But I answer to: Once upon a glorious time, people called me Tati without even thinking about it... But when Granny died, great uncle Toby went a bit bonkers and started calling me Sarah. Now it seems to have stuck, but that doesn't mean I have to like it.
>>Holding the Strings: Ariana Shayde
>>For Ages Untold: Twenty Two
>>Been There: New York, the Big Apple, that place that EVERYONE knows. When Grandma moved out here to get into some big time broadway, Toby bopped on along and the rest of the family uprooted. Mom was born here, got married here, the whole deal. As for me? Meh, I like it well enough.
>>Done That: April 3rd, 1984
>>Raise Me Up Right: Female
>>Against the Grain: Straight
>>They Only See the Mask: Caucasian
>>Passing the Days: I'm graduating from Columbia this year with a Ph.D in Literature, plus a bunch of courses in linguistics, writing and editing. I teach karate at a nearby dojo, and have both a math tutoring gig and a job as editor of this cool underground-ish newspaper. Those two jobs, surprisingly, have offered me a relatively cozy income.
>>Every Inch Of Me: Tatiana
>>Don't Make it Complicated: 5'8'', 130 lbs
>>Chains of Obligation: Brown, almost black in winter and more chestnut in summer/Mid-back
>>Windows to the Soul: A rich, nutty sort of green with brown flecks.
>>Marr the Perfection: I have a brown birthmark on my left hip about the size of a ping pong ball, and a little scar on my left temple from a nasty biking accident.
>>All the World's A Stage: I've been likened to a spitfire, a hell demon, and a member of the unseelie court, even though everyone knows I don't believe in that sort of thing. The journalists whose work I edit call me a heartless b***h, and their joke is that they want to wish me away to the goblins (because of some stupid story my mom spread around the office- b***h). I'm not all bad, though. It's just that I have to be tough on them, to make sure they live up to their potential. A lot of the folks who work for me would slack off if I wasn't breathing down their necks every moment of the day.
It's sad, sometimes, when I have to scream at them, but at least I haven't had to resort to any physical abuse beyond a quiet reminder that I DO teach Karate, and have no qualms about giving a demo to anyone who desires it. I love debating, and making people eat their words. Dad thought I should be a lawyer, but editing has been pretty damn fun thus far, so I see no reason to change. Besides, if I took my hobby and made it professional, what would I do in my spare time?
Grandma Williams always told me that fantasies were real, dreams came true, blah blah blah. I never really believed her, and when I got older I had even more reason to believe I was right. If fantasies were real, after all, why would I be struggling through university when I could just make some faerie do it for me? Besides, she didn't exactly get a faerie tale ending, and that kind of shook me. It made me jaded, but not in a bad way. The wise sort of jaded, the strong sort. Grandma Williams and New York City have made me who I am, and I'm glad of it.
>>Strange Eventful History: I have never been an easy person to live with. When I was a little girl, my parents spoiled me and my classmates tried to kick me around. Faced with these absurd contradictions, I morphed into some kind of uber b***h. I was mean, but it helped me survive the oppressive love and depressing hate coming in from all sides. I hung out in the library and read stuff on self defense, among other things. The bullying ceased as soon as I broke the ringleader's two front teeth, and I actually made a few friends and settled into living in a mellow world. My parents made me learn to take taxis, so that when they were too busy to pick me up they wouldn't have to freak out. I liked that, actually, because it let me be independent, and what kid doesn't love that?
When I tell you I grew up in New York City, I'll admit the image I see is probably different from yours. We lived in one of the squeakier parts of town, and everything was pretty tame. High school changed all that, because there were kids from all over. Suddenly, just because I lived in the shiny part of town didn't mean I hung around other people who did the same. I got into some dangerous stuff, but nothing major. I mostly just watched everyone else screw themselves over and made sure they didn't die of an overdose or anything like that.
My friends all saw me as the capable one, despite all of my firecracker tendencies. Because of this, the only one who I saw fit to rely on was my Grandma, because she wasn't the bad kind of insane and she had her heart in the right place. Whenever stuff went really bad, so bad that my parents would have a heart attack if they heard it, I went to her. I rarely TOLD her the actual problem, of course, but I listened to her stories and everything seemed just a little bit easier to cope with. Fantasies, even though they're just fabrications, make reality a bit more survivable. Besides, some of her character's strategies came in handy, which I think she knew. You can bet Grandma Sarah knew a lot more about me than I told her, though how she got her information is some kind of grand mystery.
Whenever something REALLY bad happened, and I blurted it out without thinking, she'd pull out that red leather fantasy book and start telling me about the Labyrinth, both what was written in the book and what she "remembered from her trip there." It was cute, at first, but after the first twenty reads I wanted to strangle the senile darling. Only a keen eye kept me from homicide, because after a while I started to notice something. This story clung to her way more than the others, I could see it, because she was always indignant, happy, and sad at all the right places, and she blushed whenever she talked about the Goblin King. I bet she had some old crush who she always set in that role-- I like that idea better than the alternative, that she went on some drug trip in her teens and thought she met him.
The thing that shaped me the most was how Grandma died, on the way home with two bags of groceries. She was always independent, and insisted upon taking care of herself for as long as she could. Well, somehow she got mixed up and took the wrong bus. She got off at a bad stop, got mugged, and barely made it to the hospital. The last I'd seen her was a few days before, and she'd been telling me that Labyrinth story. I felt like some big honking secret had died with her, that I should have been there to pretend I believed. There was a cheated feeling down in my gut, and it didn't go away until I found out she'd left me that stupid book of hers.
Great uncle Toby is crazy now, but he still insists on hearing that story whenever I visit him. He calls me Sarah and asks for Lancelot, some toy that he had as a kid which got donated to the Sally Ann. Since he calls me Sarah, everyone else has taken to doing it as well, even though I hate the name with a burning passion. I loved Grandma, don't get me wrong, but we're such different people that it feels like a horrible farce, taking her name. It doesn't belong to me, after all.
>>Remember the Idea: Likes
-Concise answers
-Honesty
-Debating
-Red wine, especially a good merlot
-Quiet, short haired cats
-People who don't hem and haw
-wordplay
-Intellect
-Yelling contests
>>Never the Man: Dislikes
-Siamese cats
-excuses
-people who ramble for hours
-Idiots
-Sweet alcohol (Blackberry cordial especially)
-Drunkards
-Long haired cats that shed all over the place
-Loud birds
-Apologies
-untrained dogs, yippy or otherwise
-Daydreamers, though it's more of a mild irritation than outright hatred.
-get rich quick schemes.
-Being played for a fool.
-Losing power or control.
>>Only A Distraction: I argue so much that it counts, and I dabble in writing short stories when the mood strikes. Never anything remotely fantastical, though.
Mom made me start piano when I was six, and it was okay, but when I hit sixteen it struck me that I didn't really want to go professional at all. I laid down the line, and haven't spoken to my Mother since. Guess that's one of the reasons Grandma and I got along relatively well.
>>Lived Up to Expectations: I'm driven and with me, things get done come hell or high water. I'm pretty athletic and good at teaching self defense, though my anger sometimes gets the best of me. I'm a word addict, and I've always loved tearing our world's structure down brick by brick.
>>Cowered Before: I'm a bit of a hypocrite. For all of the big talk about fighting the people's loss of power, fighting for individuality and escape from the norm, my life is pretty normal, though I'm not. A normal boyfriend named Mark, a good college, an okay job, all that stuff. I'm kind of obsessive compulsive too, and I really have a hard time keeping my mouth shut. I'm a fireball, a berserker, a drama queen and quite insane. Recently, also majorly bored, because there's no one intelligent to talk to and it pisses the s**t out of me.
....Also, I have this annoying little secret. You see, I like my boyfriend and all, but he's bland and nice. Sometimes I almost fall asleep, listening to him drone. I've always wished I had a more interesting guy, but all of the remotely smart ones get scared off by my bitchiness, so Mark's what happened. He'll start running for the hills soon anyway, so I don't bother feeling guilty about lying to him. Too many more important things to do.
>>Sticks and Stones May Break My Bones: Alanis Morisette, "I'm a b***h"
>>But Words Will Never Hurt Me: (To a girl's karate class, on the subject of self defense) "Remember: grab, twist and pull."
Madame de Sucre · Mon May 07, 2007 @ 06:55am · 0 Comments |
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The door of the store slammed shut behind Alexis, a blast of hot air escaping into the muggy New York night. Three summers in the city, and still Alexis wasn't used to the dense, burning air as it tightened her lungs. The uncomfortable itchiness of her formal, starched work clothes was intensified by the sweat that ran down her spine, the beads of perspiration wetting the back of her neck under the long curtain of her hair. Alex's chest rose and fell in rhythm with the tap-tap-tap of her sandaled foot on the sidewalk as she adjusted to the temperature difference between the closed in space of Barnes and Noble and the searing warmth of city streets still clinging to the hazy reflection of sunset. In her mind's eye, Alex summoned the page of her planner that documented her required routine at closing.
Register. Check.
Safe. Check.
Displays. Check.
Alarm. Check.
Locks. Check.
Reaching out a slim hand, unadorned by request of Jeff, the manager, Alexis tugged on the sun-heated handle of the store, jerking it to re-check the security of the lock and burning her hand in the process. For a moment, she contemplated contacting Jeff and reminding him to call someone in to repair the air conditioner, but she reconsidered, deciding it would be too superior of her, suggesting she thought him incapable of remembering such a menial task himself. Satisfied, finally, that her job was finished, she turned to the bike rack to fetch her favorite mode of transportation, the faded old ten-speed Jonas and Luke had given her what seemed centuries ago.
The rack was empty.
Unwilling to comprehend the loss of her bicycle, Alexis glanced around, second-guessing her clear memory of locking the bike on the rack that afternoon. Perhaps she'd come in the back, and was confusing this day with so many others that were just as monotonous, unchanging, noticeably and tediously similar. Alex stepped around the black metal rack to glance in the alley beyond, peering into the frightening darkness, squaring her shoulders to stride briskly through when she saw a loose coil of wire on the ground by the piping of the rack. Stooping, she pulled it from the shadows, taking care to touch only the parts she could see, as if the darkness could hide some monstrous portion of the cable from her clear blue eyes.
It was her bike lock, and evidence to support the now too palpable fact that her only method of transport had been stolen. The strong loop of plastic covered metal, declared un-breakable, had been cut in half with a jagged edged blade, the metal easily snipped to reveal that her ruthless security measures were nothing to compare to the reckless persistence of New York's hoodlums. Sighing, Alex wracked her brain for her options. She wouldn't take the subway. The dingy, dirty trains that ran beneath the streets of New York housed the poor, the ill, and the criminal, all of which Alex couldn't stand to be accompanied by. Walking would have been the preferable alternative, if her apartment had been closer. Unfortunately, she was left with two choices. She could take a bus, or she could take a cab. Unfamiliar as she was with the bus routes and schedules, a cab seemed the most logical option. Still, Alexis creased her brow in concentration, trying to find any other way to get home. Nothing that surfaced in the crowded realm of her consciousness was as simple and foolproof as the solution that had already arisen. Closing her eyes, Alex breathed deeply of the smoggy city air, and stepped to the curb, waving her hand out in the street and whistling loudly to attracted one of the yellow vehicles she was condescending to take.
It wasn't long before she was climbing into the brightly colored automobile, cringing as she sat on the cracked seats, trying to ignore the nauseating scent of cigarettes and the fact that her driver looked as if his day had been ten times worse than hers was turning out to be. Desperate to leave the badly lit and rarely cleaned backseat, Alex gave up her address willingly to a complete stranger and sat, straight backed, in the taxi, trying not to touch anything, her toes curled in abhorrence. Blessedly, the AC was on and working, and Alex thanked whatever higher power for such a miracle on such a sweltering evening. The ride was short, and her distaste for the automobile won out over her body's fatigued complaints about the heat as she extracted herself from the vehicle, paying the fare in amazement at the price. All the way up to her apartment, she was raging about the unfair price of cabs, the unfriendly drivers, and the unsanitary conditions. She was almost furious enough to talk to someone about it, even her roommate, who she still didn't know all that well.
But the small entry room was dark, and no light shined from under Clover's door, so Alex assumed she was either not on the premises, or unwilling to be disturbed. Taking a few deep breaths of the clean, cool air of the apartment to ground herself, Alex let go of the fury that made her cheeks blush a deep rose and her breath come in quick, shallow bursts, admitting to herself that the anger she felt was misplaced. She wasn't angry at the cabbie, only doing his job, getting people from place to place for a paycheck that was probably much less than Alex's. She wasn't even angry at whatever hooligan had stolen her bike. She was angry at herself, for trusting a cheap, knock-off lock, angry at herself for being too afraid of the darkness of the alleyway to lock her bike safely behind the store. It didn't make her any happier, but it helped her breath.
Flipping on the lights as she walked through the apartment, Alex headed to the bath, turning on the showerhead to ensure that the water was at least lukewarm by the time she stepped in. The boiler in the apartment was terribly old, the AC a broken down window unit, and the electricity unreliable. If it weren't for the hardwood floors and gorgeous view, plus the fact that there were three rooms instead of the usual studio design, Alex might have skipped over it completely. As it was, she was glad to have a roof over her head.
When she'd first come to New York, Alex expected to be able to find a job, an apartment, and opportunities everywhere. But instead she'd been overwhelmed by the sheer number of people in the city looking for the exact same things. Her savings, which, in San Francisco, had seemed small enough, dwindled quickly as she lived in a motel, spending her days biking the city, visiting every store with a 'for hire' sign, and many without. In the first month, she learned what hunger felt like, and what it was to live day by day, hoping the coins would stretch a little further. The hard times had ceased with the modeling jobs, but when the bottom fell out of that, Alexis had learned to be tough. In New York, it was sink or swim, and all too often, people chose to sink, running away from the city and it's trials. Alex was swimming, her head still above water, barely.
The pounding of the water on the ceramic of the tub caused Alex's head to ache as she parted the canvas wall that separated her room from the rest of the living room. Although she didn't have a door and a thin wall separating her sleeping area from the other half of the apartment, Alex loved her space. Mostly because of the window, allowing the bright streetlights into her otherwise dark room, and the closet, stuffed full of the many clothes Alexis couldn't live without. When Alex had decided to take a roommate, she'd first spent hours listing the pros and cons of such an endeavor, eventually deciding that the surplus of disposable income far outweighed the downfalls of having a stranger in her home. And in the months that followed, she found that she and Clover were compatible together. It couldn't be said that they were best friends, or any such thing. But what could one expect, when neither of them easily revealed themselves to others, or trusted a friendship when it was offered. And it helped that they both worked at the same store.
Taking her navy cotton robe from the end of her full-sized bed, Alex wrapped it around her, pushing the sleeves up to her elbow as she reached for the bottle of ibuprofen that she kept on the nightstand by her bed. Shaking out two red pills, she swallowed them with the help of some water, a bottle also on her nightstand, and exited the room for the bathroom. She shed her robe and clothes quickly, grateful that the sweat stained cloth was no longer scratching her skin, and stepped under the spray to ease the aches of her muscles, and the confusing tangle of her thoughts and emotions. Showers were the place that Alex felt the safest, and it was here she unwound from her days of careful deliberation and polite, aching smiles. Rubbing at her temples, Alex took her time, using up the hot water, before she stepped out once more, wrapping the robe around her slick skin and twisting her darkened hair up in a towel. Her clothes she shoved in the hamper, already full to the brim, and promised herself she'd go to the Laundromat later. Which she most likely wouldn't.
Back in her room, she opened her closet door and stepped into the small, enclosed space, letting the many types of fabric that hung there brush her skin as she reveled in her collection. Clothes were one thing Alex could never live without, and although she hated shopping for them, she often went to thrift stores, flea markets and garage sales, picking items for the fabric or style and not worrying about the fit. Not only did Alex know what looked good on her, but she also had a fair hand with a sewing machine, and many of the dresses, skirts and blouses she wore had been edited with the help of her grandmother's relic of an appliance. And usually, Alex could decide what to wear in seconds, one of the easier parts of her day. But for some reason, she thought that now, she was forgetting something. It nagged at the back of her mind, until she gave up and slipped on a pair of pajama pants and a white tank, grabbing the novel she was currently at work on from somewhere in the middle of the floor and flopping onto a chair to read, perhaps until she grew tired, or remembered whatever she was forgetting. But, as she often did, Alex got lost in the book, in the characters and the adventures they went through.
Until, that is, an hour or two later, when Clover yelled a farewell through the apartment, and slammed shut the door. At which point, Alex's head shot up from the book she was reading, and her stomach rumbled angrily. Grinning sheepishly, even though there was no one to hear her intestinal rumblings, Alex reached for the nearest piece of paper to use as a bookmark, and slipped it between the pages. As she was closing the book, her brain finally caught up with her, and she hastily opened it again.
You are invited to the opening of Bloodlust
Music-Sex-Blood
A chance to win $1000 for best dressed
Friday June 13 2007
Midnight – Four
Baren Warehouse 1588 Second Ave @ 59th Street
Alex sighed, brushing her hair back from her face as she took the invitation from the book, letting it fall back onto the bed as she stared at the small card. A thousand, ready-made reasons why she should and should not go materialized in her consciousness, and swiftly she sorted through them. But it was only a matter of minutes before she stood and began ruffling through her closet contents once more, this time with a mission. She'd decided to go, for two main reasons: the first was that Clover was going, which meant the Independent Press wanted coverage. That of course was based on the fact that Clover rarely went out at night, and if she was going out, that was the only place Alex could think of that she could be going. It was an invite only party, and Independent Press, all media, actually, loved to get journalists to invite only parties. An invitation was prized, and the receiver was practically forced to go, on pain of death. If the Press wanted coverage, they'd want pictures too, and Alex could get those pictures. Another check was always necessary. The second reason was the best-dressed prize. A thousand dollars could nearly cover the rent. And one month rent-free would give Alex the extra cash to buy a new bike, which she now sorely needed.
The only reasons she could think of not to go, besides the fact that she had work the next day, was the faint memory that haunted her every time she spent a night away from home. Without noticing her actions, Alex paused and her fingers traced her neck to find the two faded scars, puncture wounds, neatly hidden by the collar of her shirt or a scarf, but always there, a dirty reminder of her past. But Alex wasn't going to let that stop her from getting a scoop on the party. She needed that prize, and with her wardrobe, the money was as good as hers. The only problem was the debilitating dilemma of what, exactly, to wear.
In the end, she chose something that would stand out. She supposed, perhaps correctly, that with the name of 'Bloodlust,' most of the occupants of the club would choose colors like red and black, dark and rich, with corsets and leather and plenty of vampiric paraphernalia. Obviously if she wore either of those colors, or dark colors in general, she'd blend in, and that wasn't the look she was going for, whether at t club, or at work. Alex had to be noticed.
The dress she ended up choosing seemed simple enough, on the hanger. It was loose and soft, made out of some kind of bright blue material that reflected in Alex's eyes and seemed to make them a glowing sapphire shade. Shedding her simple pajamas, Alex slipped it on over her head, adjusting the bodice to make sure it clung at all the right places. The neck was wide, nearly off the shoulder, and low, creating a deep 'v' between her breasts. The sleeves were loose and fluttering, ending at the middle of her slim biceps, and the hem ended just below her knee. But what made the dress unique wasn't the length, color, or material. It was a simple sash, a satin that shined apart from the other fabric, and lined the wide neck. The extra fabric, and there was a lot of it, Alex had wrapped from the bottom of the 'v', crossing her back, and tied in the front, showcasing her tiny waist, a triangle of fabric from her sternum to the bottom of her ribcage surrounded by the ribbon. The chest of the dress was formed slightly, to cup her breasts and lend support. Slipping on a pair of gold stilettos, Alex looked at the result in the mirror. She looked slim, but the shape showed her figure nicely, and the heels strengthened her calves and lengthened what leg you could see. Leaning to her small stash of accessories, Alex slipped on some thick gold bangles and a simple gold choker, laying against the small indent at the meeting of her neck and collarbones, covering the scars. Satisfied, she went to the bathroom and hastily applied smoky golden eye shadow and some gloss to emphasize her lips, tracing rouge and a bit of sparkle along her cheekbones. Her hair she left down, floating around her shoulders in freshly dried waves, the conditioner having made it silky and smooth, softer than a baby rabbit's fur.
Grabbing a small clutch and her black pea coat, she wrapped the covering around herself, and turned all the lights off, barely remembering to grab the invitation before rushing out the door and into the finally cool night air. It was midnight, but there were plenty of people out, and Alex walked quickly down the street, her eyes alert and glancing every which way for a cab to take her to the warehouse. It was easy to find, and not so easy to put up with, but Alex was soon jumping out of the despised vehicle and tossing bills at the driver as she strode up to the door, heedless of the line. Her gait was long and heavy, the walk she'd perfected as a model, and she was oozing sensuality and confidence as she moved. What wasn’t quite so obvious was the nerves that had her clutching tightly to her small purse, which contained her cell phone, a small camera, and a very slim, almost useless knife, and the almost shaky quickness of her step. She desperately needed to get inside, where at least the darkness would be full of human voices. A lack of light in the open air was much different from the dimness of a crowded club. The club's shadows weren't so very threatening.
Thankfully, Alex was inside without much fuss, her coat abandoned at the check, her purse gripped in her hand as she glanced around at the slightly crowded room. She was early, but she'd been right about the attire. Most people were dressed in dark colors and the more fashion forward clothing, with tight bodices and lots of skin. Her brilliant blue dress stood out magnificently. Glances were thrown her direction as she made her way to the bar. She leaned against the cool wood gratefully and smiled up at the bartender, who returned her smile with his own fanged grin and a flex of very toned arms. She tried not to let her distaste show as she ordered a Sex on the Beach, just to give a slight buzz so she could live through the night. She needed a clear head to take the pictures, and she didn't like the taste of alcohol enough to indulge in it willingly, preferring drinks to be much less bitter and burning.
Turning as she waited for her drink, she caught sight of Clover, and nearly moved forward to approach her, but she held herself back. She contemplated, and decided against it for the time being, waiting for the room to fill up a little. Maybe she'd decide to take a break from being her normal, logical, ever-guarded self. She doubted any man could hold her attention for long enough, but maybe tonight would be different from so many others. For some reason, the crowded bar lifted her spirits, and she smiled, sipping at the drink that had finally arrived, letting the sweetness linger on her tongue, it's taste a pleasant mask for the harsher tang of vodka beneath it.
Madame de Sucre · Mon May 07, 2007 @ 02:58am · 0 Comments |
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Don't give [up]
Be|cause| you want to be heard
If silence keeps you
I will break it for /|{you}|
H[a]Rp|E|r --> LOVE
The bell rang, the noise irritating and all too familiar as Harper's head jerked up from the book she'd been concentrating on while she drowned out the drone of her English teacher. It was Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness, and an interesting read, especially the second time around. Four years of school, and still the teachers didn't have the imagination to assign a book that Harper hadn't already read. Which she forgave them, since her taste in books tended toward the classics of literature and nonfiction.
Slowly and cautiously, taking care not to block anyone from leaving or drop any of her things, Harper packed her bag, sliding the notebooks and writing utensils in their exact places. As for the book, she slid a laminated piece of white cardstock between the thin pages and placed it lovingly in the worn canvas book bag. A second glance around the room revealed that her lack of speed had done its usual job in emptying the classroom, and hopefully the halls as well.
Her canvas bag was looped over her arms, the load of books that weighed it down tugging on both shoulders equally, a precaution to ensure that Harper's back would be spared as much stress as possible. After all, her dancing was her life, and her body her instrument. As a dancer, it was doubly important that she keeps herself healthy and in shape, one of the reasons Harper rarely used her powers. Because to use them, meant she would be unable to dance, unable to move, her muscles stiffened. And to lose her dancing would be all too much.
As Harper moved gracefully forward to brave the crowded hallway, she reached into the outside pocket of her bag, withdrawing the small ear buds attached to her iPod. Sticking them in her ears, tucked behind her flaming curtain of hair, she let the music drown out the echoing noise of the space she walked through, her steps in rhythm with the piece, a Cuban Son record by the Buena Vista Social Club, the dance she was choreographing for a small recital in her free period, which happened to be after her English class. Her feet instinctively began to repeat the dance, each movement in sync with the percussion and the smile rising to flush her cheeks as she stepped outside into the brilliant daylight and open space. The path she trod was the same trail she followed every day, the sights similar and comforting as she made her way past the grassy, manicured lawn and to the gymnasium and the small dance studio attached to the larger room. Or, that's what Harper used it for, at least. In reality, it was an area used for wrestling and cheerleading, an offshoot of the design plan that no one really claimed.
Most of the places Harper enjoyed were like that- afterthoughts, bits, pieces and parts that didn't seem to belong in the structure they were placed in. It might have been because that was the feeling Harper got when she sat at the dining room table to suffer another family dinner, the animated conversation drifting over and around her. Or it might have been because she liked being alone, and the places were never crowded with the heavy masses of people Harper shied away from. Then again, it might just have been coincidence.
The walk to the gym was scenic and bright, the Friday sunlight foreshadowing good weather for the weekend. The people that passed Harper enjoyed the sun on thier faces as they chattered to each other, each knot of friends smiling excitedly as they anxiously awaited the end of the day. For Harper, the last ringing bell was something to dread, on Fridays. Fridays were the only day that Harper wasn't allowed to go straight from school to the dance studio in downtown Kokoro. Fridays were the days that her brother had his weekly recitals for Harper's massive and artistic family, the days when the entire extended group of musicians, artists, writers and sculptors gathered to praise her brother's gift and pretend to ignore Harper, who sat in the corner with her music turned loud enough to drown out her sorrow.
Not that they hadn't attempted to accept her to the family once she'd shown her talent for dancing. For a week, they'd loved her, given her gifts and showered her with good wishes and praise. And then, when Friday came and she'd refused to perform for them all, instead shunning their pleading and good-natured apologies to leave them stewing in their guilt.
Now, Harper spent most of her time alone, unless she was with Louisa or some of the other people she'd become familiar with in her four years at the school. In her free time, which was most of it, she swam, read, and danced.
The door to the gym slammed behind her as Harper came back to the present, a frown folding her lips in a downward curve as she unlocked the small studio with the key she'd been given by the dance teacher on campus. Setting her bag gently on the floor, she took her dance clothes from their place behind her folders and swiftly changed in the girl's bathroom, shedding the plain white dress uniform in favor of the black leotard and leggings she wore when dancing. The paws she slipped on her feet as she made her way back into the room, plugging her iPod into the stereo in it's case on the wall. Scrolling through the menu, she highlighted the playlist she'd made the night before, and turned the volume to a level that would echo in the empty hallways, and fill the silent room with sound.
Smiling, she tied her hair back from her face in a sloppy bun and went to the mirrored wall to stretch, her leg lifting to the bar at waist height, her long arms extending fluidly as she gathered the rhythm into her limbs and moved with it, letting her muscles relax, her thoughts slow and cease, concentrating on nothing but the simple effort of beginning.
Everybody wants to be understood
Well I can hear you
Everybody wants to be loved
Don't give up
Because you are loved
Madame de Sucre · Tue May 01, 2007 @ 05:55am · 0 Comments |
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http://kevan.org/johari?name=Madame+de+Sucre
DO IT.
The power of -insert religious or scientific or celebrity idol here- compells you.
Madame de Sucre · Fri Apr 20, 2007 @ 09:25pm · 0 Comments |
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