Post by quinn on Aug 27, 2009 14:14:27 GMT -5
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I THINK I'M LOST IN THE LETTERS.[/font]
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[/b], but you can call me eli. my birthday's april eighth, nineteen-ninety-one, so if you're too lazy to do the math, that means i'm seventeen years old right now. currently, i am a senior at newport high. i'm also a male, in case you couldn't tell. oh! and i'm also heterosexual, and if you can live with that, i'm sure we'll be great friends."[/size][/center][/blockquote][/ul]
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WHEN HER REPLY MEANT EVERYTHING.[/font] [/blockquote][/ul][/center]
"You look really familiar! Have I seen you before?"[/font][/color]
"I've been told that my eyes are probably the most amazing of my features. They're a shade of blue-grey somewhere between dark and light, I don't know, I don't really pay that much attention to them. Ever since I was a kid everyone had tried to find an exact color for them, so as far as I'm concerned they're the shade between a darker cornflower blue and a lighter stormy grey color, a shade of grey-cyan or grayish-steel blue, etc, etc, etc... But they're blue, is the main point I'm trying to get across. And empty. I have blue empty eyes, so I guess you could call them cloudy instead of blue. Not a single emotion can be seen through my eyes except for one: Tranquility, which sort of matches my care-free personality well. On occasion you can really tell when I'm pissed by looking at my eyes. I've seen it in a mirror before, and it's pretty obvious as to what's happening. I can understand why people are scared of me when I lose my temper, because it looks scary, too. Otherwise, my eyes are just pools of cloud, nothing more to see. I kinda like the fact that no one can tell when I'm thinking, though. None of that 'window into your soul' crap here.
My feelings towards my hair? It ranges from when I don't really care what it looks like to when I'm unbelievably fussy about it, mom's been known to complain once in a while about how much time I can spend on my hair. Usually I tries to make it look decent and presentable, and even more often he succeeds. Or at least, I like to think so. But, let's be honest, the messy look is in for guys, I don't really have to do much. It's usually kept pretty nice without a lot of effort. There are a few stubborn locks that tend to stray and get in my eyes, which I, even after all these years, still don't mind, by now I'm used to being halfway blinded a good portion of the time. My hair, unlike my mom’s family's, didn't turn out lighter blonde, or in some cases more reddish. It turned out as the same color as my dad's, darker, a shade of brown. I like this much, sort of a father-son connection, despite not really having met him, ever. My hair isn't short, but it isn't considered long. It’s grown to a medium length, reaching just past my ears, in my opinion the perfect style for an older teenager. Can be messy, can be kept.
I'm is average height on the dot according to the charts, always been the same way. I stand at about 5'11”. Despite my height, though, I only weigh about one hundred and fourty six pounds. It makes me seem sickly and weak, I know, I'm working on it. I suppose it doesn't help that my limbs are long, and therefore look super little, one might assume that you could count my ribs. However weak I appears, my build is extremely misleading. Or so, I like telling people... I'm actually pretty strong, the near-obsession with running leads to being very slim. But I'm built for endurance, strength. And believe me, I can prove it. I can also prove my strength if need be, but I do know in a fight-or-flight situation, I'd be more likely to get out of it all without injuries if I turned tail and ran, only because there isn't a soul in this town that could catch up to me. Yet, in my past there have been a few incidents where I felt the need to go against the odds and let the feathers fly, you can thank my temper for that. I like to know I can defend myself when I have to, and how surprised everyone seems when they find I'm not so sickly.
My dad's family has the trait of darker hair and darker eyes. Like I said, I don't look like him at all, apart from my hair. If you were to put the two of us side by side no one would guess it was a father and son, though I've only seen him in a picture or two, and he was making weird faces, I guess he's not that photogenic. Mom's side of the family, however, is equally un-resembled in my appearance. They're the blondies, light colored hair, and sometimes even red. I'm thinking Irish, but that's only because they can hold their liquor. Their eye color ranged from blue to hazel. I got their eyes and complection, which I've been told to be thankful about. My dad was ghostly pale, as in he didn't need a reflector the front of his bike when he was riding it at night. I'll admit, I can't tan that much, but I suppose it's in my genes. I can, however, lose the dead-of-winter look at the start of the summer and keep it until the end. In which any signs of bronze skin tones dissolve within a week...
I like to think a lot of things, but one thing I'm almost positive about is that I'm on the more fashionable side of the population’s good vs. bad clothing scale. And judging by what walks through the doors of my school day in and day out, I am. Not because what I wear is particularly attractive, more because I guess I can make what I wear look okay, if that makes sense. Maybe it’s safe to say that I have no real label based on style, as us guys hardly ever do, except for maybe ‘gross’ or ‘disgusting’, both of which I've managed to avoid, though with some aspects of my standard attire one could call my choice of style 'vintage'. Which I don't get. Converse hightops, yes, I have them, I love them, I wear them, but those are a style that never goes out of fashion. Yes, they were big in the fifties, but choice of shoe isn’t enough to label someone, and though the shoes match my choice of car, a car doesn’t have to match an outfit. At least, I'm pretty sure it doesn't...
Oh, and I've asked countless people very nicely to stop telling me I look like Nicolas Bemberg."[/font]
"So, what do you like?"[/font][/color]
"I can, will, and have drooled over a car before, and often put myself into dangerous situations to do so. Examples include walking across a busy street in a trance-like-state, walking into poles, spontaneously turning away from a now-ex girlfriend¡'s "serious" conversation... Because I love cars. It takes me forever to walk through a parking lot, because I'm always stopping to admire a paint job or something. However, should the car I'm driving break down somewhere, I couldn't do shit to fix it. I can drive cars like nobody's business, I'm friends with the pedals, but the engine is a mere acquaintance. But I like driving fast cars, which may make me seem like a cool guy. I hate to destroy that image of myself, but... I'm a comic book nerd. Two crates full of them hidden in my closet for those fateful days where I remained bored. While packing for my journey to New Haven, these two crates were the first things in the trunk of my car. I like the sun, and warm weather, and the season of summer, but you can count on me spending at least a little bit of the day inside reading through some of the old comic books. This is kind of contradictory to my number one passion in life: running. I run at least five miles every day. Why, you ask? Allow me to explain. There are very few things in this world that 1. I am totally awesome at, and 2. I'm awesome enough to brag about. Running is one of these things, if not the only thing, that fits in both categories. Can you run a mile in three minutes and twenty three seconds? Funny, cause I can. That's what my feet are usually doing, but I'm also a bit of a dancer. Not ballet or anything like that, the fast-paced stuff, like salsa dancing. I don't mind ballet, though, watching it, I mean. It makes a good photo if you catch it at the right moment. That's what was second in my car; my camera. I worked hours slaving away at the local coffee shop to pay for it. Top of the line, hummingbird quick shutter speed, it's probably my only hobby. However, I connect it to other things. Such as flirting. I see a cute girl, grab my camera, tell her she'd look great on film, take a picture of her, and say she looks fantastic, but she's even more stunning in person. Okay, I've used that line more than once, I'm a bit of a flirt. But, hey, it can be a useful skill to have sometimes. A fun skill, too. Of course, one of the only reasons I frequently get to practice this skill is Duncan. Sadly enough, Duncan, my trusty border collie, was third into my car. I love dogs, and from what I can tell, they love me. They're kind of idiotic animals, yes, but they've got the best sense of gut-feeling out of any creature I've ever seen, and I can really respect that. Right after Duncan was my collection of CDs/records. I have nothing to play them with, but so long as I still have them, I'm content. Music is probably my second passion in life. I haven't been gifted with the ability to make music, so I settle for listening to it."It" sounds very general, but in this case it's supposed to be general: I'll listen to almost anything. Classical puts me to sleep, and country tends to circle around the same thing (significant others, or someone who wants an attractive special someone to be their significant other...), so those are my two exceptions. Otherwise, my ears are wide open, I'll hear it all. What else do I like? Here's a quick little list: The sky: it's such a huge inspiration, and there's always something to look at. Night: the best time of a 24-hour schedule. Fire: I'm a bit of a pyromaniac... Making people (especially girls and kids) laugh. Trouble: if it doesn't find me I go looking. This is a subconscious habit. Except I know about it, and do nothing to stop it. Because, frankly, I don't want to :]."[/font]
"And the things you could live without? What about them?"[/font][/color]
"Bad drivers piss me off more than anything in this entire world. There's a difference between drifting on purpose, me, and doing something irresponsible and dangerous by accident, anyone else who doesn't know what they're doing when they get into the driver's seat. What I do? It's fun, exhilarating, and halfway safe. Except when it snows, but I don't really like the snow either. Or the entire season of winter, for that matter. Too many people stay inside, and it's too quiet. Silence, I hate silence, I always feel like I should be the one to say something, and end up filling in with something moronic. For some strange reason, there will forever be an awkward silence when a cat is in the same room as me. I tell that to people, they think I'm crazy, but it happens! And I don't like cats, too independent, too stalkerish. That little trait emerged from when I was a kid, and the neighbor's grungy cats ate a garden snake that had somehow gotten into the building. Right in the middle of the lobby, it was repulsive. But then again, I disliked snakes since then, too. The cats would eat a snake, of all things, but they wouldn't go near the mice that always got into the cereal (which I also don't like, cereal, not mice.). That apartment was whacked... And because I lived in that apartment building, I've always hated giant houses, and mansions, and generally oversized property. Of course, I ended up living in one with Dan, but I still strongly disliked it. I refuse to talk about someone behind their back, even if they're the type to talk about me. Gossip is a girl thing, and I will not partake in it. And secrets, too. I don't like them, mainly because I can't keep any except my own, which makes me feel selfish, also which I don't like, but now I'm getting generic... I dislike rabbits' ears. I don't know why, and never have, I just don't. Seafood makes me sick, especially shrimp, and I randomly have always hated flying fish."[/font]
"And what are the things you just can't stand?"[/font][/color]
"Bad drivers, as you can probably tell. Also, cereal, I won't feel comfortable if it's in the house. Of course, for this exact reason, every once in a blue moon when Dan goes to the grocery store he'll buy cereal, knowing that no one eats it, and that it'll be in the cupboard until it expires. Oh, Dan, I can hardly stand him, either. What I really can't stand is that I know my life would be even worse if he wasn't here. And stickers... I find them creepy and freak out whenever I see them... God, now the world thinks I'm crazy..."[/font]
"Do you have any bad habits? What about good ones?"[/font][/color]
"Well, I consider it a good thing, but many people see it as bad. I'm a little bit OCD about my running, it has to be at least five miles each day, rain, shine, snow, whatever. It's been a while since I broke my streak, though I came close once last year when I decided my case of pnuemonia was nothing. I take stairs two at a time, going up or down, which lets me get places faster. I brush my teeth at least three times a day. I have a very distinct hand-writing, which teachers often comment on. As in, good things, as I've got a good hand when it comes to scrawling, though too many people have tried way too hard to try and get me to break my habit of not being able to write a capital 'E'. I tap my pens/pencils. All the time. When I'm not using them, when I see them on a table, and once before I write anything, ever. For a while I did the same with silverware, but I broke that habit when it elongated meal time. Which I'm not picky about, by the way. I'm fairly adventurous when it comes to new foods, I just can't have them touching eachother while I eat... I guess that's a bad habit, too."[/font]
"Oh, really? Well, how about the secrets?"[/font][/color]
"I have little to no secrets, for two reasons. 1. Because I can't keep secrets, and 2. This whole moving to Newport business was kind of a fresh start. I suppose I'm keeping a tight lid on everything about my past, though there's not much to say. Abusive step-father, sure, dad who fled from my pregnant mother, okay, I often found Dan's house unbearable and made a minor runaway to my neighbor's tool shed to spend the night, I guess I can share that one. If those count, then we're in business. If not? I, Elijah Daniel Ackerman, have seen the widely acclaimed "The Notebook" in my lifetime. Twice. Still doesn't count? I loved it both times. I hope that delves deep into the 'secret' section of my life."[/font]
"And the fears?"[/font][/color]
"Drowning, above all things. God, even the word freaks me out. I don't think I have to explain myself, but... 1. I was never a great swimmer, and 2. Imagine this: you're caught, underwater, it's dark, you can't see, you can't breath, and you're fighting for breath, consciousness, and life simaltaniously. Spiders creep me out, as they would any sane person. And snakes, ever since the cats and the apartment building and the... yeah... I'm not really scared of the dark, but more what I can't see in it. I guess you could count the sticker thing, because they really do creep me out... Or was that too weird to say? God, why do I always say weird stuff..."[/font]
"Do you have any special talents?"[/font][/color]
"Running, of course, but you already know all about that by this point. I can salsa dance, I suppose, though people rarely find that much out. Driving is a natural talent of mine, which was why I could easily master drifting. I grew up near a gigantic lake, so I got into sailing. Photography is a talent and a hobby of mine. Shamefully, or not so shamefully, I'm an excellent liar, which also gives me talent at poker. But perhaps the thing that I'm ultimately the best at is finding trouble."[/font]
"And last but not least, what's your relationship status/history?"[/font][/color]
"Huh. This is the kind of question my mom would ask. Alright, I'll spill. I've had, in the past, a total of six girlfriends, all within the past two years. Only half of them, however, have I asked out first. The others were the bold ones that I actually grew to like a lot more. I guess I could say I was close with all of them, it was legitimate; I'm not looking for a fling. But over time things got in the way. I guess I'm fairly lucky in love, though I've never been able to use that word. Lucky in like. Currently, I'm not really looking for anyone, but in the past it's happened pretty spontaneously; anything can change in an instant. I'm a believer in this whole "love at first sight" thing, so who knows? I could bump into my soul-mate rounding a corner later this afternoon."[/font]
call me up to confess
THAT IT'S ME YOU THINK ABOUT.[/ul][/center][/size][/b]"Where were you born?"[/font][/color]
"You know that Journey song, where they talk about the city boy born and raised in South Detroit? Yeah, well, if I was born a decade or two earlier, that song could've been written for and about me. April 8th, 1991, I came into this world. My mother was eighteen at this point; I hadn't been planned. My father was nowhere to be seen at this point, after leaving my mom at the alter a few months previous, so the only ones around me were my grandparents and aunts and uncles and every single member of my known family who didn't share my last name. I've been told it didn't rain on my birth date, but it looked like it was going to. The insane humidity and the curtain of stormy clouds fooled every weather station on cable television. Since I've been riding the midnight train anywhere, as in the subway/buses/cars to anywhere but the apartment I lived in; it wasn't a good neighborhood. But I really did like it there, it was a cool city."[/font]
"And what's up with your family?"[/font][/color]
"My mom came from a family of seven children, which would normally be a good thing around Christmas time, but unfortunately I was the reject of that side of the family, my mom and I. She and my dad fell in love one summer, summer romance leading to an infant, cold feet at the shotgun wedding, and here we are. I never had any siblings, which was a good thing. It helped my mom and I get close, too. Still, I was curious about my dad, that's actually something that never left me, curiosity. But it started with my dad. My mom would always pause before telling me "He was a good man caught in a bad situation." After a while I stopped asking. The only other notable family member, or step-family member, is Dan. We didn't get along from the start. He was my stepfather for a while. In it for my mom, I was just extra baggage. Dan was never that good at dealing with what he called "teenaged angst". I never told my mom, as we needed the hospitality, but he was a bit abusive. Still, he had a nice house, a lot of money, and brought us out of the crummy neighborhood in Detroit. Besides, he allowed Duncan, whom I got as a puppy right after we moved in with Dan, who coincidentally didn't like dogs. Dan... Still don't like him, but that's about all that I can really say about my family."[/font]
"Now, tell me your story."[/font][/color]
Eli's mother came from a family with seven children. She was right in the middle of them all, with three younger and three older siblings. Though neither of her parents were particularly rich, they managed to support them all up until the oldest was ready for college. Though expensive, and requiring many sacrifices, the three oldest made it through without any problem. Once Eli's mother was eighteen she made a decision to not make her parents forfeit their money, and would stay around for a bit more to help out the family. She got a job as a waitress and, while donating a portion of her paycheck to her family when needed, she began a long-term piggybank.
His father, on the other hand, came from a high class family with more money than needed to be successful. If they wanted to they could send each one of Eli's mother's siblings to college and have enough left over to buy a decent sized house and new furniture. Unlike the other family, they had only one child. He had gone to a private school all his life, and by high school he despised the harsh teachings with a passion. He became what would be considered a complete rebel in the private academies, but average in the public-school world. Due to grades that stooped at 'low' levels he attended a college that his parents didn't approve of, one that was much lower than their standards. He ended up going to the same college as Eli's mother's oldest brother. The two became great friends, and once the brother invited him to stay with him back at home one summer.
That summer, Eli’s parents fell in love. His father was only twenty-one, and his mother just turned eighteen, so their siblings and parents figured it wouldn’t go anywhere. And it didn’t. After the summer ended the two split… until Eli’s father got word that the pregnancy test came back positive. After much contemplation, a message was returned asking for the girl’s hand in marriage. Eli’s father didn’t tell his to-be bride about her brother’s, his friend’s, reaction to the test, as it had obviously affected his decision.
But that fact became obvious when his father never showed at the day of the ceremony. Eli was born a matter of months later, and despite his grandparents’ wishes, named after his runaway father: Elijah. For he wasn’t at all a bad man, knowing that his mother had been short on both education and money, he had pulled a few strings with people he knew and gotten her interviews, and the jobs were enough to get her and her newborn child a house of their own, while her own parents attempted to push the rest of their children towards the future.
Eli’s first many years were spent in a crummy neighborhood, where there were three heavy-duty locks on the steel doors that were used daily. As the only parental figure, Eli grew rather attached to his mother, as even at a young age he understood the trouble she had gone through to keep him. The lack of luxury proved to keep the two close, and made Eli very independent and aware of himself. Even when they had to break into that long-term piggy bank, they found comfort in the small, simple things. Though sometimes the boy got curious, and would ask about his father. His mother was calm and fair in answering, and after a moment would respectively say “He was a good man caught in a bad situation.”
Eli was fourteen when Dan arrived in his life. It was an arrival he didn’t look forward to. As a fairly attractive woman, Eli often knew his mother went on dates. However, the news that those dates weren’t with separate men came as a bit of a surprise, as did the new ring on her finger, the size of the gem was a hint at how much money the fiancée had in the bank. And for a second Eli considered whether this was about love or money. But time told it was about love.
Love for each other, and not really Eli.
And so, by the age of fifteen, Dan had moved the small family to their current residence: a little place called Newport. Eli was enrolled in Newport's own high school, the rest is history.[/font]
I NEED YOU HERE WITH ME.[/ul][/center][/size][/b]
"So, here's the deal. My name is
quinn and
I've been role playing for four years. Plus, I'm seventeen
years young, and I found you guys
from some random advertisement... not important oh, and the secret code is there are three of them, musketeers, that is ;]"
The faint yellow haze intruding through the window indicated morning. The crick in his neck indicated that something needed to be done. It was the fifth time since he had moved in with Dan that Eli had found himself sleeping on the floor of his neighbors' toolshed. The shed was nice enough: unlocked, clean of spiderwebs and mice, but as a matress, the concrete floor proved to be cold and uncomfortable. Eli made a mental note to bring a blanket the next time he decided to have a miniature escape from Dan. In all those fairytales, there was always an evil step-mother, but someone had failed to mention the long-lost evil step-father, whom Eli had unfortunately found. Dan... it made things worse that they shared a portion of their name. He was Daniel Adam Barkham, and Eli was Elijah Daniel Ackerman. But then, what was a middle name? Enough. The stubborn thoughts answered the stubborn questions while the pale blue eys explored the now-and-sadly-familiar surroundings.
Mrs. Reeves, the neighbor woman, got up at six to tend to her garden, much like Eli often awoke, not at six, but early to walk Duncan the border collie. Mr. Reeves was always up soon after to put a cup of coffee cautiously on the arm of a lawnchair for his wife. Eli should have been ashamed to know such a piece of information, like he was spying on the neighbors, but he wasn't, not like he was ashamed to be secretly sleeping in their toolshed. Though it was before he had needed the use of the shed when he observed the elderly couple. Twice he had stopped himself from getting out his camera and snapping a still of their loving morning ritual, for it was a beautiful sight, despite the absence of youth and prescence of both wrinkles and bathrobes. More than once Eli had wondered if his parents would have been so happy had they stayed together through the decades. He stopped himself here, too.
The rays of sun were growing brighter, and six o'clock was approaching. Time to go home. Eli unfolded himself from the fetal position he had slept in, finding he was rather small in shame. He didn't like that. Nor did he like the way Dan feared the gentle border collie back at the house, and kept him caged up at night, or the way his stepfather used the prized 1950's Skyliner without asking permission, or how he called him 'Elijah' instead of simply Eli... The list went on and on. Nearing the top was the fact that he felt shame at all for needing the escape. Eli had come to realize that it was Dan's fault he had aquired a temper. Too many times that he had just been ignored and pushed aside for more (less) important things that he had finally snapped. Eli's mother had been working late last night, Dan was the only other human being in the house. This was trouble brewing. Eli had attempted to sit quietly and finish his math homework, but when Dan had filed the third consecutive complaint about the dog that evening, and suddenly all bets were off. Despite the stinging words that had been said, it was he, Eli, that was shamefully crawling out of the toolshed, trying not to wake anyone up.
Naturally, everyone was still asleep when he opened the kitchen door, the slight creak breaking the heavy silence of morning. Duncan resembled Eli in the dog's own state of unconsciousness: curled up in an uncomfortably small space, though perhaps the dog was used to sleeping in a helpless fetal position. It would have been nice to let him loose, but Eli couldn't fool anyone; he was never up quite this early. So reluctantly, he walked by the caged animal and to the open bed. The matress had bever been extremely comfortable, often times people found it to be too firm, but those people had never slept on the floor of a toolshed. Eli immediatly regretted leaving such a warm, welcoming bed the second he met it. Or did he? No, he didn't. Which was why, just before he found sleep, Eli reached the familiar conclusion: something needed to be done.
Mrs. Reeves, the neighbor woman, got up at six to tend to her garden, much like Eli often awoke, not at six, but early to walk Duncan the border collie. Mr. Reeves was always up soon after to put a cup of coffee cautiously on the arm of a lawnchair for his wife. Eli should have been ashamed to know such a piece of information, like he was spying on the neighbors, but he wasn't, not like he was ashamed to be secretly sleeping in their toolshed. Though it was before he had needed the use of the shed when he observed the elderly couple. Twice he had stopped himself from getting out his camera and snapping a still of their loving morning ritual, for it was a beautiful sight, despite the absence of youth and prescence of both wrinkles and bathrobes. More than once Eli had wondered if his parents would have been so happy had they stayed together through the decades. He stopped himself here, too.
The rays of sun were growing brighter, and six o'clock was approaching. Time to go home. Eli unfolded himself from the fetal position he had slept in, finding he was rather small in shame. He didn't like that. Nor did he like the way Dan feared the gentle border collie back at the house, and kept him caged up at night, or the way his stepfather used the prized 1950's Skyliner without asking permission, or how he called him 'Elijah' instead of simply Eli... The list went on and on. Nearing the top was the fact that he felt shame at all for needing the escape. Eli had come to realize that it was Dan's fault he had aquired a temper. Too many times that he had just been ignored and pushed aside for more (less) important things that he had finally snapped. Eli's mother had been working late last night, Dan was the only other human being in the house. This was trouble brewing. Eli had attempted to sit quietly and finish his math homework, but when Dan had filed the third consecutive complaint about the dog that evening, and suddenly all bets were off. Despite the stinging words that had been said, it was he, Eli, that was shamefully crawling out of the toolshed, trying not to wake anyone up.
Naturally, everyone was still asleep when he opened the kitchen door, the slight creak breaking the heavy silence of morning. Duncan resembled Eli in the dog's own state of unconsciousness: curled up in an uncomfortably small space, though perhaps the dog was used to sleeping in a helpless fetal position. It would have been nice to let him loose, but Eli couldn't fool anyone; he was never up quite this early. So reluctantly, he walked by the caged animal and to the open bed. The matress had bever been extremely comfortable, often times people found it to be too firm, but those people had never slept on the floor of a toolshed. Eli immediatly regretted leaving such a warm, welcoming bed the second he met it. Or did he? No, he didn't. Which was why, just before he found sleep, Eli reached the familiar conclusion: something needed to be done.
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