May I be weaved in your hair?

For the most part I'll be using this for the addition and creation of the stories and the giant tale that surrounds my characters. I really would love for anybody who reads this (if there ever will be an anybody) to give constructive criticism, comments, and sometimes even responses. I adore roleplaying so if you ever want to have a go at it, then leave me a line. Hmn, that's all for now. Happy birthday 'morningblush'.

Wednesday, February 15, 2006

For Shelley.

In a style which mimicked that of his former self came a grin of pleasure to those black liquorice lips of his. He'd seen her the very second she'd sway-slunk her way in and immediatly to his head came a feeling of warmth, for within his mind an overflow of nostalgic memories swirled about like hot coffee in a cup. To Pierre, best described as silver-grey tabby not more than 5 ft tall, the slinky mutt purred, "Ahhh, remember th'girl I told you 'bout?"

Responding with a dip of his head and a most faint twitch of displeasure, Pierre recalled said girl. His soft rose-pink lips parted and then came his ever gentle voice.

"What of her?"

"Well, over there ain't 'er," said he as he nudged his nosetip in the direction of Dream, "but it is still someone I do know from once upon a time ago."

The cat allowed the most minor crinkle of his brow, face tightening oh-just-a'lil in contemplation. After the flutter of a few seconds he nodded.

Meanwhile the ignorable hum of business carried on.

"I think, maybe, I would like to meet this girl."

"I... I think I would too." Xaedyn laughed lightly then and excused himself from behind the counter, requesting a co-worker to fill his position for just a sec. Taking gently the hand of his friend, the two then casually toe'a'tipped along the aisles of CDs... lingering just an aisle apart from Dream.

Wednesday, February 01, 2006

For Shelley.

Contemplation of what was next to come. Did he have time for it?

Overhead the soft throb of forgotten music gently pulsed as if it were the lub-dub of one's own heart. He was too busy to bother with it, though. Right now his lips moved to create the familiar clicks and shudders of noise that were words, words that were to be exchanged with others and inevitably be apart of a 'conversation'. Xaedyn was like always; scraggly and lanky-bodied with his tousled black boy-hair strewn a little in sight's way. It appeared that he was having a good time talking to the boy before him at the cash-desk as his sable lips were crooked in a coy smile.

"Yeah, I spent the entire night after jes' shaking everyone's hand and saying, 'Phenomanal show, phenomanal!' I musta shaken 200 hands, you know? Ahah.." Those dark eyes of his crinkled a smidge with pleasure.

"I'm really just surprised I didn't see you there, you know? I stayed back hoping for an encore," said Pierre in response. Pierre side-stepped to let an actual customer make a purchase, apologising brusquely to the girl while giving Xae a look of sheepish amusement.

Xaedyn just smiled and rang in the chick's purchase and tossed the CD into a slick black bag. "They're coming out with something new next summer, you know?" The girl smiled and nodded, replied, then made her way off with a dainty smile. Heh, that was cute.

"Well, next time let's meet up before the show... get cute, you know." A wink followed in Pierre's direction after Xae's snake voice purled out. This caused the responsive tabby-cat to smile warmly.

"Yeah, sure..."

This was the usual day downtown in the city's largest music store, the well-known HMV. I mean, HMC. (:

Saturday, January 21, 2006

The night recovers; and his breathing is shallow, slowed by the whorl of oil-spill dreams someplace far away within his head. It's been quite some time since he last was here and for now he remains a hermit, carrying out the days mostly adrift from the real world like a dejected boat tied to a pier. The edge of his conscience carries an everlasting nagging thought; it is the knowledge that one day he will have to get up and get out.

Down the hallway and further down the rickety stairs is the kitchen where no fridge bothers to stand and a pantry door remains wide open as if just recently swung. All around the air is static and hidden beneath the floorboards is a smell that is seeping, rising with suspicious delay into the atmosphere. It is out to strike subtle fear and discontentment into those that bare nostrils near it. Luckily, he is on the second level and fails to be victimized.

Yes, the woods were wild and still its impressive beauty lingers as the scent of snowy air and pine in the ratty weave of his hair; stuff that has grown in mature magnificence all along the plain of his back between the sculpted arches of his shoulderblades till it has met the small of his back, where then it quiets.