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Post by acacia on Jun 3, 2011 13:49:32 GMT -5
GRACEFULLY UNGRACEFUL
not every girl can manage
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Well, surely, it wasn't that bad. She stared down at the boiling contents of the old pan from a distance. Stooping on the tip of her toes, she stared down at it and arched her brows for a while. It was brownish in colour and looked nothing like the glamorous picture printed on the cookbook. Surely, it seemed rather dull as well and she could perceive some tiny bits of carrot floating on the surface, like pieces of rubbish on a puddle of rain water. She pursed her lips, tilting her head ever so slightly. Why, yes, it was a failure - but not quite as much of a failure as she had expected it to be. And she took comfort on its smell: rather pungent, yes, tickling her nostrils and threatening to make her sneeze; yet it was not the rancid stench she had otherwise expected to produce. Her kitchen was not entirely doomed, it seemed. And she would have something to eat, after all. See? It was really not that bad.
A sigh of humble self-satisfaction and a turn of her heels to lean against the balcony. Never before had she thought cooking to be such a draining experience. A damp wave of heat poised about the kitchen like stormy clouds and seemed to trace several streams of sweat down her forehead and bare shoulders. She wiped her lips with the back of her left hand, feeling suddenly dirty and old - unbearably old; and she was merely twenty two, the little thing. Cooking experiences, no more; that's for certain. Another sigh and she let her head drop in defeat. Her eyes roamed about the shabby state of her clothes. The same ones of the previous day. And the day before and the day before that and the past week as a whole, maybe. She had barely bathed in the meantime. Heavens, I'm a basket case. She rubbed her feet together, tiny toes against tiny toes, cuddling to each other.
Nearly three weeks since she had moved in and the deplorable girl had yet to leave her chambers. That is, for anything else other than grocery shopping - although she put little effort into this one task as well and her fridge seemed to be perpetually empty. Regardless, with summer break stealing her prospect students and supplying her with enormous amounts of free time, she wandered about the flat like a ghost: clad in a drab tank top much too big for her figure and a pair of blue shorts with some indistinct embroidery that had long faded. Tight grey stockings circled round her legs, deteriorating a bit, but just a bit, really, upon the knees. If ever she had to go out, she would simply shove her feet inside a pair of old converse sneakers and run her fingers hurriedly through the maze of her hair, approaching a state of semi-decency which sufficed for grocery shopping and nothing more.
She poured the slightly disgusting but apparently edible soup - or what was supposed to be soup - into a small bowl, sitting down at her minute kitchen table, with a spoon on her hands. Well, she wouldn't dare to get her hopes too high, but her stomach seemed to be eager for a taste of the wretched thing nonetheless.
A single gulf of it and... fucking shit! The plate was immediately rejected with a strong push of repulse and up went the lame cook towards the sink. A fit of cough followed for the next thirty seconds or so, her stomach, however empty, seemed to flood with regret; yet nothing came out of her lips aside from air itself, thankfully. The remains of the clearly-non-edible soup went down the drain soon afterwards, as the mere smell of its presence now caused her guts to tangle in painful knots. And she sighed, frustrated and queasy and hungry, all at once. Well, cookbooks were now officially out of bounds. And, considering the overwhelming nothingness that filled her cabins, she decided it was reasonable - and perhaps safer - to look for nourishment outside the flat. However, she might need to change for it... At that, her eyes fell once more upon the dreadful state of her clothes. Seconds of awkward silence. Yes, alright, she simply had to change.
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With her hair caught up in a ridiculous pony tail and her bony figure now clad in a loose cotton dress that reached just a tad above her knees (smelling of soap - a fragrance she had almost forgotten), she wandered out of her new home and onto the open streets. Not one to be too picky, she soon found herself inside the very first coffeehouse that happened to cross her way. Maybe she wouldn't have a proper dinner in there, but a croissant would surely suffice. And so she sat, quite gracefully, on one of the small empty tables, leaning back on her seat as she opened the menu like a book. Food poetry - if such a thing even existed.
tagged: conor | words: 841
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Post by conoroverstreet on Jun 4, 2011 15:25:29 GMT -5
Perhaps he'd never understand what brought him here to the smoky, crowded coffeehouses. The noise made it impossible to think, and yet, the self-proclaimed intellectuals and connosieurs of the coffea arabica sparked more inspiration than anywhere else in this quiet little town. A very frustrating (and rather distracting) conclusion to come to when suddenly recalling that, come to think of it, nothing rhymes with orange.
Conor Overstreet had set up camp in his usual booth, propped up between the table and wall, a pen in hand and a tattered, open notebook in his lap. He'd been staring at the same page for half an hour - blank save for the mulitply crossed-out line ending in 'orange' - though this had not been called to the attention of any one of the coffeehouse's self-absorbed patrons. Dirty, disheveled black hair hung in tendrils over equally dark eyes, a location habited after years of frustrated tugging from the owner of the mop - he didn't care what it looked like all that much, in fact, he preferred for it to be messy. The lower lip of the poet was starting to bleed from the extended pressure of a row of teeth, surprisingly clean and white in comparison with the rest of his presence. Exasperated. There was something he had to say, and characteristically, he couldn't seem to get it out. Inspiration has been lacking as of late - that elusive, abstract concept that artists will always strive for - and without it, he will never create a masterpiece for his 1301 English class. What Conor, more than often, would deem a a piece of crap.
He picks up the notebook roughly, flipping back through the pages to other poems, nights when this came more easily to him - trying to remember where he was, how he was feeling, why it had been so much simpler then. A smile cascades over his lips and flickers in his eyes. Illegal substances are always a help with the creative process. And women. Or, shall we say, stand-by muses. It'd been awhile since he had either of those; a particularly bad experience in the park several weeks ago had distanced him from the appeal of his old ways, and he'd decided to hang up the habit for good. However, it seemed his time was up now; he'd slept enough to forget his initial reasons for wanting to quit. They all seemed very futile and unimportant now.
Abstinence couldn't be the answer. There was no way he could possibly live holed up in his apartment forever, living on peaches and Saltines in fear of failure, afraid temptation would get the best of him the moment he walked outside. A man gets lonely like that, he reasoned, and besides, what good had his efforts done him so far? Nothing had changed; his family still shunned him, he felt just as irresponsible and dangerous as ever, and along with all this baggage, he now had the burden of withdrawal to carry along with him. No, his weeks of solitary confinement, all the frustration and agony had boiled down to this one night; a thought he could not express in words, something intangible and above all, untranslatable to the intimidating stare of a blank sheet of paper.
Conor was just about to give up all hope, exit the coffeehouse and track down one of his friendly neighborhood drug dealers when he looked up and saw her. A dainty, dark-haired girl sitting several tables away from him, across the familiar floor of the coffee shop that suddenly felt very new. She wasn't looking at him - actually, she was examining the menu with a near voracious gleam in her eyes - but there was something in her face that registered with the artist lying dormant in the boy. Completely plationic; he meant nothing by it, the feeling was completely new to him and struck him by surprise. But there was something in her face that touched him, gave off the same feeling that the unspoken poem inside of him produced. Enough to make him want to abandon all thoughts of writing for the moment, pick up a brush and paint the stranger, though he knew he was awful at it and would surely butcher the whole canvas. That didn't matter. He wanted to try.
But how does one go about the awkward task of confessing such a thing? He didn't know; he shrugged the thought away. Conor had never been the best in social situations, the mere thought of approaching someone in a state like this was absurd to him. Maybe after a good hit; it'd been so long ... He could get his wits about him, relax and free his clumsy hands of the inhibitions that would keep them shaking through a brush stroke. Maybe painting wasn't the best idea. Maybe talking to her would be enough; she looked like a writer, one of his kind.
He toyed with the idea for a few moments, thoughtlessly stirring the cold dregs in his coffee mug, repeatedly glancing back and forth across the room. Every time he looked back, she was lowering her head again; six, eight times this must have happened, Conor becoming more and more frustrated with each repetition. When he finally managed to catch the girl's glance, he only smiled maybe one, two seconds, and then looked away. It was another five minutes before he talked himself into going over to the stranger's table, feeling very awkward and forward but unable to help himself nonetheless. "I'm sorry, I've been telling myself to come over and introduce myself for awhile. My name's Conor, do I know you from somewhere? You look, ah, very familiar for some reason ..." He felt horribly awkward the whole time he was giving the speech, a sarcastic sort of smirk tugging at his lips in his own misfortune. He had no idea how to go about this; all he could do was try.
[/blockquote][/blockquote]  STATUS # complete(ly awful, haha) FEATURING # acacia WORD COUNT # 995, loooool NOTES # sorry, this was good at first, but now i'm not so sure \: CREDIT # IRONICALLIZE_IT @ CAUTION 2.0[/size][/font] |
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Post by acacia on Jun 7, 2011 16:18:28 GMT -5
GRACEFULLY UNGRACEFUL
not every girl can manage
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Seriously? she wondered, cocking her eyebrows as she stared up at him. 'Him' - so she must call the individual mentally. For she had absolutely no idea who he was. A complete stranger, that is. The never-met-you-but-came-to-bother-you-anyway kind of "him". Not at all bad looking, she must admit. And with quite a nice, messy, I-don't-care-enough-to-fix-it kind of hair cut that made him look twice as interesting. Although he was surely lame in terms of flirtation. What with the most cliched of all possible phrases. Really now, he could have made more of an effort, couldn't he? Yet she smiled, in spite of herself; an impulse beyond her conscience and self-control.
The smile drew itself quite mockingly upon her lips, suiting the arch of her brows in a strange, languid way which probably didn't match her shabby appearance - even though the cotton dress was quite decent and the ridiculous ponytail was not as bad as the previous absence of one. So she let herself smile the mocking smile of sorts and linger silently for a moment; eyes locked with the stranger's, lips slightly pursed, fingers gently trailing the borders of the menu. At this stage, she had already memorised half of its contents. The food poetry was amusing, though her stomach was not really into literature (at least not at this one moment of growing hunger) and convulsed painfully in a silent cry for attention. It would have to wait, though; someone else had blurred her focus.
"You know what, I'm not gonna lie: that was terrible," she let herself utter in her husky, eternally-tired tone of voice, still not getting rid of the surreptitious smile that grew roots upon her pinkish mouth. If not the strongest of accents, at least some traces of Irish descent still haunted her syllables. Some could consider it charming - she, herself, thought it rather dull. But well, not like she could avoid it anyway without sounding entirely pathetic. She'd better just let it be: "I'll grant you that you're not bad yourself, but that pick up line-- really, that was horrible. Let's just pretend it was an innocent question, shall we? And I'll answer you like the lady I am." Hints of irony everywhere, which she firmly hoped he would grasp at once. As never would she call herself a lady in any way other than jokingly. Still, she sat up properly on her chair and crossed her ankles very gracefully, laying the menu down on the table and clearing her throat as though prepared to read a novel out loud. Yet, she didn't. She simply stared once more into his eyes - arresting eyes these were, however tired they might seem - and let her smile grow wider as she absorbed his image slowly.
"No, sorry, I don't think we've met. But it's a pleasure, anyhow. Would you care to take a seat? I was just struggling with the menu over here-- why must they give us so many options, really?" And her eyes fell once more to the familiar list of dishes and hot drinks and beverages of all sorts, drawing her brows together and pursing her lips in a childish frown. She the tall, the skinny, the poorly dressed twenty-two year old, looked childish despite everything else. Perhaps she was bound to do so. Perhaps it was karma. She didn't believe in karma. But then again, she hadn't believed in low-fat muffins at first and those were quite (miraculously) real.
tagged: conor | words: 610
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Post by conoroverstreet on Jun 9, 2011 21:44:52 GMT -5
Well, well, well, what have we here? A girl that could actually pique his interest and maintain that spark. Unconventionally beautiful, easily matching his wit; yes, she was very odd. Wasn't he a lucky boy? Unfortunately, Conor would never see it like that. No, in fact, he was beginning to feel somewhat nauseous. And yet, there seemed to be invisible strings tugging up at the corner of his mouth, because he couldn't stop smiling that God awful smirk. Conor the marionette sat right down across from the girl as if controlled by some higher, invisible power.
Of course, he was quite oblivious to the fact that she had taken notice of his admiration, and would therefore twist his innocent words into some ploy to gain her undeserved affections. He had hoped she would ascertain his intentions right away - impossibly forsee that he found her face terribly interesting, enough to be a muse, even - and then, they could skip over the awkward confession that, yes, he had just approached her in a crowded coffee shop to ask if he could paint her. Fully clothed, naturally, no need to revisit the awful scene from Titanic. He actually gulped, the dark eyes shifting recklessly across the coffee shop in a search for an escape from himself.
'You know what, I'm not gonna lie; that was terrible.' At first, the words he had so anxiously anticipated dreadfully confused Conor - he couldn't find the hidden reason as to why his introduction was so offensive to the girl. Her voice was quite husky, a certain lilt to it -she smiled with the strangest glow emanating from behind her eyes, mysterious and thought-provoking. Perfect from first sight, and she would continue to be, at least for his painting's subject. But not worth the risk of rejection - Conor had been there before, and there were certainly other subjects more willing to comply to his acryllic's interpretation. Like a landscape. Thankfully, she spoke again before the artist had a chance to clumsily excuse himself from the table.
'I'll grant you that you're not bad yourself, but that pick up line-- really, that was horrible. Let's just pretend it was an innocent question, shall we? And I'll answer you like the lady I am.' Now it made sense. The puzzle pieces fell very suddenly into place, and the artist's face broke into a wide grin of enlightenment. He let the nameless stranger finish her speech, glad to see she had a sarcastic sense of humor and seemed open to conversation, despite his 'terrible' opener. He wasn't sure what he was saying or why he was saying it, but the words came easily to him, so he figured there couldn't be anything wrong with them. "You know what? I'm not gonna lie; that wasn't a pick-up line." The boy's words are almost too low to hear; he often forgets to speak up - a habit bred from spending the majority of his time alone, preserving his voice in a soft and raspy condition. Of course, if he could stop smiling and open his smirking mouth a little more, it might help his volume, too.
And now, unfortunately, Conor has found himself comfortable enough to rant, because he is opening said mouth yet again."And if it had been a pick-up line, I would be duly ashamed and embarrassed, being in the presence of a young queen such as yourself." He smiles. The typically dark, somber eyes are alight with beguilement; he speaks with the utmost care and sincerity, and yet truthfully, he means nothing by them. Conor looks over her quickly, pausing to see how he'll be recepted, surprising himself with how smoothly this seems to have run thus far. For some reason, though, he can't seem to stop talking. Nervous tick, he absent-mindedly notes. "In fact, such a presumption should quite offend me - as I am a gentleman - but arrogance flatters you." The words dripping with sarcasm, Conor picks up the menu in front of his chair, if only for something else to do, his eyes scanning the various options she just mentioned. The boy presumes that it's only small talk, and ignores the rhetorical question, taking note that his cheeks are starting to hurt from smiling - but that can't be helped, he must try to look 'approachable'. Though that seems to be a futile goal, as he's already done the approaching. Might as well go ahead and take the dive, get straight to the point, right? Though it's hardly been a moment since he stopped speaking, the scanning of the menu hardly a skipped beat in the rushed conversation.
"Has anyone ever told you that you have a very ... er, inspiring face? I, ah, mean that in the most platonic way possible. Please don't be mistaken." Oh, the poor poet's flustered, at a loss for words - he knows what he's said is all wrong. How very endearing.
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Post by acacia on Jun 10, 2011 13:43:36 GMT -5
GRACEFULLY UNGRACEFUL
not every girl can manage
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Well! What could she do, then, but smile? Smile not as she had done merely a few moments ago, but smile fully and truly - with amusement not in the least dishonest. Quite a plot twist now, wasn't it? And she couldn't help but laugh a little. Only a little. Nothing too harmful to her dignity, for she managed to stop it short; rosy fingers holding her lips shut. If there was the slightest tinge of pink to her cheekbones, she didn't seem to take notice. Or simply would rather pretend she didn't. Which one it was, not even she could tell for certain. It bore no relevance, really; nothing did. Not even the food poetry she had been reading and re-reading like a mantra of sorts. That is, until he spoke again and forced her eyes to stare back into his odd, rather alluring features.
How acid he could be! A gentleman, was it? An acid one, surely! And here came the laughter, cut short and abruptly, making most people around her glance at her blushing image. She didn't look back - ignore them and they will let you go. So she had learned from her dear mother, who never ceased to draw attention to herself. Either rolling down a flight of stairs in the museum, or simply stumbling on her own legs and crashing face first against a pillar. She gave clumsy a whole new meaning. Yet, she knew very well how to get up again and pat her dress like the lady she had never been and smile proudly at the strangers she had never met before walking away like bloody royalty. Once at home, of course, it all crumbled down and she was free to weep or curse or just bury her face against her palms in sheer embarrassment. 'Oh God, I'm such a mess! Such a bloody mess!'
The girl's smile grew wider on its own as the one-second flash of memory dimmed and vanished for good. Now, there he was again, under the spotlight. Sitting before her. Smirking like a plastic doll of sorts - devoid of any other expressions. Browsing through the menu she now knew by heart (which was quite a sad thing to acknowledge, but there you go). Suddenly he was unavoidable: her eyes could see nothing more, not even the enormously fat lady that sat right behind him and ordered a giant cappuccino with double cream (something only an enormously fat lady could dare order). Her smile persisted as she laid the menu down to the table once more - this time instinctively - her hands resting together upon its cover.
"Well, no, not really," she could finally answer. Automatically, it seemed, for she hadn't planned the following lines at all, they urged out of her lips like a herd of elephants - or something slightly less clumsy, if possible. "And I've been called a lot of things, but 'inspiring' is not one of them. Though I'm not sure whether that's something I should feel flattered for. I'm assuming that the 'young queen' deal was not meant as a compliment in any way and I do hope I am not mistaken about that. It'd be very disappointing if I were." And she wasn't lying. Not in the least. You know, nothing could be more tedious than a man devoid of sarcasm (or sense of humour, for that matter). So she allowed her smile to linger as she fingered the menu mindlessly and pursed her lips just a little. It was a habit she couldn't altogether quit - the pursing of her lips, that is. It happened almost on its own: mechanically, despite herself.
"I'm sorry, but for such a nice young man, you can be quite sour, can't you, now?" And here came the laughter once more, this time even shorter and a lot more discreet. She was thankful for that. "Not that I'm complaining. It adds a bit of taste to an otherwise tasteless meal. Oh, but don't get me wrong! You're hardly one to be called tasteless-- no, not a gentleman like yourself." Her head tilted slightly as she turned her smile into a grin and let her eyes fall to the table. Not out of shyness or whatnot, simply because. She had always found it very hard to stare straight into another's eyes for too long. It was awfully distressing. "But, you know, I have my doubts when it comes to people. It's quite a hard task to find one worthy of your attention, isn't it? I've had such trouble before, so I tend to be a bit sceptical and expect very little from others. Don't be offended, though. I can clearly see you're not the dull, shameless, intruding individual I might have otherwise thought you were-- Not that I did!"
And then, sadly, the laughter returned, but nervously, stupid even. Instantaneous self-contempt: just add a drop of water! It could make a nice advert. If all else failed, she could always resort to the media.
tagged: conor | words:863
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Post by conoroverstreet on Jun 18, 2011 18:25:32 GMT -5
And not for the first time in his life, it appears the artist has been mistaken yet again. What he has meant to be words of endearment (spoken in sarcasm, nonetheless, but this is the boy's own personal touch and cannot possibly abandoned) have been twisted, and suddenly, the girl sitting across from him is at least slightly offended. She hasn't mentioned it verbally, but Conor is an artist, and pictures are easy for him to unravel. The nameless stranger's inspiring face has 'confusion' written all over it. Once again, he has failed to convey what he wished to.
I'm assuming that the 'young queen' deal was not meant as a compliment in any way and I do hope I am not mistaken about that. It'd be very disappointing if I were. She says. He quirks an eyebrow. She'd be disappointed if he hadn't insulted just insulted her? "Not a compliment, no, I'll be perfectly honest with you. I don't know you well enough for that just yet. But it wasn't a slight. Not by a long shot." Conor bites his tongue a few seconds too late and futilely attempts to shake the hair out of his eyes to get a better look at his company. She is pursing her lips, staring down in the menu, a trace of a smile lingering on her face. He is shamelessly watching her every move, charcoal green eyes intent on understanding where he went wrong, but as previously mentioned, she'll most likely see this as prying or too intense.
I'm sorry, but for such a nice young man, you can be quite sour, can't you, now? She laughs. And now the tables are turned, he is the one confused, and a shy smile cautiously edges across his lips, never reaching the eyes that continue to fixate on this tiny, dark-haired girl. However, she continues to speak, and now he can relax because she is looking at him, not at the menu. Of course, she's still speaking about meals, which leads Conor to believe that she's quite hungry and should be fed immediately. At least she's still talking to him. He'd been terrified that the confession of his initial attraction to her face would frighten her away. Who knows, though. Maybe she found it flattering.
"It is a hard task. But, ah, you appear to be up to the job, and if you don't mind my being very forward, I'd like to mention that I was hoping to paint you. You see, I'm an artist, well ... I used to be. And ... Why am I trying to explain this to you? I don't need any reasons." He reaches up to scratch at his chin, a gesture he'd find supremely tasteless, if only he knew he were doing it. "Anyhow, I've been trying to paint this ... magnum opus if you will, for awhile now. I've completed it, in my head, you know, but I haven't been able to find an appropriate ... muse yet. And, well, you're it." Very abrupt, Conor, that's the way to do it. Just jut your chin out like that and tell her like it is, while your eyes insist that you have no idea what's going on, or even who you are.
"So ... If it's not too late for introductions, my name's Conor Overstreet, and allow me to reiterate - Charmed, I'm sure." He was, after all, a gentleman.
[/blockquote][/blockquote] STATUS # complete! FEATURING # acacia WORD COUNT # 582 NOTES # i'm verryyyy sorry for the wait and the result, i'm a little rusty C: CREDIT # IRONICALLIZE_IT @ CAUTION 2.0 [/size][/font] |
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Post by acacia on Jun 19, 2011 4:28:38 GMT -5
GRACEFULLY UNGRACEFUL
not every girl can manage
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Oh, an artist, was it? She muttered in silence to herself, blinking mindlessly as her eyes peeked at the boy's features. That was certainly unexpected. Having fasted for sixteen hours, neglected the shower for much more and finally resorted to a cheap café in search of edible food - unlike her own - she most definitely did not expect to find an artist. Yet, what a pleasant surprise. An actual artist! Her smile had vanished out of disbelief, yet her eyes shone somehow, very slightly, like an unpolished gem still rather resembling a stone.
Not that she could relate, really. Not in the least. If she had anything of an artist within herself, that would be a most shady side, surely. There was the flute and everything, but that couldn't count, could it? It was a job, a hobby, a speck of talent that she barely took seriously - no, it couldn't count. What with her leading her life like she did and not even knowing what she would like to become - you know, that one question all children are supposed to answer: what do you want to do when you grow up? Yes, that one. She had never answered it. Not even at five. Surely not now at her twenty's. Well, of course, occasionally she had had vague ideas. Just as airy as herself. A translator (she only spoke english), an athlete (she could barely walk up the stairs without getting breathless), a librarian (she couldn't even remember what books she owned, never mind other people's) and so on, so on. All stupid as whole. That's the thing; she'd always known how pointless they were. Reason why she never pursued any. Never even took them seriously. Really now, they were just childish little dreams, nothing she could set in stone and define as her final goal. Had anyone really got a final goal, for that matter? Had they ever reached it? she wondered. It seemed so awfully far away. The sound of it, that is. "Final Goal". Like the finish line in a race across your lifespan. Her lips remained blank, yet she smiled secretly at the thought. It suddenly sounded so poetic. She could attempt to write it down. Though once she did, it wouldn't look quite as good on paper. The words would cling to one another messily. It would be a total disaster and all the poetic quality she had found in it would just seem dull and bland, as a rule. The girl had grown used to that. To deal with it, she had simply stopped trying.
Well, it was a good side note to keep in mind, if nothing else. Yes, that's what she would do. She'd keep it and she'd lock it safely within a mental drawer, as though it was an old precious letter that should be cherished. Until it faded, of course, and turned to powder, like most of her other tiny bitty poetic ideas had done by now. Then again, she knew she wasn't at all artistic-- and here she came back to the present, blinking one last time to break the trance. He was still there, thankfully. Conor, wasn't it? Conor Something or Other, she couldn't remember, even though he had just introduced himself. Buggers, what a basket case. An attempt to smile would perhaps make up for it, if only she succeeded the task. It just happens she did. So her lips curled in a most graceful way - unlike everything else about her figure, really.
"You can call me Acie. It's Acacia, actually, but some people find that too long. Or strange. Acacia White, if that sounds like a good name for a muse." It was rude, she knew it, but she couldn't help a chuckle. It wasn't meant as an offence, by all means. Yet it was unavoidable. A muse! It was even more inconceivable than the "lady" thing. She the wrecked up girl with a scar throbbing on her lower stomach - a muse! She had to chuckle. If only slightly as she did. "I have to say I've never met an artist before, so I'm a bit surprised-- pleasantly surprised, I mean. I do wish I could have been something of an artist, but I'm just not up for this job" - here she chuckled once more, but this time she was chuckling at herself - "It's very nice to meet you, though. And, hm, well; what should I say now? You can paint me if you want. I mean, I wouldn't mind. Not that I wouldn't care, just-- I wouldn't be bothered at all. Ugh, I'm sorry. I've never been a muse before, I'm afraid you'll have to teach me." Was it just herself or did that sound really wrong? Well, perhaps that's what a muse should sound like - at least an ungraceful muse like herself: plain wrong.
tagged: conor | words:817
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Post by conoroverstreet on Jul 4, 2011 16:25:50 GMT -5
"Acacia? Like the stuff giraffes eat?" Conor chuckles, choosing to have some fun with the girl. Hey, if he's going to poke fun at his calling her a muse, then he can at least denote her to some form of African savanna plant life. "No, I think I'll stick with Acie." He mumbles, sure that the girl doesn't need to hear this reassurance of what she's already asked him to do.
She laughs again, a very odd sort of girl - somewhat flighty, but intelligent and carefree. A more introverted Holly Golightly, he speculates. Whether or not that's meant as a compliment is unknown even to Conor, though she does seem to inspire some kind of ... feeling. What that is, Conor is not quite sure of yet. He's hardly begun to unravel the lines of the girl's intriguing face, let alone work past the facade and to the person lying beneath. How should he know whether he approves of Acacia White or not? Rightly so; there's no time to be making judgements. Their acquaintance has spanned a vast four and a half minutes as of yet.
He must keep in mind not to get ahead of himself.
She claims she isn't up to the task of being his inspiration. The poet laughs, shaking his head of thick, tousled black hair. Well, aren't they all? "Look, I know I'm insufferable, really, but it won't be that terrible. I'll pay you in peaches and tea ... peach tea, if you like, and the eternal gratitude of my poor, lonely heart. Plus, a kitschy interpretation of your lovely face. If that's not a bargain, Acie, I don't know what is." These words are spoken with a premature grin before she seems to agree to the task at hand and mentions that, actually, he must teach her to inspire him, another phrase that causes the man to laugh. And this is a past time he doesn't often partake in. 'What's there to teach? You got me to walk across this coffeeshop and ask to paint you, am I right? No, this is quite innate for you, Miss White." And honestly, that was the truth for him. He couldn't recall the last time he'd felt so intimidated by a harmless girl like Acie. That had to mean something.
Conor pauses as a flustered waitress finally approaches their table and asks Acie for her order. It crosses his mind that he should pay for the girl's meal, and he fully intends to do this until the poor boy recalls that he's flat broke. Coffee was all he could pay for this afternoon. Well, a dine and dash extravaganza it shall be. He'd rather get in trouble with the wait staff or even the law before giving up his gentleman status by allowing his muse to pay for her own meal. Before the waitress has even turned around, he's begun to speak again, highly influenced by his anxious excitement.
"Now ... I know it's a little late, but I'd really like to get started tonight. Before I wake up in the morning and this ..." He makes a vague, waving gesture around his head. "Is all gone. So ... as to location, I was thinking my apartment. It's just a short walk from here; we can get started as soon as you finish your meal. ... If that's okay with you?" A wry smile paints the artist's face as he offers up his apartment as studio space. She'll be the first girl in years he's taken home without subsequent intentions to fuck.
... And even then, perhaps ... What was that he'd just reminded himself moments ago? Oh, right. Don't get ahead of yourself, Conor.
[/blockquote][/blockquote] STATUS # complete! FEATURING # acacia WORD COUNT # 630 NOTES # the use of ellipses is heavy in this passage, and appeared to have had some use in the gap between the last reply and this shabby one. <3 haha, sorry (: CREDIT # IRONICALLIZE_IT @ CAUTION 2.0 [/size][/font] |
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Post by acacia on Jul 10, 2011 1:19:31 GMT -5
GRACEFULLY UNGRACEFUL
not every girl can manage
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Her sunken eyes had barely left the waitress (could she get a croissant, please? No, no butter required. Well, coffee might be a bit too much, what about some nice cup of tea? If Earl Grey wasn't too much to ask. Why, wonderful, then, English Afternoon was quite good enough. Thank you dearly. Oh, yes, don't worry, a croissant would surely suffice. Yes, she was sure, but thank you nonetheless) when both were quickly drawn back to the artist's features; allured by his words, as though puppets on a string. And what charming words indeed, weren't they, now? In fact, she had yet to process the "miss" from moments before. Miss White! Really, was there anything so hilarious? Being denoted to an African savanna plant life was, sadly, twice more realistic.
Her head tilted softly to the side as she absorbed each syllable of his, a gesture much beyond her comprehension, while her fingers roamed mindlessly about the cold surface of their table. Occasionally picking at the worn corners of the carte du jour - what? If she were to become a painter's muse, she was granted the right to be a little courteous, wasn't she? Courteous, not snobby. Snobby was a tad too much. Some determined attempts to hold back a chuckle proved victorious over her childish impulses - Miss White! Yet her lips remained tightly pursed, if only betraying a smile of amusement. You see, she couldn't dare be rude to such a gentleman - an artistic gentleman. No, she couldn't dare ruin the misty aura of beguilement that he had seemingly built around her (rather ungraceful) figure. That was a first, mind you. How could she dare ruin the fantasy?
It was all she could do then, to blink for a short little while, her lips mirroring the smile that had spread like a disease on his own. If only a little less wry, but nearly a perfect replica as it was. A simple, thoughtless shrug followed, betraying her very non-lady-like manner for good. Yet her mind was far from concerned and busy with wonder. You know, curiosity might have killed the cat, but it was never the less a tempting little thing.
"Perfectly all right." And her conviction was great enough to surprise even herself, although she did her best not to let it show on every inch of her complexion. The smile grew on its own as she stared back into the artist's eyes. "It's not like I have anything else to do today. Or, like, ever." For half-a-second she loathed this sudden addition to an otherwise perfectly acceptable sentence, wincing a little against her seat. Then again, her neurological system quickly worked on the subject, what harm could it bring? In a matter of minutes he'd surely find out how very mundane she was - and had always been, for that matter; how very unlike a proper muse. No more damage could be done to her dignity after that. Besides, what should it matter, really, whether he knew she was a lazy, friendless slob of a girl who barely left her chambers? It's not like they were even flirting to begin with. Neither was there any intention to partake into flirting in the near future, was there? ...Or was there? No. There wasn't. See? She was completely safe to be a total moron. There was nothing to lose after all.
Well, perhaps her role as a muse and as a lady. But she would surely recover if that were the case.
"If you want anything," out came her voice again, after a brief clearing of her throat, followed by some casual hand gestures, pointing out the menu and the table itself. "Make yourself at home. I'm not eating much, so we can leave soon. Try and keep this--" and here she gestured towards the very same invisible cloud around his head, "going for a while." One last smile claimed her lips before back the waitress came with a gigantic mug of English tea, filling the air with a herbal fragrance much more pleasing to the senses than the usual stench of the coffee-house.
The girl's eyes fell instantly upon the dark, reddish contents of said gigantic mug, peering from a safe distance as per usual. "Wow, is this a cup of tea or a bowl of soup?" And she laughed heartily for a moment, almost forgetting why she had been so intent upon painting a wonderful first impression on the artist seated before her. A glance at his features could not be helped. Neither could the following smile, or the list of unrelated, casual little questions that one must always ask when meeting another. Summer was very tiring, wasn't it? She had yet to adjust. Did he like it here? How long had he been a painter? Oh, and what did he paint? Really? (Here came the croissant.) She hoped to see it someday. Oh, but she knew nothing of art whatsoever, things were either beautiful or dull. No in-between. Did he really think her inspiring? Was he sure?
And so on, so on.
tagged: conor | words:851
dear, I tried to make time pass in a painless way, but do let me know if I went too far! Don't want to rush things haha. <3
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Post by conoroverstreet on Jul 28, 2011 20:14:12 GMT -5
Once again, certainly (and fortunately) not for the first time, the little gears in Conor's twisted mind began to turn in a different direction, a metaphorical scale weighing his options. No, it hasn't happened for awhile, his guard has been safely up, but he's beginning to think about the possibility of something more with this lovely girl. Acacia. Only fleetingly, but however briefly, he's thought about it. He has a vague yet deep appreciation for how she can't seem to hold anything back - the adorable, timid smiles cascading across her lips, the look of rapture across her face as she examines his features, considering his foolish, stumbling words. Whatever God there is in the heavens must know that the artist hasn't genuinely smiled in quite awhile. Certainly not at the hand, or rather, sympathetic face of another. His premonitions have led him down the right road, for once in his life. He was right; she is different.
Of course, these thoughts have occured only instantaneously, and disappeared at the same rate. Conor is hardly even aware of them, sitting there across the table, chewing the inside of his cheek raw and nervously wringing his hands. From the outside, an onlooker might say he was perfectly comfortable, but they would be wrong. He still felt terribly uncomfortable, if only for the fear of her suddenly deciding he wasn't good enough. Good enough for what? He wasn't quite sure yet, those gears in his mind were moving too quickly. It's not like I have anything else to do today. Or, like, ever. Her words gave him something to hold on to, a tangible subject to focus in on. A wry smile crossed the artist's features; he had a feeling the girl hadn't meant to let that slip, that she might even feel uncomfortable admitting to it. He wasn't. "Oh, join the club. I've been doing nothing but visiting this coffee shop, sitting in my booth and attempting to write for the past week. I wake up, I come here, I go home. It's a circuit." He failed to mention she'd done the impossible and broken it, if only momentarily.
He's too busy making a mental list of things he knows about her, static facts that he can attempt to remember and return to as their correspondence makes reality foggier and foggier. She's timid. She's amused by his admiration for her. She's unsure of herself, and skeptical of others. But also considerate, he notes, as she urges him to 'make himself at home'. As if he doesn't spend more hours here than in the coffin he calls his apartment. And then the rare sound of laughter clears his throat as she waves her hands near his head, his bright eyes absorbing her features with sudden, ardent interest. That same fire continued to burn in his irises for the remainder of ther time in the restaurant, and would for the rest of the night. His interest was no longer just a passing feeling; it would rest in his blood - even if they never spoke again he would always remember the time he felt motivated to paint Acacia White.
They settled into a comfortable babble of small talk, something he didn't actually mind, for once. Conor appreciates being asked about his paintings. It's not often he recieves any attention for them; they are well-kept secets. He abhors summer; he'd rather circulate between spring and winter and forget the other two seasons. Here is alright, he supposes. Can't be much different from anywhere else. He's been painting since he was thirteen - whatever sparks his interest. (This is said with a meaningful smirk) He sarcastically quoted the cliched line, 'Beauty is in the eye of the beholder', but not to poke fun at her or anything, no.
Did he really think her inspiring? Yes. Really.
Ten or fifteen minutes later, Acacia had finished her tea and croissant, a meal so small that Conor would have scolded her for it had he known her any better. Of course, he'd be a hypocrite for criticizing anyone's lack of appetite. He'd planned to dine and dash at this point in the course of the evening, however, the waitress knew him quite well - he'd just pay her back the next time he returned with money. She'd understand. While she was still in the back room, Conor got to his feet, looking to Acie to follow, and promptly exited the coffeehouse without anyone noticing. Perfectly simple. The sun had begun it's descent; the remaining light about as bright as it had been inside, but different enough to make Conor notice her all over again. Slightly stunned, he looked back over his shoulder at the girl before falling in stride with her, fighting the sudden urge to grab her hand like a little boy. "I'm sorry, Acie; we have to walk. It's not far though." He apologized. "Why don't you tell me about yourself? Pass the time." He suggested, though why the request needed justification, he couldn't say.
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Post by acacia on Jul 30, 2011 14:20:01 GMT -5
GRACEFULLY UNGRACEFUL
not every girl can manage
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"Myself?" She pondered. Half aloud, half in silence, so that it came in a sort of muttered whisper which she certainly hadn't planned. Then again, that's not to say she noticed much, as her eyes roamed the street beneath her feet and traced their trails upon the path. Much like she used to do when she had been only six years old, she now found herself avoiding the seams and the lines and tried to step solely on the lightest patches of colour - however unconsciously and discreet; no one would even notice, really, aside from those who looked with very close attention. Which, she hoped, was not his case. Although she was still quite unsure of why. This tingling sensation which overtook her senses every now and then (now he's looking, now he's not; now he's laughing, now he isn't) was nothing short of strange. Well, okay, not as much strange as it was unexpected. Or, rather, inconvenient. There she was, the skinny little thing, following an artist to his own place, assuming the role of a muse (if only for a little while, that is) and expecting nothing at all. And suddenly her mind was scheming on its own, quietly and secretively. So that all she got were tiny clues of its intentions. There goes the brain in its endless selfishness, reigning over your body like a tyrant and forcing you to adjust to its good will.
No, Acie, you're not going to feel any hungry like normal people do, you'll wait until you're nearly fainting and then, only then, will you want for food. No, Acie, you're not going to have a peaceful evening at home, you're going to curl on your bed and half die with cramps, because that's my way of telling you that something's wrong with your insides: making it worse. No, Acie, you're not going to sit there on the coffee house and memorise the menu like you had planned to do, you're going to meet a stranger who makes you his muse and you're going to be inconveniently fond of him, even though you've barely met. No, Acie, you're not going to walk like a normal person, you're going to trace invisible patterns on the ground and abide by them like a six year old. And no, Acie, I don't care a tiny bit for your composure.
"Are you sure? It's not a very interesting subject, you know." And here she giggled, smiling rather sourly and thinking of the nonsense that constantly crossed her mind. How much of a muse am I, indeed, when I hold petty little arguments with my own brain? Luckily, her feet had grown self-conscious and the invisible patterns faded quickly as her eyes rose to meet his own (only for a second, really, nothing too shameful). With a long-lasting sigh, five slender fingers came up to pull a streak of hair away from her eyes and behind her ear. Much less gracefully then it should have been, mind you, but she paid no attention to the gesture and focused instead on the non-invisible path before them. "But let me see..."
What could she say, really? What was there to say at all? Well, okay, there was that matter. And that consequence, drawing a rather ugly scar upon her belly. But common sense was still there to make sure she wouldn't choose that subject to begin with. For surely he wouldn't want to know. Would he? Well... He was an artist, wasn't he, and maybe, just maybe... No, no. He wouldn't. He's being polite, Acie, just polite. Now fall into casual conversation like a normal person - maybe you can fool him. If only she had anything artistic to say (another sigh gone unnoticed). But soon enough she found herself rambling on her Irish descent and her mother's hate for England and her own (mysterious) passion for it and her great dislike for summer just as his own and her habit of drinking lots of tea regardless of the season and her inability to cook (not even a toast) and her strange collection of soap bars (however did she get here, really?) and her really, really bad hair and her tiny cramped flat and her flute and her classes and her airy students and--
"Okay, I'm babbling endlessly, please make me stop." And she couldn't help a chuckle of embarrassment as her head dropped and her eyes focused once more on the pavement. If her shoulders shrugged ever so slightly, she barely paid the gesture any noticed; much too busy cursing her own brain for the sudden jolt of words that had escaped her lips against her will. Really now, Acie, you only had to be a graceful young lady and mention a thing or two. But no, of course not, you simply couldn't, could you? You've practically throw your whole uninteresting life upon the poor guy's shoulders. Then she dared a glance at him, meeting his eyes halfway through and bringing a smile back to her lips mindlessly. Look at his hair and his eager eyes and his nervous aura of an artist-- he was really something else, although she couldn't quite put her finger on it. The previous jolt of words seemed to leave her mind entirely blank, for nothing came now. Absolutely nothing. Except for the very silly, very unremarkable sentence that followed: "But you see? I did tell you it wasn't very interesting."
tagged: conor | words:906
I'm so sorry, awry dear, I can't seem to make my posts any shorter otl
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Post by conoroverstreet on Sept 8, 2011 20:03:31 GMT -5
Myself? Acacia stumbles. Conor smiles, bites his chewed-raw lip, and runs a hand through his black hair as she ponders the question. Of course you, Acie. Who else? These are the words he wants to reply with, but the poet hold himself back. She may not appreciate his amusement with her, though at this point he's certain she'd find it miles better than attraction, his true feelings for the woman walking beside him.
Attraction, interest, elation... Things he hasn't felt in what seems like years. Maybe that's why they feel so foreign, detached from his body, floating in the air above his head, a perpetual rain cloud that will follow him wherever he goes.
He's always loved the rain.
But these feelings have done nothing to his consciousness; no, they haven't turned him into some blind madman, so this can't possibly be that all too conventional, cliched form of infatuation, "love". Though his disheveled, dirty hair is hanging in his eyes once again, he takes the time to notice her distant, glazed stare on the pavement, the surprise at his question he intended to be wholly innocent. As if she's never heard it before. At this, the artist is surprised. Sick and tired of explaining himself, he has an answer prepared and memorized for the occasion that he is asked it. Not that he expects for anyone to want to know more about him; Conor feels that he's a splayed open book for the most part. No, not just open. That's not drastic enough. He's pages ripped out and scattered to the winds, sprawling in the streets, where anyone can put together the story if they only take the time to look. There for the taking. But she looks unrehearsed.
Yes, at first, she tries to shrug him off, giggling a little. How she consumes herself in her laughter, like a ruse to hide how unsettled she feels! And yet he finds it so endearing, he must look at her, to take in the picture. She's looking back at him. Their eyes meet, and for a moment, the artist feels that he knows her very well. Almost too well; he's left shaking as he turns away for reasons suddenly inexplicable. Stunned. He is quiet as they walk in the direction of his apartment, watching the headlights pass by with the cars they're attached to, counting the sighs and syllables falling from her lips.
And an awkward silence settled around the two strangers, if only for a moment - the first of what Conor had anticipated to be many the second he decided he would speak to his lovely muse, a few blocks back in the coffeshop. Things had been running so smoothly. And now, it seems he has brought them to a jarring, shuddering halt with his awkward attempts at trying to get to know her. Feeling stung that she didn't seem to trust him and perhaps a little ashamed for even venturing to ask the question, the artist buries his hands in his pockets, withdrawing himself with swift resolution, though an ear remains inclined to hear her words, should they chance to...
Yes, they finally come, but dreadfully, they seem at first to only scrape the surface of emotional depth, a lake, no, ocean Conor perpetually finds himself diving into. Where she's from, her feelings for a foreign country he's never visited (and her mother's), her dislike for summer (which makes him smile, the idea that they have at least something in common), and several other little quirks about her, things he may never have noticed if she had never happened to mention them (keeping the grin successfully plastered to his lowered, flushed face). She carries on and on.
And then, suddenly, they are right back where they were - at a sudden, jarring halt, and she is apologizing for said carrying on when truthfully, the poet beside her wishes for nothing more but for her to keep talking, the whole night if she wished. For some reason, he thinks it might be a good thing to voice this opinion. "No, really, I was enjoying it. Really. You're quite wrong, it was terribly interesting." He attempts to smile encouragingly, but that is something the man has no idea of how to go about, so it comes across as somewhat sarcastic, as if he didn't mean the words he'd just spoken. But he did. Really.
"Anyhow, it helps for me to get to know my muses before I paint them. Or at least, I think it does. You're the first, to be totally honest." Conor laughs under his breath here. To be totally honest. Tonight was just full of surprises, was it not? The next thing he knew, perhaps he'd be climbing the side of the apartment complex, loudly proclaiming that he was now going to be some arachnidic superhero. Or something of similar randomness. But no, he is just climbing the stairs to the second floor, Acacia trailing a few steps behind him. Nothing more.
At the top of the stairs, Conor's apartment is easily visible across the walkway, though from this vantage point, it looks like any other on the landing - a red door with a golden painted number nailed to the front, the corners of the doorframe riddled with cobwebs, a replica of a corporate chain, cheap hotel room. It's no use trying to hide it, the apartment hasn't been a bargain in any sense of the word - Conor is paying the monthly rent for what it's worth, if not a little more than that. And with less than picturesque surroundings, come neighbors of the same caliber.
He's never even noticed how threatening his home must be, how the windows with broken blinds must glare out at the street and suggest of worse things within the rooms than a bad paint job or dilapidating brick. But he notices now. Oh, it has become so perfectly clear.
And so he stands on the landing, anxiously watching Acacia, his muse, make her ascent of the stairs and wondering what he could possibly do to protect her. Miguel, his next door neighbor, leaning against the wall outside his apartment smoking a cigarette, belonging to a reputation for lewd comments and the occasional deed with any woman who may walk within his reach. Of course, it's never been a problem before, at least not for Conor. But has he ever tried to speak up, to stop it? Regret, guilt seep through his bloodstream, heavily weighting his heart and his limbs. He can't let Acacia fall prey to the same fate; she's too ... vulnerable.
Another silence has thrown its way between the two as they make their way up to the second floor, like the thick fog settling itself in the dusky street below. And it feels so perfect, unspoiled, that he hates to break it. But he does, whispering her name from his point on the landing. "Acacia." It isn't silly anymore to him, no, just perfect. Too ironically perfect. He has to try. An outstretched hand, extended to his company. An invitation, an attempt to keep Miguel and his suggestive language at bay. "House rules." Conor smirks over a whisper, attempting to make some kind of joke before grabbing her hand, as if it is required that they do this. Certainly. All female visitors must be accompanied by a male escort to avoid unwanted interactions between said visitor and lascivious gentleman tenants. Can't you see it, posted on the wall? Down by the murky pool that looks as if someone may have drowned there months ago, and won't be found before the leaves are cleaned out of the filter.
Conor continues walking on towards the apartment as if nothing has changed, eyes on Miguel, mind on the warmth of the tiny hand enveloped in his, suddenly realizing how silly it is to assume she can't take care of herself, that he must protect her. But a gentleman he must be, always. At least in the company of his muses. Certainly in the company of Acie.
The man relaxed against the brick wall takes another drag and his head turns toward the couple of kids walking towards him. "Hey, Miguel." Conor speaks, then falters, stumbling over the familiar introduction. Anxiousness leaking from his bones, the blood piling up and clotting, building barricades in his arteries. His heart is doing inconvenient backflips, his throbbing wrist only inches from Acie's own. She'll pick up on his fear. But Miguel is calm. He doesn't skip a beat. Hey, Overstreet. A habit Conor's never been able to get over, the use of his last name as an alias. It just reminds him of the family he's left behind, a group he no longer belongs to. Who's the girl? A rhetorical question, because before Conor can uselessly reply, he's addressing Acie. Hey, sweetheart, my apartment's always open, if you like. Overstreet ain't much in the sack, you know what I'm saying? You aren't much to look at either, princess, but I'd be willing to give you a good fuck. By the time the words are out, Conor has reached the door and unlocked the bolt, but he's quite tempted to give the neighbor a piece of his mind. He doesn't. A coward.
"Have a lovely evening, Miguel." Alone. Because you're not getting her. The knob is turned, the shabby door pushed open, and Conor steps into his empty minimalistic apartment. Only after the door has closed does he drop the Acie's hand, though he feels for some reason that the action is all wrong. "Sorry about that. He'll say it to anyone." Silence. He's not sure whether to comfort her, or not. "Don't worry about it, alright? I'm sorry. I didn't think ... I didn't expect him to be around." Throwing the keys at the kitchen table, which can't be more than fifteen feet away from the door. Failure; they slide off and onto the grungy tile floor. A small space, and even at that, he can't manage to keep it clean.
"So this is the place ... As you can imagine, I'll be painting in a different background at a later date." The artist mumbles, feeling that he should smile at this little prod of a joke, but unable to. It just doesn't come. "Can I get you something to drink?" The fog's returning...
STATUS # complete! FEATURING # acacia! WORD COUNT # 1723... wow, haha. NOTES # ...and it only took me two months! sorry bout the random stranger bit added in and the possible powerplaying, i thought the inicident was necessary to set up some sort of protective feelings in conor, haha. but if you want me to change it, i have no problems doing that C: CREDIT # IRONICALLIZE_IT @ CAUTION 2.0 |
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