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Character profile: Terrance"Sure, I'll take a look at your computer... uh... can you bring it here? I can't leave the house at this time of day or I'll get sunburned." --Terrance
Type of character: Sonicverse (lizardman22)
Name: Terrance "Terry" Regia (REJ-yuh)
Age: Around 25
Race/species: Albino ball python (Mobian)
Family and associates:
Youngest of five siblings. Single; doesn't appear interested in love.
Terrance is not specially built for a Mobian snake. His eyes are the usual reptilian black, and his tail is about as long as he is tall. His scaly hide is primarily white, but almost completely covered in large "inkblots" of orange.
He's often seen with a digital tablet, silver in color, connected to a pair of headphones that rest around his neck. He also has a navy blue knapsack he typically keeps his more portable electronics in. Other than that, he typically doesn't wear anything.
Character Profile Template"A quote from the character that highlights their defining trait(s). It can be a sample from their 'modus operandi', or a description of the philosophies or beliefs they live by, or something else entirely if applicable." --Character
Type of character: The 'verse the character is designed for. If the character is designed for a particular person's interpretation of a more well-known 'verse, specify that here as well.
Name: The character's name and possibly nicknames. If a pronunciation guide would be useful, stick it here as well.
Age: Can be as vague or as specific as you want.
Gender: I like to abbreviate this to M or F. If your character is genderless but still identifies as one or the other, specify that here, too.
Occupation: What this character does for a living. Optional.
Allegiance: Obviously, the options here depend on the setting. Optional.
Marie's Busy Day -Trade-"Nurse Black, have you taken down this patient's numbers?"
"Indeed I have, Dr. White. Weight 75 kilograms, blood type A positive, height 1.5 centimeters..."
"Wait a sec! Height 1.5 centimeters? I'm a heck of a lot taller than tha--"
"Never question the expertise of your doctor."
Leon Down burst out laughing at around the same time that Marie Vex stepped into the room, followed by Wolfen. The young green wolf appeared to be enjoying his sick days.
"Well, his fever is definitely gone," Marie remarked as he checked Leon over. "How are his other symptoms?"
"He's still coughing and sneezing," Wolfen replied, "but I think he's faking it. I've noticed he never does it when we're not in the room."
"No, Grandma, I'm still sick," Leon interjected, right before an obviously fake sneeze.
Marie shook her head. "He's going to school tomorrow. Maybe I'd better take back that kids' DVD to discourage him."
With that, she stopped the DVD playe
Marie's To Do List -Trade-Send Hisspan out to collect more herbs. My crocosmia aurea supply is running low.See if Leon is recovering from his cold.Mix some more painkillers.The VDF is performing weapons training today. Be present to treat any injuries.Ask Daphne to prepare a meal for Cynthia. That workaholic python will probably work through lunch again today!Check on Marybeth in case she stressed her sprained ankle.Get a head start on tomorrow's work so I'll have time to attend Tashako's recital tomorrow.
Humans and Dragons -Trade-It began as just another day in the United Kingdom. The sky was partly cloudy, but no rain seemed to be coming. The time of day was roughly 1 P.M.
Stephen, or ~Lolocator as he was known to his online friends, was afflicted with a severe case of writer's block. He wanted to write something, but had absolutely zero ideas, so he was left staring hopelessly at his computer screen.
"Maybe I could... no, no, that wouldn't really work. Ugh, Sonic makes this look so easy."
"Sonic", or *sonicinterface, was one of Stephen's aforementioned online friends. He lived towards the eastern coast of the United States, which meant it was about 8 A.M. for him (actually 9 A.M. due to Daylight Savings time). The two of them shared a lot, including Asperger's Syndrome.
CLICK. Stephen glanced up at the sound of the television downstairs turning on. Strange, as nobody else was supposed to be in the house at the time.
His curiosity and boredom taking over, Stephen
The Bronze Seagull - Ch. 15"That's what she said? ...Actually, I don't drink. I could really use a glass of soda, though."
Steve was on the verge of passing out, and Dolly had already gotten to work getting him down from the winch. Madam Slip's attention was on Interface, whose head was still spinning from his near-death experience. None of them noticed the chameleon sneaking up on the tigress.
"Darling... look... it's over. After all you've been through, you deserve a trip to the bar for--"
It was then that the chameleon made the grab. Hisser let out a hiss shortly before the chameleon muted it with his hand.
Madam Slip's eyes widened. She felt her shoulders, suddenly aware of the issue.
"Hisser! He's gone!"
Dolly whipped around, having already thrown the lever to lower Steve. Interface straightened up immediately. Steve was now unconscious.
Reaching into her pocket, Madam Slip took out a remote and looked at it, pressing a few buttons.
The Bronze Seagull - Ch. 13"Uuuugh... what happened? Where am I? Where's my pencil? ...It's so cold and windy... am I outside the airship?"
Steve stumbled over his own words at Madam Slip's demand for an explanation. Should he explain? What could he say, if anything at all? He was already late for the exchange; should he risk violating the intruder's terms further?
"...Darling? Are you all right? You look positively tense. Should I get you a glass of wine?"
Taking a deep breath, Steve looked up.
"I-I can't explain everything right now. I promise I'll fill you in as soon as I can."
With that, Steve rushed out the door, leaving a very confused tigress in his wake.
Once she'd recovered from her shock, Madam Slip picked Hisser up again.
"Hisser, do you know what that wolf was so agitated about?"
The clockwork snake's lights lit up in patterns once again.
"Would you please fill me in? I know it's about you somehow; he ment
Deep Sea ScreechThe ocean waters parted as Screech the bat, Liberator of the Confined, dove through them. Deeper and deeper she swam, gently flapping her wings to propel herself. She didn't stop to gawk at the marine wildlife around her; she was always looking either ahead of herself or at her portable GPS screen.
Every now and then, she would stop to adjust the small bracelet around her left ankle. It looked like an ordinary ankle bracelet made out of pearls and gold thread, but it was actually a magical talisman. As long as Screech wore it, she could breathe underwater, she was immune to the dangerous pressures of the deep sea, and she and all her equipment were completely waterproof. She had obtained it from one of her previous rescuees as a favor.
As Screech reached deeper and deeper waters, the ocean around her grew darker and darker. Soon she couldn't see where she was swimming, and had to resort to her echolocation to navigate. The "images" from her son
SplitI didn’t know what to do for her. Or to her. Or with her. She cried, a lot. She thought I didn’t know, didn’t notice, or maybe just didn’t care.
I saw her dancing in the rain one Saturday afternoon, nude. Not a stitch on her, and dancing by the creek, red welts rising on her skin from the biting mosquitoes. She never danced. I watched, and marveled that she could dance and still look sad.
When the rain let up, she stopped and stared at the creek flowing and bubbling over big flat mossy rocks. I called her name without using my voice, and she turned, but then looked away again. I wondered where she was in her head, that she could stand there and ignore the itchy bites and not worry that she was naked.
I envied her lack of self-consciousness. I pulled my heavy cardigan around my shoulders, even though it was hot and muggy out. I hid in its folds like a turtle hides inside its mobile home.
Sometimes I could feel her tugging at me, begging. I was stubbor
homeI pray to go home.
on bended knee,
I lift my heart
to a nameless god,
I bless his heart,
or maybe hers,
and ask for deliverance
to a land
I feel a map,
carved into my shoulders.
three mirrors are arranged
directing my attention
to my back, a range of mountains,
but my eyes don't see.
is water through a sieve.
puddles flow beneath me,
no barrier to hold me
a cheshire smile
and reversible signs
lie to me
and no amount of tears,
salty oceans on my cheeks,
will bring me home.
I dream of a room,
soft and fuzzy to the sight,
where I feel at rest;
I know that I am still
runaway irony (FFM 22)Twenty minutes after finishing the documentary on New Zealand, Nicole had a plan worked out. She wrote it all down in gel pen, an itemised list of all the things she needed; then she got to work.
It wasn’t easy to convince the man in Bunnings to sell her nails, but she put on her best innocent face, and told him it was for her father’s garden shed. It wasn’t easy to convince the neighbour to let her have the old fence palings, either; nor the logs that had been earmarked for a bonfire, but a few hearty fibs and her best “I just want to help my daddy” smile went a long way to convincing them.
Two weeks later, she had bruised hands, a lot of knowledge about how not to use a hammer, and what she hoped would pass for a half-decent raft. She packed herself a bag with some clothes and spare underwear, then packed another bag, this one larger and wheeled, with as much canned food as she could carry. Before she left, she remembered to grab the can op
Fall of ManI remember thinking: if this were a story, it would be alright. Even tragedies have meaning when someone else holds the pen. But this is not a story. Unless it is.
There was me cradling you in the wreckage of a building; and in the distance, the sounds of running and screaming and alarms of ambulances, everyone calling for help, and there, another building collapsing.
A snowflake fell on your forehead and for a moment it seemed more important than the blood, more important than bombs falling from the sky, the war that had begun. Blocks away perhaps a television was somehow still on, perhaps it screamed propaganda. All I knew was you had no reason to be punished.
People can’t run with broken legs, and you also had a broken arm, and when I heard another woman scream for her beloved to come back to life, I knew you would die.
I should have remembered what you whispered to me, but the planes above were too loud. If I had heard your last word
Ageing Superhero (FFM 24)Nathan always imagined he’d go out in a gunfight, cape fluttering; a hero’s death in the pursuit of peace. Turns out, he was only right about the “gun” part.
* * *
Mr Cuddles weaves around Nathan’s ankles. He’s purring loudly, and shedding fur all over Nathan’s slightly-too-tight bodysuit, but Nathan’s attention is fixed on the tinny voice coming from his mobile.
“Look, your international days are over. You’re getting older, and I know you’ve gained a few pounds. No, don’t try to lie to me. You wear spandex, Nathan. It’s pretty unforgiving, and you no longer have a six-pack. The world events, the foreign villains, you can leave them to the newbies.”
Paying no attention to the plaintive-sounding agent, Mr Cuddles hunts, unnoticed as he follows Nathan towards the safe on the landing.
Nathan’s carrying his guns one-handed; he’s only half-listening to his age
NebraskaHe called her Nebraska. The first time he did was in a Wal-Mart parking lot with August humidity pressing the air from their lungs. It also happened to be the first time she saw him. “Whoa there, Nebraska!” he’d said as the blue shopping cart got away from her and rolled right into him.
She apologized profusely. At least it was empty, and hadn’t got a chance to gather much speed. Besides, what the heck was he doing standing in the cart return?
“Why the heck are you standing in a cart return?” she asked him. He was tall. Lanky. He had a military haircut, and she should have known then. He was young; she likely had the long side of a decade on him. But when he smiled, everything just felt better.
He vaulted out of the pipe enclosure and held something up between his thumb and index finger. A nickle. He grinned again, and his green eyes crinkled, “I dropped it.”
“Well that explains it.”
“And now,” he said, “I ha
PhotogenicPeople have often said I'm photogenic. From what little I've seen, I haven't liked many photos of just myself. But there are a few sentimental, spontaneous portraits, taken by people who saw the beauty in me when I didn't, which are definite exceptions to the rule.
There's that one that Jordan took of me, sitting under some trees at the Great Sand Dunes of Alamosa. I'd been crying over an unexpected altercation with a friend, though few can tell that by looking at the snapshot. "Can you smile and be pretty and love me?" he'd asked. In his mind, I'd done the latter two things; all I needed was to do the first. So I smiled, because I felt loved.
Then there's the picture that Thomas took of me, lying in the lower ring of what Texas A&M students call the Modern Art Sculpture. "People here do this all the time," he'd told me; I felt like I was blending in with a completely new culture--Thomas's culture--and it was exhilarating. It was my first time visiting campus, and I was in awe of a
My Knee Hurts and I Hate David BowieThey're at it again.
I've grabbed the broom and smacked the handle against the ceiling, but the neighbours upstairs take no notice. I think about calling the police, but I hate doing that without at least talking to them. Everybody deserves that chance, I think. Still, the prospect of standing outside their door and talking to them isn't one that sits comfortably. When I think I'm going to explode if I have to listen to another second, I give in.
I power up the stairs like nobody's business, and pound on their door. I'd knock like a normal person, but if they can't hear the broom hitting their floor, they won't hear a knock, either. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the door opens and sound washes over me in a wave that's all but solid.
The figure in the doorway looks like a reject from an 80's concert. He's got a blinkin' mullet, and he sparkles... but he's got nothin' on the fella behind him. Bloody queer's wearing a dress, and more makeup than an entire row of beaut
Kristy, Are You Doing Okay?Kristy's mother had discovered the problem that would plague her daughter for life, back when Kristy was an infant. It wasn't just that she had an allergy, no -- she had a hundred allergies, and the most deadly one was, of course, to the very thing that was most attracted to her. Now, aged 19, she is preparing her new unit against those deadly allergens.
Nearby, several cats are coming together. Their paws pad silently across the grass.
Kristy ticks off protections as she goes. The screens have been attached to the windows and doors, including the tiny window in the attic. It's safe enough for tonight. The only sound is that of the narrator, typing Kristy's story. She finds that odd, but not dangerous.
Three cats converge on a limb of the tree beside the house. Working together, they scratch a small hole in the screen.
Kristy grabs a drink from the refrigerator and finds herself face to face with her biggest problem. The glass falls to the floor as Kristy goes into anap
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