Post by lucasinthesky on Feb 7, 2009 17:29:13 GMT 10
Pasha Nikolai Melor
curious. foreign. solitary.
curious. foreign. solitary.
Name: Pascha Nikolai Melor.
Nickname(s):Pasha, Posh
Major: Film
Age: Eighteen
Grade: Freshman
Birthdate: August 9th, 1990
Orientation: Pansexual
Location: Portland, Oregon
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Appearance
The mirror settled in a low-hanging area; the bottom roughly only four feet from the ground. It was the perfect fit for the young man, though. Because although most people didn‘t, Pascha fit his name just perfect with his small stature. Small, small, small. It was as if his father and his mother had cursed him, because in the Melor family, Pascha was the only one that was not at least 5‘7. He stood at 5‘4, causing people to often have to look down onto him to actually hold a conversation. It was demeaning, to say the least, and was just another reason for him to believe that he was not the perfect little Russian son that he was supposed to be. However, it did bring about one good aspect to his life-- his slender build was not disproportionate with his height. He came from a family of well fit people, so the fact that he only weighed near one hundred and twenty-eight pounds was not too unfitting for his figure.
His eyes were frozen into a bitter stare at their reflection in the mirror. The steel grey surrounded the depth of his pupils made the hazel outside seem more vibrant, and people were always pointing this out. He himself, though, was always trying to hide his eyes with his caramel colored hair. It was left to fall wherever it wanted, but often the majority of the straight tresses of hair would fall in front of his eyes. It was meant to be cut in one perfect length, but he had been cutting it on such short notice with a pair of frisker scissors. The boring idea of one length also became, well, boring. The length of strands ranged from as short as the top of his ears to as long as below his jaw line. In the front, the left side was cut asymmetrically compared to the right side. When his mother saw it on her first visit after the summer, she was glad that her son had opted out of cosmetology school. Such a memory caused his lips to curve upward into a tight smirk, the lush, pink flesh showing off a small bit of his white, mostly straight teeth. They weren’t perfect, but they were good enough to keep him from enduring years of metallic torture.
Soon enough, though, his lips were turned downward again. Although normally his lips carried either a half smile or a neutral, thin look to them, at the moment they were turned into a scowl. It was because of his skin, nonetheless. He would not deny that his skin was a lovely crème-vanilla color, but it was not quite what one would call flawless. Sure, his pores were fine. However, beginning at his left temple and ending halfway across his cheek was a deep rouge-colored scar. Every day that he saw it, he wished that there were some way he could get rid of it. However, a college student’s salary could not pay for the scar removal surgeries, and he was often told that it would help him get over his past, anyways.
If he stopped looking at the fine details of everything, though, Pascha realized that he was an exceptionally good-looking male. If he could find some better fitting clothes, and move his hair out of his face that is. His pants were frayed at the ends from years of wearing pants a good three to four inches too long. Men’s pants were not well fitted on his body, but he was not exactly one for cross dressing. Maybe there were people that could pull it off, but he would rather wear faded and torn jeans than a few bolts of denim that were too tight for his little sister, even. Although his “little” sister was really about the same height as him-- and still growing. His clothing style was more of a nineties grunge wear, reflecting Kurt Cobain’s red and black striped sweaters and Robert Smith’s purple plaid shirt many sizes too big. In simple words, he liked loose-fitted, comfortable clothes compared to anything that made the cutting of his circulation a possible outcome of simply being dressed.
Best Feature: I really love my lips, because the are just… Well, they are the perfect lip to fit my face. They are neither too full or too thin, but rather a perfectly acceptable position in between. Plus, I’ve been told they make for great kisses.
Worst Feature: I would honestly have to say my hands. They are not too small, but they are smaller than most peoples‘. I am smaller in general, yes, but… Well, I guess hands just are awkward looking body parts in general. That‘s my only reason as to why I don‘t like them, I guess. I mean, I‘m not saying I think I‘m perfect, but besides my scar and I hands, I am okay with how I look.
[/size]The mirror settled in a low-hanging area; the bottom roughly only four feet from the ground. It was the perfect fit for the young man, though. Because although most people didn‘t, Pascha fit his name just perfect with his small stature. Small, small, small. It was as if his father and his mother had cursed him, because in the Melor family, Pascha was the only one that was not at least 5‘7. He stood at 5‘4, causing people to often have to look down onto him to actually hold a conversation. It was demeaning, to say the least, and was just another reason for him to believe that he was not the perfect little Russian son that he was supposed to be. However, it did bring about one good aspect to his life-- his slender build was not disproportionate with his height. He came from a family of well fit people, so the fact that he only weighed near one hundred and twenty-eight pounds was not too unfitting for his figure.
His eyes were frozen into a bitter stare at their reflection in the mirror. The steel grey surrounded the depth of his pupils made the hazel outside seem more vibrant, and people were always pointing this out. He himself, though, was always trying to hide his eyes with his caramel colored hair. It was left to fall wherever it wanted, but often the majority of the straight tresses of hair would fall in front of his eyes. It was meant to be cut in one perfect length, but he had been cutting it on such short notice with a pair of frisker scissors. The boring idea of one length also became, well, boring. The length of strands ranged from as short as the top of his ears to as long as below his jaw line. In the front, the left side was cut asymmetrically compared to the right side. When his mother saw it on her first visit after the summer, she was glad that her son had opted out of cosmetology school. Such a memory caused his lips to curve upward into a tight smirk, the lush, pink flesh showing off a small bit of his white, mostly straight teeth. They weren’t perfect, but they were good enough to keep him from enduring years of metallic torture.
Soon enough, though, his lips were turned downward again. Although normally his lips carried either a half smile or a neutral, thin look to them, at the moment they were turned into a scowl. It was because of his skin, nonetheless. He would not deny that his skin was a lovely crème-vanilla color, but it was not quite what one would call flawless. Sure, his pores were fine. However, beginning at his left temple and ending halfway across his cheek was a deep rouge-colored scar. Every day that he saw it, he wished that there were some way he could get rid of it. However, a college student’s salary could not pay for the scar removal surgeries, and he was often told that it would help him get over his past, anyways.
If he stopped looking at the fine details of everything, though, Pascha realized that he was an exceptionally good-looking male. If he could find some better fitting clothes, and move his hair out of his face that is. His pants were frayed at the ends from years of wearing pants a good three to four inches too long. Men’s pants were not well fitted on his body, but he was not exactly one for cross dressing. Maybe there were people that could pull it off, but he would rather wear faded and torn jeans than a few bolts of denim that were too tight for his little sister, even. Although his “little” sister was really about the same height as him-- and still growing. His clothing style was more of a nineties grunge wear, reflecting Kurt Cobain’s red and black striped sweaters and Robert Smith’s purple plaid shirt many sizes too big. In simple words, he liked loose-fitted, comfortable clothes compared to anything that made the cutting of his circulation a possible outcome of simply being dressed.
Best Feature: I really love my lips, because the are just… Well, they are the perfect lip to fit my face. They are neither too full or too thin, but rather a perfectly acceptable position in between. Plus, I’ve been told they make for great kisses.
Worst Feature: I would honestly have to say my hands. They are not too small, but they are smaller than most peoples‘. I am smaller in general, yes, but… Well, I guess hands just are awkward looking body parts in general. That‘s my only reason as to why I don‘t like them, I guess. I mean, I‘m not saying I think I‘m perfect, but besides my scar and I hands, I am okay with how I look.
Personality
(I’m doing these in first person. I hope that’s alright, as it is easier to explain two of them this way.)
curious|| I don’t remember much about when we first got to America, but I remember how I couldn’t sit still. The air smelled different, the houses were built better. You could sit inside a house in the winter without needing to put more wood in the stove, which was the first thing I wondered about. Sometimes though, I wonder too much. During my horrible year, I couldn’t do much besides sit alone and think. My papa thought for sure that I was having problems because of school, or girls, but it was just because so much was going through my head. Why was a not like my older brother? Why were driving limits higher in the city than the country? And why, most of all, is everybody always watching me?
foreign|| It was the year nineteen ninety-seven, and I was seven years old. My mama had just had Anastasiya the year before, and Okhotsk, they decided, was not the place to raise a family. The Soviet Union was still around, and they were still shooting rockets, plus the bombs they tested at night. My papa decided that we would live in Portland, Oregon, where my uncle had moved whenever Yanayev was the President of the Soviet Union. The kids still stare at my funny whenever they hear me speak. Although my papa tells me we are Americans first and then Russians, the kids know that I will never be anything but Russian. Their stares and pleadings to repeat my sentences are not what make me feel the most out of place, though. Whenever I go to sleep, I have nightmares that we are still back in Soviet Russia. Sometimes, I wake up and I can almost hear the sounds of bombs going off.
solitary|| I do not know when this started. I guess it was when people decided that I am too difficult to talk to when I was in the younger years of school. All I know is that my life has been lived for me only. I do not feel pressured to do anything, because it is like I am the only one to exist. Sometimes I blame this on my student speech tutor that I had in middle school. He was four grades ahead, getting credit for community service requirements in high school. I do not remember all of it, but sometimes when I am around people I get images of him on top of me, whispering in my ear, kissing me. I do not want to go through it again, but in some weird way I kind of liked it. But god, I hate that boy.
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Likes: The ocean. Cigarettes. Stuffed animals. Television. Tegan and Sara. Music in general. Independent films. Writing. Whenever he has a good idea for movies. The city. Weird hats. Kittens. Watching the sun set/rise. Snow. Coffee. Autumn weather. Art in general. Videos. Home Movies from when he was younger. Photographs. Reading. Underground parties. Underground music scenes. People that can hold a conversation in Russian. Cuddling. Documentaries.
Dislikes: Sleeping. Small towns. Really cold or hot weather. Swimming. Light houses. Movies with boring plots. Overplayed movies/shows/music. Poorly written anything. Nationalists. Having nothing to do. Nightmares. Bird chirping. Black coffee. Television static. People that think there is a certain way to live. Religious activities. Mainstream cultures. People that can’t tell Russians from German. His last name. [It means Communist Creation, for Christ’s sake.] Lighthouses. New people/places.
Positive Traits:
Honest|| Although sometimes this can get him into trouble, Pascha’s honesty has helped him in the long run. People trust him to give them an honest answer, whether it be about how well written something is, or if they really do look fat in that pink dress they bought the other day. His whole family is this way, and he is often convinced that it might just be genetic. If you need somebody to give you an honest answer to a predicament in your life, he’s bound to give an honest answer. Sometimes he is hesitant, though, because no matter how honest he is, he is afraid to hurt people that matter to him.
Creative|| This one is probably overplayed, and that’s often a reason why Pascha will not use such a word to describe himself. It is true, however. His room at home was covered from floor to ceiling with a mural painted of the city, Portland, at night. On the ceiling are stars filled with pictures of people. In high school he was well known for his clay animation films, as well as documentaries and short films he created for all sorts of school activities. Basically, if you handed Pascha a creative device, there would be wonderful output. He just happened to find film the most unique, because no matter how much history you create, you can also cut and splice it as much as you want.
Charming|| This stretches far beyond his appearance. Although he’s often getting told that he has a charming smile, he also has a charming attitude. Well, he can, anyways. He knows how to manipulate people using his charm, and although he rarely does this, he will if there comes a reason to. He can use his charming demeanor to win over your heart, as well as your parent’s acceptance. Mostly, though, it’s all just a wonderful façade to him. All he has to do is smile and feed you compliments, and most of the time you’ll fall for him without question. If you let him, that is.
Negative Traits:
Double-sided|| One of the things that you have to get used to about Pasha, is that his stories don’t always fit together. There’s two sides to him-- the every day Pascha, and the Pascha that is still reeling around in his mind. This causes people to wonder what is so horrible that he can’t tell them about, and it causes him constant pain. His every day Pascha is the cute, innocent little Russian boy that might as well have just stepped off of the airplane that they traveled by. The other Pascha, the broken Pascha, is completely opposite. Caused by childhood memories that he could have done without, he’s built up a wall against people.
Flight Risk|| Although he enjoys Seattle very much, there is always the nervousness of people knowing too much about him. The reason why he wears his hair in front of his eyes often is because he is scared that they can be used to see into what is troubling him. The main reason he decided on Seattle was because although it is still not far away, it is far enough from Portland that he doesn’t have to deal with his past catching up with him. However, if somebody were to find out about all of his secrets, there is a great chance that he would transfer and be gone in the next moment.
Paranoid|| Maybe it’s a harsh word to use, but it describes him well. He spent most of his senior year of high school home “sick”. He was making himself ill from worrying, because he had run into a boy that knew him from speech. The boy who had found Pascha and his tutor in the meeting room, at that. He could not go to school without feeling embarrassed, and every time that the other boy tried to befriend Pascha, he was more content in running away. Maybe the kid didn’t remember, but Pascha could tell by his concerned glances that he did. What he worried about most, though, was that the boy would talk to somebody about Pascha’s problem. Not that he really had one, though. He’d gone to counseling after the incident, so surely he was fine by now.
Greatest Ambition: Simply to live a happy live with somebody, but also to be happy with where he ends up in life. Doing something he loves (I.e., writing screenplays) would be a fantastic addition to this.
Greatest Fear: This one is split in between multiple things. The major one is that he would wake up in the morning, and the bombs would be real, and he would have to leave again to another foreign country. The others fall in like with the idea that he would have to live the rest of his life alone.[/size]
History
Although he was fluent in Russian from living in Okhotsk, and he could tell the people were speaking in Russian for the most part, Pascha was confused as to what was going on. He was seven, and all of the conversations going on around him at the airport were confusing him. There were also the people trying to speak in their native tongues, yelling at the top of their lungs for their family and friends to hear them speak in the sea of confusion. He’d never been on a plane before, but his family and him had packed everything they owned to be shipped at a later date, only for his papa to explain that they were going to be moving some place called America.
He had heard of it in television shows, but experiencing it firsthand was a different story. His papa was right when he said that there would be people from all over. There were Russians, though it was only a select few. Most of them were older, from the beginning of the cold war. All of the kids at school did not understand Pascha, who three fourths of the day was being taught English in a separate class with other people from other countries.
The one thing the kids all had in common was that their families moved their to get a better start in life. What they didn’t have in common, though, was the parameters of what made their old life so bad that they needed a new one. Although he could not speak clearly in English, Pascha often used his arts and crafts time to show rockets shooting up into the air and exploding, as well as the mushroom cloud caused by bombs. Sure, he’d never seen any of the clouds too close, but he heard them go off every night when once everybody of Okhotsk was supposed to be asleep. This worried the teachers, and brought them to further confine him in his own classes. He has two teachers all to himself. One that could speak Russian and English, and the other that was there in case he went over the deep end. Not that he ever did.
Years passed on, and his speech was improving magnificently. However, in middle school they decided that private tutoring from a trained teenager at the local high school would benefit the eleven year old Pascha. His tutor was a wonderful kid named Nicolas, who was originally from French. He had a slight accent, and the way he spoke made Pascha’s stomach tighten into a ball of disorder and confusion. He liked the boy, yes, but his father had been a strong Russian Orthodox and often would make crass statements and gestures about anybody he suspected to be “гомосексуалист” (the Russian spelling of the word homosexual/queer.)
Although Pascha was slow to pick up all of the correct accents, Nicolas was considerate and kind to him through everything. He was very sweet, Pascha decided by the third month. He was also very affectionate, which Pascha disregarded as an American thing. The way Nicolas would rest his hand on his thigh, and stroke his cheek when they were alone and Nicolas was speaking privately with him. The kisses on the cheek were normal, right? French people did it all of the time.
However, when the kisses start to be on the lips, it was a different story. Nicolas’ words started to be ugly, and his affection started to be repulsive. When another boy walked into the room, not knowing how to navigate through the school, Pascha was certain that his whole life was ruined. His papa and mama insisted that it was okay, as long as he did nothing back. But he would not sleep even the slightest Between the nightmares of bombs and molestation, he wouldn’t let himself fall asleep. Pascha was afraid that sleep would become reality, and his parents were afraid that it would all consume him.
For the next six years of his life, Pascha saw the same psychiatrist every Wednesday and Friday. His psychiatrist was the one that explained that he would be okay. It took Pascha years to tell him, though, that the incident with Nicolas was the second time he had experienced anything like that. The first time was when he was back in Russia, by one of his papa’s friends one day at church. The scar happened from when Pascha tried to run away, the man drawing a thin line through the skin with a knife, threatening Pascha’s life if he told. Needless to say, he never had; for it was the Russian way.
Through it all, though, Pascha was not as mentally messed up as one would think. He was actually a rather upbeat person, attracting friendships from many people. He would spend a few months with them, and then they would start opening up to him. That was when he would withdraw back to himself. He spent a lot of time in thrift and antique stores, looking mostly at the old record players and cameras. The man at his favorite, Moon’s View Retro-Ship watched him look around, and when he realized that Pascha wasn’t there to steal, but rather just to look, he introduced him to the original video recorders that you had to use a handle to crank the film with. Pasha bought it for only five dollars, although it was worth far more than that.
As the years went on and his parents realized how much he enjoyed film making, they got him a digital video camera. He loved it dearly as well, but if given an option, he would use his secondhand vintage one any day. It just seemed to hold more sentiment, knowing that it once used to document another person’s life before him. No matter which he used, though, he was still in love with the art behind film. The thought of using an instrument that could document fiction or reality, and then be spliced in whatever way you wished seemed appealing to him. And it was his only true love of anything in the sick, twisted world.
It was his psychiatrist who persuaded him into going to college for it. Before then, Pascha had thought that he would just settle for cutting hair, because he would hardly keep one hair style for more than a month or two at a time. His papa and mama eventually caught onto all of this, and although he did not see himself to be the perfect Russian son like his older brother had been, his parents still begrudgingly were able to accept the fact that he was who he was. His parents supported the idea in general, though, that their son was going to go to college for anything at all in America. It gave them more hope.
Which was all their family seemed to run on when it came to Pascha.
Although he was fluent in Russian from living in Okhotsk, and he could tell the people were speaking in Russian for the most part, Pascha was confused as to what was going on. He was seven, and all of the conversations going on around him at the airport were confusing him. There were also the people trying to speak in their native tongues, yelling at the top of their lungs for their family and friends to hear them speak in the sea of confusion. He’d never been on a plane before, but his family and him had packed everything they owned to be shipped at a later date, only for his papa to explain that they were going to be moving some place called America.
He had heard of it in television shows, but experiencing it firsthand was a different story. His papa was right when he said that there would be people from all over. There were Russians, though it was only a select few. Most of them were older, from the beginning of the cold war. All of the kids at school did not understand Pascha, who three fourths of the day was being taught English in a separate class with other people from other countries.
The one thing the kids all had in common was that their families moved their to get a better start in life. What they didn’t have in common, though, was the parameters of what made their old life so bad that they needed a new one. Although he could not speak clearly in English, Pascha often used his arts and crafts time to show rockets shooting up into the air and exploding, as well as the mushroom cloud caused by bombs. Sure, he’d never seen any of the clouds too close, but he heard them go off every night when once everybody of Okhotsk was supposed to be asleep. This worried the teachers, and brought them to further confine him in his own classes. He has two teachers all to himself. One that could speak Russian and English, and the other that was there in case he went over the deep end. Not that he ever did.
Years passed on, and his speech was improving magnificently. However, in middle school they decided that private tutoring from a trained teenager at the local high school would benefit the eleven year old Pascha. His tutor was a wonderful kid named Nicolas, who was originally from French. He had a slight accent, and the way he spoke made Pascha’s stomach tighten into a ball of disorder and confusion. He liked the boy, yes, but his father had been a strong Russian Orthodox and often would make crass statements and gestures about anybody he suspected to be “гомосексуалист” (the Russian spelling of the word homosexual/queer.)
Although Pascha was slow to pick up all of the correct accents, Nicolas was considerate and kind to him through everything. He was very sweet, Pascha decided by the third month. He was also very affectionate, which Pascha disregarded as an American thing. The way Nicolas would rest his hand on his thigh, and stroke his cheek when they were alone and Nicolas was speaking privately with him. The kisses on the cheek were normal, right? French people did it all of the time.
However, when the kisses start to be on the lips, it was a different story. Nicolas’ words started to be ugly, and his affection started to be repulsive. When another boy walked into the room, not knowing how to navigate through the school, Pascha was certain that his whole life was ruined. His papa and mama insisted that it was okay, as long as he did nothing back. But he would not sleep even the slightest Between the nightmares of bombs and molestation, he wouldn’t let himself fall asleep. Pascha was afraid that sleep would become reality, and his parents were afraid that it would all consume him.
For the next six years of his life, Pascha saw the same psychiatrist every Wednesday and Friday. His psychiatrist was the one that explained that he would be okay. It took Pascha years to tell him, though, that the incident with Nicolas was the second time he had experienced anything like that. The first time was when he was back in Russia, by one of his papa’s friends one day at church. The scar happened from when Pascha tried to run away, the man drawing a thin line through the skin with a knife, threatening Pascha’s life if he told. Needless to say, he never had; for it was the Russian way.
Through it all, though, Pascha was not as mentally messed up as one would think. He was actually a rather upbeat person, attracting friendships from many people. He would spend a few months with them, and then they would start opening up to him. That was when he would withdraw back to himself. He spent a lot of time in thrift and antique stores, looking mostly at the old record players and cameras. The man at his favorite, Moon’s View Retro-Ship watched him look around, and when he realized that Pascha wasn’t there to steal, but rather just to look, he introduced him to the original video recorders that you had to use a handle to crank the film with. Pasha bought it for only five dollars, although it was worth far more than that.
As the years went on and his parents realized how much he enjoyed film making, they got him a digital video camera. He loved it dearly as well, but if given an option, he would use his secondhand vintage one any day. It just seemed to hold more sentiment, knowing that it once used to document another person’s life before him. No matter which he used, though, he was still in love with the art behind film. The thought of using an instrument that could document fiction or reality, and then be spliced in whatever way you wished seemed appealing to him. And it was his only true love of anything in the sick, twisted world.
It was his psychiatrist who persuaded him into going to college for it. Before then, Pascha had thought that he would just settle for cutting hair, because he would hardly keep one hair style for more than a month or two at a time. His papa and mama eventually caught onto all of this, and although he did not see himself to be the perfect Russian son like his older brother had been, his parents still begrudgingly were able to accept the fact that he was who he was. His parents supported the idea in general, though, that their son was going to go to college for anything at all in America. It gave them more hope.
Which was all their family seemed to run on when it came to Pascha.
Best Memory: Okhotsk, Russia; 1996.
“Papa, why do birds fly, but some swim?”
A six year old Pascha was sitting out on a dock that extended into the Sea of Okhotsk. The waves crashed against the wooden stilts that held the weakening wood in place for people to walk on and sit upon, or even to jump and dive off of. It was old, like the rest of Okhotsk. The youngest part of the town was Pascha and his younger sister and older brother, Anastasiya and Ilya. There had been others once with children his age, but they all left whenever they began testing the rockets right in the middle of their neighborhood.
His papa stared out at the seagull swooping down towards the ocean to retrieve the native fish that it would eat, and also offer as food for its children. He did not know how to answer, because he was not good with the biology of animals. Or science in general, for that matter. So he looked down at Pascha, and with a slight smile, he chuckled and responded.
”It is because God could not make up his mind about whether all birds should fly or swim. So he made some of each, and some that could do both. Kind of like humans.”
The little Pascha began to giggle, standing up from the edge of the dock and jumping in place. His sandals made a thawing noise against the bottom of his feet, and the wood of the dock, in beat almost with every single giggle.
”But papa! Humans can’t fly!”
”Sure they can, Pascha. Humans can do whatever they want. Even you. If you want to fly, you can fly. If you want to swim, you can swim. If you want both, you can have both. But if you want neither… You can have neither, too, Pascha boy.”
Worst Memory: The two boys were practicing the sounds of the o and a. They had been speaking sentences about boats waiting at the dock, and frogs hopping around on the lakeshore. Nicolas spoke highly of Pascha, saying that he was improving. Pascha could hear an “improvement” as everybody called it, but he just saw it as a way for them to all erase his past. Russia was becoming a soft blur in his memory, and there were no more happy thoughts that he could recall.
Beyond thoughts, in reality, there was another catastrophic happening. Nicolas has his hand on Pascha’s thigh, a normal resting place for the slender-fingered hands, lately. It make Pascha feel things deep inside, but it was so confusing that he just remained quiet and let Nicolas do what he was doing. The kisses made him bow his head in embarrassment, not used to such affection. He had learned that the French were always kissing each other on the cheek as a greeting. Though, with Nicolas it was nor only just a greeting, it seemed.
They became more intense, on his lips. He’d never realized how soft lips felt. It was startling, honestly, to have an older boy leaning over you in such a manner. Nicolas’ hands were one on his thigh, and the other holding gently onto his neck as he kept kissing him. Pascha did not know what to do, but when along with it. He was culturally confused, after all, so maybe it was alright. It wasn’t what papa talked about, was it? The way the “gays” kissed in a sick manner. It wasn’t sick to him yet.
Then Nicolas’ hand was reaching for the buttons, and the room started to spin backward in time. He was in Russia again. There was bombs exploding and rockets shooting in the background. It was cold, and there was air blowing against Pascha’s body. Had he let Nicolas take his shirt off him? He did not know, but he knew that with every kiss leading down his body, there was another bomb going off. Another knife against his cheek. Another stained glass virgin Mary staring down at him holding baby Jesus back in the old Russian Orthodox Church they went to every Sunday.
Then there was a scream. A startled scream that didn’t belong to neither Pascha nor Nicolas. There was another boy, a boy that was the same age as Pascha. He looked at Nicolas, who was looking at the boy Pascha, however, was both looking at the Nicolas that had started to take off Pascha’s jeans, and the other boy, and yet also at the red stripes on the flag hanging near the door beside him. Red was for blood.
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Writing Skill
a quick side note: my posts may not always be this long. They generate from between an average of two to six paragraphs, depending on what I have to work with and what mood I’m in.
The sidewalk was cracked, and every time that it was, the male walking along would try to dodge stepping on it. It reminded him of when he was in grade school, and they always used to say that stupid rhyme. Step on a crack and break your mama’s back. He supposed, then, that at least his mother was dead, right? Either way, it was still a crack in the sidewalk, and it still was a horrible thing to look at. He was certain that at that moment, if he stepped on any single crack in the pavement, the whole world would be devoured and turned into a large abyss.
Maybe that would fix the current situation at hand, though. He wouldn’t have to navigate his way through the city all the way to the gated communities. He wouldn’t have to be carrying a rose in his left hand, and a worn notebook in the other. He wouldn’t be so preoccupied with his thoughts on how the day had gone from so amazing to so horribly wrong. The worst thought that he mulled over, though, was that the day could in fact get worse, no matter how much he hoped that it wouldn’t.
The truth was, Rin wanted to be able to not need to apologize. He wished that he was stronger, that he didn’t have to lie to avoid the real reasons behind why his day had been so bitter. Maybe it would be better if he had a cigarette, or at least a cup of coffee. Julian liked the way the lingering taste of cigarettes tasted, after all. Would Julian even bother to kiss him again, though?
He was almost at the house he knew fairly well now. For the past month he’d spent every midnight and afternoon there. In other words, he was there every time he shouldn’t have been. This was easily arguable though, because by social standards he shouldn’t be in the same building as Julian at any time of the day. He had been, though, and he hoped that he would be for months to come. He hoped that maybe they would be able to breathe the same air and share the same blankets. However, he knew that it was wishful thinking.
His mind stopped wondering as he rang the bell, ideas of how to start ringing through his head. ”I’m sorry.” had no meaning, and ”I didn’t mean for it to end up like this.” wouldn’t help, either. Then Julian would only get more enraged. So instead, when the angelic boy answered the door, Rin just stood there silently for a moment. It was as if every second was molding into one single point in time, and the world had just exploded; leaving only Julian and Rin in the wake.
Offering the rose to the bitter looking boy, as well as the worn journal, Rin took in a deep breath. It was all he could do to keep from falling to the ground right there before speaking. “My name is Rin, and I am in love with a boy named Julian.”
[/size][/center]a quick side note: my posts may not always be this long. They generate from between an average of two to six paragraphs, depending on what I have to work with and what mood I’m in.
The sidewalk was cracked, and every time that it was, the male walking along would try to dodge stepping on it. It reminded him of when he was in grade school, and they always used to say that stupid rhyme. Step on a crack and break your mama’s back. He supposed, then, that at least his mother was dead, right? Either way, it was still a crack in the sidewalk, and it still was a horrible thing to look at. He was certain that at that moment, if he stepped on any single crack in the pavement, the whole world would be devoured and turned into a large abyss.
Maybe that would fix the current situation at hand, though. He wouldn’t have to navigate his way through the city all the way to the gated communities. He wouldn’t have to be carrying a rose in his left hand, and a worn notebook in the other. He wouldn’t be so preoccupied with his thoughts on how the day had gone from so amazing to so horribly wrong. The worst thought that he mulled over, though, was that the day could in fact get worse, no matter how much he hoped that it wouldn’t.
The truth was, Rin wanted to be able to not need to apologize. He wished that he was stronger, that he didn’t have to lie to avoid the real reasons behind why his day had been so bitter. Maybe it would be better if he had a cigarette, or at least a cup of coffee. Julian liked the way the lingering taste of cigarettes tasted, after all. Would Julian even bother to kiss him again, though?
He was almost at the house he knew fairly well now. For the past month he’d spent every midnight and afternoon there. In other words, he was there every time he shouldn’t have been. This was easily arguable though, because by social standards he shouldn’t be in the same building as Julian at any time of the day. He had been, though, and he hoped that he would be for months to come. He hoped that maybe they would be able to breathe the same air and share the same blankets. However, he knew that it was wishful thinking.
His mind stopped wondering as he rang the bell, ideas of how to start ringing through his head. ”I’m sorry.” had no meaning, and ”I didn’t mean for it to end up like this.” wouldn’t help, either. Then Julian would only get more enraged. So instead, when the angelic boy answered the door, Rin just stood there silently for a moment. It was as if every second was molding into one single point in time, and the world had just exploded; leaving only Julian and Rin in the wake.
Offering the rose to the bitter looking boy, as well as the worn journal, Rin took in a deep breath. It was all he could do to keep from falling to the ground right there before speaking. “My name is Rin, and I am in love with a boy named Julian.”
Behind The Character
Name: Lucas Elliot. (Lucas or Elly work)
Age: fifteen
Role-playing experience: I‘ve been role-playing for about seven years, give or take.
How you found us: some advertisement board on neopets.
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