kou
trash.
QUESTIONS:
1. Although I took quite a long hiatus before returning to the site, I am often able to be around on RPN. My hours vary and I usually have my notifications on and am able to reply on the spot if needed, I don't believe there will ever be a time when I'm unavailable.
2. In terms of characters, I prefer just about anything. I try not to create the same archetype and I usually hope that they are detailed and well-thought out.
3. I suppose I'm looking for a plot that will be able to keep me preoccupied. Something that will last long preferably seeing as many RPs on here tend to fail and I'm happy to see this one has been quite active. I would also like to be able to connect with other roleplayers and have a chance to make new friends, I suppose.
WRITING SAMPLE:
To whom it may concern,
I may no longer be alive by the end of this letter but I am under the safe assumption that the reader may yet survive. I could take a moment to express my true sorrow at being unable to see my goals accomplished to their completion but, alas, I would only be wasting a considerable amount of looseleaf in order to do so and that would most certainly be a shame for both the reader and I.
If it had not occurred to you by now, there is a reason for this account being stored underneath the floorboards of the home that was never mine (I say this because homes belong to no one but themselves and the same can be said for humans) and I’ve done well to ensure that only one with a knack for finding a loose compartment underneath a floorboard would be able to discover this. Suffice to say, I have purposefully chosen a thief. How do I know you’re a thief, you might ask?
Well.
Because you were once my lover.
THE ART OF LOOKING FOR COMPARTMENTS INTENTIONALLY IN ORDER TO AVOID GRIEF:
It was true that Aisha had found the letter. It was also true that her title of thief still held some form of truth to it seeing as one is only truly who they are when they use their observations to their advantage. For example, if a retired cop were to knowingly gun down an intruder, they would have not hesitated seeing as their hand had always been close to pulling the trigger. If a grieving mother who was suffering over the loss of their child were to find a screeching baby abandoned in a parking lot then their motherly affection would resurface, causing them to shelter the child as if it were their own. In conclusion, Aisha’s sudden awareness of the hollowness in their living room floor could only be because of her experience with breaking into places that were quite usually not meant to be entered. She had came upon that letter rather late seeing as the death of her partner had transpired over a year ago and in the time it took a human to come to terms with this fact, she had considered a list of other options that did not involve grief. She had snorted cocaine in Paris with some young woman who had a preference for remaining topless and remaining wild, she had participated in numerous orgies with gyrating bodies and lonesome faces, she had screamed until her lungs could no longer support her breath and the very soul of her burned with such an intensity that it brought her to her knees like religion, and she had willingly devoted herself to what one would call “witchcraft” in the hopes of finding his decomposed - but still alive - body perched atop her bed as it always was. And yet none of these ever quite worked in the way she had hoped.
Like it or not, a body was a body. There was a reason for why they buried the dead.
So they did not have to look upon the face of permanence.
There was one other alternative to the various stages of coping and it was an unpleasant one. She would have rather died than to allow this to be a resolve to the situation and she couldn’t help but reminisce in the way in which he had always called her “an immovable statue in the middle of a raging hurricane.” He spoke in poetry that she despised but she now missed it.
She had taken on the role of his word-riddled stature and had bended it to her will. She had become him in his absence.
Funny what grief could do to a human.
It could kill if used correctly.
Beneath the letter lay another one which she held in her shaking hand, slowly opening it and revealing its contents to the walls of the house. She ran a hand along the lettering, nodding at the intentional ridges in the paper and smiling at the hidden code:
“GET MILK.”
Skimming the letter, she tilted her head as she read the faked declaration of tragedy addressed to her and returned it to its place in the floorboard, slipping the genuine one into her pocket and entering the oddly-colored kitchen, opening the fridge and removing a glass of milk that had been paired with ice (as he had always preferred.) Turning around, Aisha internally counted the amount of steps that needed to be taken before exaggeratedly swooning and relinquishing her hold on the cup. The sound of shattering glass pierced the silent atmosphere and seemed to reverberate around the house.
Even the home itself was hollow.
Collapsing to the floor, Aisha did the thing she had been trying to avoid the most-
She wept.
She cried over spilled milk and discreet notes and men watching on cameras stored in the walls and the lack of a color scheme in the household.
She cried over the demise of her loving husband.
She cried.
When it was all done, Aisha gathered herself with the patience of a sloth, abandoning the glass to make the scene appear more authentic and stepping out into the midnight air. The sharpness of the wind whipped across her face and she found comfort in the darkness where no bugged camera could see her tear-stained face and even God would allow some modesty.
The revelation of this only heightened her sense of self-awareness and she knew immediately what she had to do:
Get the hell out of Germany and make her way to Kansas.And most of all, make sure that she was quite a long distance when they realized that the milk had been a ploy and decided to kill her as they did her lover. She wouldn’t allow herself to die before the truth was exposed.
No, not this time. Walking to the Chevrolet which was parked in the driveway, Aisha glanced back one final time and smiled.
She would do this for him. Only him.
1. Although I took quite a long hiatus before returning to the site, I am often able to be around on RPN. My hours vary and I usually have my notifications on and am able to reply on the spot if needed, I don't believe there will ever be a time when I'm unavailable.
2. In terms of characters, I prefer just about anything. I try not to create the same archetype and I usually hope that they are detailed and well-thought out.
3. I suppose I'm looking for a plot that will be able to keep me preoccupied. Something that will last long preferably seeing as many RPs on here tend to fail and I'm happy to see this one has been quite active. I would also like to be able to connect with other roleplayers and have a chance to make new friends, I suppose.
WRITING SAMPLE:
To whom it may concern,
I may no longer be alive by the end of this letter but I am under the safe assumption that the reader may yet survive. I could take a moment to express my true sorrow at being unable to see my goals accomplished to their completion but, alas, I would only be wasting a considerable amount of looseleaf in order to do so and that would most certainly be a shame for both the reader and I.
If it had not occurred to you by now, there is a reason for this account being stored underneath the floorboards of the home that was never mine (I say this because homes belong to no one but themselves and the same can be said for humans) and I’ve done well to ensure that only one with a knack for finding a loose compartment underneath a floorboard would be able to discover this. Suffice to say, I have purposefully chosen a thief. How do I know you’re a thief, you might ask?
Well.
Because you were once my lover.
M.
THE ART OF LOOKING FOR COMPARTMENTS INTENTIONALLY IN ORDER TO AVOID GRIEF:
It was true that Aisha had found the letter. It was also true that her title of thief still held some form of truth to it seeing as one is only truly who they are when they use their observations to their advantage. For example, if a retired cop were to knowingly gun down an intruder, they would have not hesitated seeing as their hand had always been close to pulling the trigger. If a grieving mother who was suffering over the loss of their child were to find a screeching baby abandoned in a parking lot then their motherly affection would resurface, causing them to shelter the child as if it were their own. In conclusion, Aisha’s sudden awareness of the hollowness in their living room floor could only be because of her experience with breaking into places that were quite usually not meant to be entered. She had came upon that letter rather late seeing as the death of her partner had transpired over a year ago and in the time it took a human to come to terms with this fact, she had considered a list of other options that did not involve grief. She had snorted cocaine in Paris with some young woman who had a preference for remaining topless and remaining wild, she had participated in numerous orgies with gyrating bodies and lonesome faces, she had screamed until her lungs could no longer support her breath and the very soul of her burned with such an intensity that it brought her to her knees like religion, and she had willingly devoted herself to what one would call “witchcraft” in the hopes of finding his decomposed - but still alive - body perched atop her bed as it always was. And yet none of these ever quite worked in the way she had hoped.
Like it or not, a body was a body. There was a reason for why they buried the dead.
So they did not have to look upon the face of permanence.
There was one other alternative to the various stages of coping and it was an unpleasant one. She would have rather died than to allow this to be a resolve to the situation and she couldn’t help but reminisce in the way in which he had always called her “an immovable statue in the middle of a raging hurricane.” He spoke in poetry that she despised but she now missed it.
She had taken on the role of his word-riddled stature and had bended it to her will. She had become him in his absence.
Funny what grief could do to a human.
It could kill if used correctly.
Beneath the letter lay another one which she held in her shaking hand, slowly opening it and revealing its contents to the walls of the house. She ran a hand along the lettering, nodding at the intentional ridges in the paper and smiling at the hidden code:
“GET MILK.”
Skimming the letter, she tilted her head as she read the faked declaration of tragedy addressed to her and returned it to its place in the floorboard, slipping the genuine one into her pocket and entering the oddly-colored kitchen, opening the fridge and removing a glass of milk that had been paired with ice (as he had always preferred.) Turning around, Aisha internally counted the amount of steps that needed to be taken before exaggeratedly swooning and relinquishing her hold on the cup. The sound of shattering glass pierced the silent atmosphere and seemed to reverberate around the house.
Even the home itself was hollow.
Collapsing to the floor, Aisha did the thing she had been trying to avoid the most-
She wept.
She cried over spilled milk and discreet notes and men watching on cameras stored in the walls and the lack of a color scheme in the household.
She cried over the demise of her loving husband.
She cried.
When it was all done, Aisha gathered herself with the patience of a sloth, abandoning the glass to make the scene appear more authentic and stepping out into the midnight air. The sharpness of the wind whipped across her face and she found comfort in the darkness where no bugged camera could see her tear-stained face and even God would allow some modesty.
The revelation of this only heightened her sense of self-awareness and she knew immediately what she had to do:
Get the hell out of Germany and make her way to Kansas.And most of all, make sure that she was quite a long distance when they realized that the milk had been a ploy and decided to kill her as they did her lover. She wouldn’t allow herself to die before the truth was exposed.
No, not this time. Walking to the Chevrolet which was parked in the driveway, Aisha glanced back one final time and smiled.
She would do this for him. Only him.
