He’s so cartoony.
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He’s so cartoony.
eleanor hill • the author.....| .....#daa520 .015
nye party > The afterparty • skydeck marquee
Maybe she should have spent money on something better. The New Year’s Eve party was a glamorous event. There was no arguing against the objective fact.
She was a nerdy novelist. No one cared how novelists dressed. No one asks what Murakami or Tolkien wore, and usually, when authors did make a thing about what they wore — it was a point to uniqueness, like Tom Wolfe in white suits.
Spencer was right — as usual.
She should have made more of an effort.
Her gloves came off and were shoved momentarily into her purse. Maybe it was a bad idea to have gloves. She couldn’t send stupid text messages to her only current chance at romance.
Elly tapped on her screen:
Billy Rifo is here!
You mean, Bobby Rifo? Spencer replied.
God, why was she so bad at referencing pop culture? It caused her paranoia and angst when dealing with outsiders, but inside her literary club, she felt like a mermaid swimming amongst the fish. She had accolades under her belt — not just as a “female author,” but as a writer.
She made Kate Chopin eat her feet with some of her subtle prose. So, she could be subtle in her little black dress? She was a thoroughly honest person.
If she were a cocktail, she’d be like the vodka on the rocks. She was that transparent and hard to break.
Well, not according to Spencer. He said she needed to break more, and all she felt was like a broken vessel, and because of the cracks, she was unable to hold anything but liquor.
Water was too pure and delicate…
A psalm made a gentle ballet through her head. The words strummed gracefully.
“A broken and contrite heart, God will not despise.”
Her teeth bit on her lower lip.
Spencer was right, again — for the second time since arriving at the party. She was not broken enough. God would value her more. Instead, she battled to refrain from sex with Spencer so she could take Communion every Sunday.
That’s when Daisy Black walked by.
It was as if the party opened up a makeshift catwalk for her. There she was. As if a Disney Princess had been a porn star. The music was made just for her.
Daisy was one lady who made the Orthrobros vomit more than Elly did. Like Belle Delphine but more mature and less geeky. Therefore, that much more top-notch in how memes of her were generated.
Through Spencer, Elly had read something about Daisy being surface-level that women like Elly were more of a nuisance because they worked on the intellectual subconscious.
As far as Elly was concerned, men were probably not masturbating to her books.
Yeah, so, she personally fantasized with Alysha from The Brother’s Karamazov and Phineas from A Separate Peace. But, she knew better.
The Trads were critiquing her writing, sticking their nose up at girls who didn’t bother to wear ankle length skirts to Liturgy, and then going and going home to women like Daisy.
Spencer agreed and then said he got off to her book characters.
God. He was the worst.
And, he enjoyed toying with other people’s sins.
“A glass of the prosecco,” she tapped her finger lightly on the bar counter. Her eyes moved to one of the white wine bottles on display and back to the barman. A small smile, quaint and perky moved her lips.
Something about all of this felt like an elaborate college party, and she was just a yuppie freshman. At least, there was a line to follow, and she had made it through orientation.
Her innocence was no longer intact, as it had been when she was a small college freshman. There were so many young girls behind her, now. Looking up to her. And Spencer was right there, in her phone, taunting her.
An explosion waiting to happen.
A corrosion of her spiritual life was going to make headlines.
The Bros will have a field day, and those women will need somewhere better to look. Elly was determined to write the woman they would need. The woman she needed, since all the others were failing. Including the unreproachable saints.
Somehow, she knew they needed or she needed someone closer to the flame. She wasn’t talking about Saint Mary of Egypt, who God only knows went above and beyond while struggling with beastiality.
They needed something not so theatrical.
More modern and contemporary.
The woman who would never be innocent enough no matter how much she tried. A dying nun reminiscing on her life prior to the monastery.
She had been married with two daughters. Every turn they would remind her why her husband chose them over her.
Whenever he gave them the talk.
“Your mother lost it with some guy in high school.”
“I saved myself for your mother.”
“Eve caused man to embrace the Fall.”
And yet, the woman would have no objection. She would quietly accept her fate. As the Liturgy prays for those who suffer in silence.
She would embody the silent character as a character who is a nun, remembering even in her life and even in monasticism was too reproached with silence to fit the mold.
A touching line; “You compare married and monastic life too much…”
A trial of comparison. And the protagonist must walk the middle. Choose alienation for salvation. Accept an unfair trial for peace. And ultimately, lose her identity.
The protagonist will have one thought to console her, “God knows the truth and proving herself to anyone but Him was fruitless.”
Then she saw Charles. The glass tipped between her lips. A sip of the sweet liquid gently nestled against the tip of her tongue. It lingered before she swallowed.
He was an American God.
The thoughts toyed with her as the count down, of course, began.
Why had she arrived so late?
A giggle smiled on her. The feeling of drinking with Charles Aponte was akin to that schoolgirl crush in Professor Cormack but more so.
Oh no…
What had Spencer said about how she looked? God, she was debating whether she looked good or not. Sexy. Professional. Worth it.
The likelihood of someone like Aponte knowing his designers like Spencer were higher than one in ten.
And she was fantasizing about him.
Part of her felt despair. Why hadn’t she slept with Spencer before the party? I mean, he was her guy, but she also saw them as so fake. Not that cheating on him in the unofficial relationship was morally outstanding for press reasons.
Did she really have a chance with Charles? Who was she kidding? The drinks made her believe things. And God, why was he so much more attractive in-person? Like, the newspapers picked the worst photographs of everyone.
She so should have spent money on a new dress.
She was forgetting she was —
Suddenly, a blood-curling scream interrupted the party. It came from one of the restrooms. One that belonged to females, specifically.
(At least, the party had gender differences. In case of not, Elly had brought pepper spray, which was somehow not confiscated at the door.)
No one was allowed to leave.
Her face turned white.
She immediately messaged Spencer.
No reply.
No message read.
This was turning into a Sarah Pearse novel. Except, Elly was no detective — at least, not for cold-blooded crimes. She could find moral and philosophical crimes of the psyche.
Physical crimes were beyond her pay grade, especially when she was now a suspect and the killer was still inside the party.
How the fuck are they not letting us leave?
Her message remained unanswered. Unread even.
The Beauty and the Beast purse tightened in her hand. The glass went to her lips.
She took another sip.
The divine sense of theater was turning dramatic.
She was a nerdy novelist. No one cared how novelists dressed. No one asks what Murakami or Tolkien wore, and usually, when authors did make a thing about what they wore — it was a point to uniqueness, like Tom Wolfe in white suits.
Spencer was right — as usual.
She should have made more of an effort.
Her gloves came off and were shoved momentarily into her purse. Maybe it was a bad idea to have gloves. She couldn’t send stupid text messages to her only current chance at romance.
Elly tapped on her screen:
Billy Rifo is here!
You mean, Bobby Rifo? Spencer replied.
God, why was she so bad at referencing pop culture? It caused her paranoia and angst when dealing with outsiders, but inside her literary club, she felt like a mermaid swimming amongst the fish. She had accolades under her belt — not just as a “female author,” but as a writer.
She made Kate Chopin eat her feet with some of her subtle prose. So, she could be subtle in her little black dress? She was a thoroughly honest person.
If she were a cocktail, she’d be like the vodka on the rocks. She was that transparent and hard to break.
Well, not according to Spencer. He said she needed to break more, and all she felt was like a broken vessel, and because of the cracks, she was unable to hold anything but liquor.
Water was too pure and delicate…
A psalm made a gentle ballet through her head. The words strummed gracefully.
“A broken and contrite heart, God will not despise.”
Her teeth bit on her lower lip.
Spencer was right, again — for the second time since arriving at the party. She was not broken enough. God would value her more. Instead, she battled to refrain from sex with Spencer so she could take Communion every Sunday.
That’s when Daisy Black walked by.
It was as if the party opened up a makeshift catwalk for her. There she was. As if a Disney Princess had been a porn star. The music was made just for her.
Daisy was one lady who made the Orthrobros vomit more than Elly did. Like Belle Delphine but more mature and less geeky. Therefore, that much more top-notch in how memes of her were generated.
Through Spencer, Elly had read something about Daisy being surface-level that women like Elly were more of a nuisance because they worked on the intellectual subconscious.
As far as Elly was concerned, men were probably not masturbating to her books.
Yeah, so, she personally fantasized with Alysha from The Brother’s Karamazov and Phineas from A Separate Peace. But, she knew better.
The Trads were critiquing her writing, sticking their nose up at girls who didn’t bother to wear ankle length skirts to Liturgy, and then going and going home to women like Daisy.
Spencer agreed and then said he got off to her book characters.
God. He was the worst.
And, he enjoyed toying with other people’s sins.
“A glass of the prosecco,” she tapped her finger lightly on the bar counter. Her eyes moved to one of the white wine bottles on display and back to the barman. A small smile, quaint and perky moved her lips.
Something about all of this felt like an elaborate college party, and she was just a yuppie freshman. At least, there was a line to follow, and she had made it through orientation.
Her innocence was no longer intact, as it had been when she was a small college freshman. There were so many young girls behind her, now. Looking up to her. And Spencer was right there, in her phone, taunting her.
An explosion waiting to happen.
A corrosion of her spiritual life was going to make headlines.
The Bros will have a field day, and those women will need somewhere better to look. Elly was determined to write the woman they would need. The woman she needed, since all the others were failing. Including the unreproachable saints.
Somehow, she knew they needed or she needed someone closer to the flame. She wasn’t talking about Saint Mary of Egypt, who God only knows went above and beyond while struggling with beastiality.
They needed something not so theatrical.
More modern and contemporary.
The woman who would never be innocent enough no matter how much she tried. A dying nun reminiscing on her life prior to the monastery.
She had been married with two daughters. Every turn they would remind her why her husband chose them over her.
Whenever he gave them the talk.
“Your mother lost it with some guy in high school.”
“I saved myself for your mother.”
“Eve caused man to embrace the Fall.”
And yet, the woman would have no objection. She would quietly accept her fate. As the Liturgy prays for those who suffer in silence.
She would embody the silent character as a character who is a nun, remembering even in her life and even in monasticism was too reproached with silence to fit the mold.
A touching line; “You compare married and monastic life too much…”
A trial of comparison. And the protagonist must walk the middle. Choose alienation for salvation. Accept an unfair trial for peace. And ultimately, lose her identity.
The protagonist will have one thought to console her, “God knows the truth and proving herself to anyone but Him was fruitless.”
Then she saw Charles. The glass tipped between her lips. A sip of the sweet liquid gently nestled against the tip of her tongue. It lingered before she swallowed.
He was an American God.
The thoughts toyed with her as the count down, of course, began.
Why had she arrived so late?
A giggle smiled on her. The feeling of drinking with Charles Aponte was akin to that schoolgirl crush in Professor Cormack but more so.
Oh no…
What had Spencer said about how she looked? God, she was debating whether she looked good or not. Sexy. Professional. Worth it.
The likelihood of someone like Aponte knowing his designers like Spencer were higher than one in ten.
And she was fantasizing about him.
Part of her felt despair. Why hadn’t she slept with Spencer before the party? I mean, he was her guy, but she also saw them as so fake. Not that cheating on him in the unofficial relationship was morally outstanding for press reasons.
Did she really have a chance with Charles? Who was she kidding? The drinks made her believe things. And God, why was he so much more attractive in-person? Like, the newspapers picked the worst photographs of everyone.
She so should have spent money on a new dress.
She was forgetting she was —
Suddenly, a blood-curling scream interrupted the party. It came from one of the restrooms. One that belonged to females, specifically.
(At least, the party had gender differences. In case of not, Elly had brought pepper spray, which was somehow not confiscated at the door.)
No one was allowed to leave.
Her face turned white.
She immediately messaged Spencer.
No reply.
No message read.
This was turning into a Sarah Pearse novel. Except, Elly was no detective — at least, not for cold-blooded crimes. She could find moral and philosophical crimes of the psyche.
Physical crimes were beyond her pay grade, especially when she was now a suspect and the killer was still inside the party.
How the fuck are they not letting us leave?
Her message remained unanswered. Unread even.
The Beauty and the Beast purse tightened in her hand. The glass went to her lips.
She took another sip.
The divine sense of theater was turning dramatic.
Where my mind wanders whenever Red Light Therapy is mentioned. 🎧
<Snipped quote by Mole>
kind of. But I am not a shoe lady. I like whatever feels comfortable
That makes sense. You should like what you like as you should like.
<Snipped quote by Mole>
black and gray with lime green line on the side of them. I have dark purple ones but they are newer. my feet have to get use to them first
Awwwh, they sound cute.
<Snipped quote by Mole>
like tennis shoes like ones. I normal wear. slip on shoes. I only wear them. Because if I am walking and not paying attention if I was tie shoes and they came undid and I was paying attention. I could fall or something so I just wear like sketchers slip on things or shoes likes that. but it has been a while since I walk with shoes on. I am so use to be bare foot that walking with shoes on feels almost odd to me. lol
That makes sense. 😚 What color are your tennis slip-on shoes?
@wheels, what type of shoes are you going to wear?
Banned for mentioning the need for a visa.
I don’t understand your math. Please help.
L O C A T I O N : Lodge, Port10
I N T E R A C T I O N S : @Conscripts
T A G S :
E Q U I P M E N T :
]As the orc’s large body came through the door, a shadow loomed into the room, but when he fully made his entrance, the fireplace welcomed the new comer with a happy crackle. A small smile, cheeky if anything, resided in Good’ole Timothy’s face. His mouth was obviously full of words that may never be spoke in their presence.
Rowan felt a shiver of guilt corse through his being, not as pain first but as a feeling of relief for having ought to feeling it. And then, as it continued, the silver lining turned sharp and caused him that same agony guilt and physical pain coupled together, often did.
When Barrock spoke, it was obvious he was a truly special creature. The large creatures words were not so much a hard demand or anything other than a stern question. He offered more empathy and compassion than was necessary, even for a simple creature.
The guilt shivered once again in Rowan. He could feel it as a cold sweat against his cheeks and forehead now.
Rowan’s eyes shifted towards the door making its appearance known solely by the speaking of her name. He had not been able to see her yet and was uncertain how she was. With the look on Timothy’s face, it was assumed she was fine.
“Right yonder,” Timothy beckoned. His hand shifted upwards and motioned towards the door a lullaby lulled from the door like white noise, as if the room was coaxing them to come in.
“Unfortunately or maybe more so fortunately, depending how one looks at it? I can’t let Rowan in until he says something. In his condition, he can’t afford not to.” A sharpness pierced from Timothy’s eyes to Rowan’s. An obvious sign of desire and trust that was unmistakeable my needed to be placed in Good’ole Timothy.
“I…” Rowan could feel the fear he had when Aurora was suffering, and he had to make the choice. The choice had not come as easy as the split second had made it appear. To explain the feeling was harder for him to pronounce. So, he stayed with formalities. “I apologize for leaving your side in the midst of battle to care for Aurora.”
The Light Elf’s silver hair strung downwards as his chin dipped into a small bow. The offering left him feeling a as if a weight was lifting from him. “Please, forgive me, as a noble soldier, seeking to regain his honor with you.” His hand turned into a knuckle as his bow became more of a prostration.
Timothy, acting as mediator turned his attention to Barrock. The fireplace continued to crackle.
“What do you say?” The Elder Elf was curious in his knowledge and wisdom, and the warmth in his eyes matched that of the burning fireplace.
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