Character profileA Story by KayaStuck on a writing task.He sat at the table, eyes fixed determinedly on the immaculately lined paper; each lead path measured out and ruled in what must be his thousandth attempt at procrastination. He was a creative writer for Christ’s sake; he wrote creatively, this freaking course had stumped him again. He flicked the pen over in his hand, reaching out to pointlessly neaten the pen holder at the edge of his desk. People were always shocked when they first visited him. His impeccable appearance suggested more neatness than he really had. The desk was really a better indication of what he was like, a mass of loose sheets of paper, all sliding over the desk every time he sat down to work. Crumpled chip packets adorned the edges of the table, and the scattered remains of a plastic spoon he’d torn to bits in frustration at his complete and utter lack of ability to write anything decent. The assessment sheet had asked him to use someone he admired to create a character so real they could be felt. What did that even mean? He admired ACDC, the evidence loud and clear on his t-shirt; he admired his favourite footy player, hell, he admired the bouncy brunette waitress at the bar his gang went to on Friday nights. He needed inspiration to write, he needed a muse that grabbed at him and demanded to have its story told. He looked up at the clock, teeth clenched; he had to meet Alex in half an hour and he really needed to get at least a rough draft done. Alex. He’d known her for years now; she’d walked up to him at a bar and planted a kiss on him, only to casually inform him about the dare of the night. She’d shrugged her hair over her shoulder, her disdain for the game clear, but her eyes had softened slightly as she’d glanced back at her giggling table of friends. She’d offered him a drink to make up for it, and by the end of the night they were friends. He leaned down, finally inspired, and began to scratch his pen across the page, determined to grasp her character fully before he wound her into a story-line. “She’s like fire on a freezing night, every flame jumping up differently to make a whole being. Every day with her is different, erratic. I could open my door to a hippy babe one day, all flowing skirts and clinking beads, and open it the next to a biker girl, with her long hair suddenly cut off. She’s everything I’m not. Wild, erratic, determined. She never puts her mind to something without working her way to a perfect result. Every plan she has seems to crumble into dust and yet she’s better prepared and more on time than I ever am. It’s almost like she doesn't notice there’s other people in the world. She’ll be walking sedately down the street one minute, and dancing wildly to a busking violin the next minute. She’s different from us, she’s free. Nothing ever worries her; a spontaneous trip makes her just as happy as one she planned out. Happier most days. She’s just as at home a black tie ball as curled up on my couch in trackies watching the footy; her eyes darting occasionally to judge my mess, something that somehow never appears in her home. For a girl that lives with chaos she keeps an organised home, as if that can keep her grounded somehow. It’s as if she lives in her own world, there’s nothing keeping her here at all. Being around her is its own kind of crazy; like living in bright colours only to have the world turn dull when she left. She always left though; she couldn't stand to be held down. She always knows when I’m feeling down, and just the right way to fix it. She always makes sure that everyone around her is included in the moment, even if it means she misses out on it. She’s so scared to commit but I know she loves so hard that to lose someone kills her. I know she hates to be owned, to be obliged to do something. I know she always keeps her word, no matter how much trouble she has to go to to do it. She was in a relationship once and it had been so clear it was killing her; the stress being owned like that put her under. She hates commitment, just committing to a decision on lunch seems hard to her. I think that's why she's always finding a new adventure with no plan. I want her to be mine, but I know better than that, even if her hair hangs perfectly, even if her smile makes me feel like I'm flying; even if she looks like a goddess just gracing the world for a few days. Even if I love her.” He stared down at the page, almost shocked at what he’d written. It wasn't a character profile, not by the end. It wasn't exactly news to him; he just hadn't thought it would come out in a damn character profile. He frowned, she’d hate it, she hated anything that changed their friendship, a friendship he suspected she needed as much as he did. A muffled knock at the door had him shoving the failed attempt at a character plan under a stack of papers he quickly piled up. He opened the door to find Alex causally leaning against a wall one leg bent behind her to rest a stiletto on the floor. It was a close enough look to the biker one she’d had a few days ago he decided. Black leather and sleeveless jacket he’d spent the whole day teasing her about. The purple scarf she’d looped haphazardly around her shoulders made her look softer somehow; her next words failing that impression immediately. “Is it the brain damage that made you forget how to open the door, or did the fumes from the mess in here finally get to you?” she asked, cocking an eyebrow before stalking past him into the lounge room. “The only fumes getting to me are coming from the oven you broke on Sunday… Whose bright idea was it to melt down their jewellery again?” She giggled, “Get your lazy arse dressed, we have things to do, people to meet.” He rolled his eyes theatrically before walking off. “I’m sure Bernie, king of the hotdog stand won’t last another ten minutes without chatting to your twisted mind.” He shot over his shoulder as he went to his room. “Flattery will get you everywhere!”She sung back happily, “Your desk looks almost clean, I’m guessing the papers not coming along. She looked down, arching an eyebrow at a corner of hand drawn lines. A quick glance to the down the corridor was all she needed to take the chance to read his latest work, he was so superstitious about her reading it before he was close to a final draft. “I’ll get there, It’s not due till Friday anyway.” He called back, quickly pulling a t-shirt over his head as he started back to the lounge room. “Ok, I’m ready to meet this ‘legendary hotdog’” He froze; his eyes fixed her massive doe eyes as they looked up at her from the page she was reading from. The paper he’d tried to hide. Her eyes were swimming with emotions he couldn't read, her gaze intent as she tried to read her face, the same way she always did when she wasn't sure about something. Her voice wavered. “Jason? What’s this?” © 2012 KayaAuthor's Note
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Added on November 7, 2012Last Updated on November 8, 2012 AuthorKayaBrisbane, Qld, AustraliaAboutHey Guys, I just remembered about this website when my old computer came back online. I left writing and moed on to pole dancing, but, as embarrassing as reading through my old work feels, I want .. more..Writing
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