Writing Sample

[melissaphilia]

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<strong><span style="font-size:12px;"><span style="color:#ff0000;">THIS IS NOT A ROLEPLAY. THIS IS A WRITING SAMPLE FOR MY PERSONAL USE. PLEASE DO NOT REPLY TO THIS THREAD. FEEDBACK IS WELCOME VIA RATINGS OR PM. THANK YOU. </span></span></strong> <span style="font-size:12px;"><span style="color:#000000;">The cicadas stopped singing the night Joa Blood came to town. The midnight train shrieked to a stop on rusty wheels, sparks raining out onto the cracked concrete parking lot. She was the only one to get off, and no one got on. And this was strange, because there was no midnight train that ran through Rhinebeck, New York. But at 12:03 AM the train rolled away, whistle blowing and waking up the residents who lived close enough to hear it. Mr. Andrew Barnes at 24 Haven Street raised his head off his pillow in a moment of dazed confusion, and then fell back to sleep, thinking he must have been dreaming. Grace Nelson, who wasn’t old enough to know the train schedule, or to understand why it’s presence was strange, paid little attention to the locomotive across the street as she climbed back into bed after using the bathroom. And although David Tran had a clear view of the train station from his window, he had headphones over his ears and the blue glow of a computer screen half a foot from his face, too focused to notice the black shadow that stretched across the pavement under an orange lamplight as its caster crossed the tracks and disappeared. The only person who noticed was Robert Dole, whose wife’s snoring had woken him up, and, unable to fall back asleep had decided to take his collie for a walk. Robert, who had heard the train pull into the station and, having ridden the train many times into the city, was well acquainted with its schedule, and knew that there was no midnight train. Curious, he pulled on Bailey’s collar, who had uncharacteristically started barking and refused to budge. He heard the shrill of wheels as they pulled away from the station, and he stood and watched in a brief moment of confusion as the train departed. He saw the dark silhouette of a girl with cadmium red hair stand still beneath the lamplight before she too was gone into the night. Robert let his dog pull him home, where he crawled back into bed but couldn’t find sleep, and anxiously waited for morning so he could tell Marge what he had seen. A train pulled into Rhinebeck Station at midnight. And someone got off. </span></span><span style="font-size:12px;"> </span>


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[melissaphilia]

THIS IS NOT A ROLEPLAY. THIS IS A WRITING SAMPLE FOR MY PERSONAL USE. PLEASE DO NOT REPLY TO THIS THREAD. FEEDBACK IS WELCOME VIA RATINGS OR PM. THANK YOU.


Loud music stole the thick, smoky air. On all sides of her people shouted and laughed and the staining smell of spilt beer hung about. Someone knocked into her, splashing their drink down her pant leg and onto her shoes. She shouldered past them and tried to keep up with Bishop. Normally she didn’t mind house parties. She liked the noise and the chaos, but she preferred the dark anonymity of clubs, and the sense of self abandonment. Parties came with a level of socialization that she didn’t always care for. A few mixed drinks were usually enough to get her loose enough to enjoy herself. But she wasn’t drunk tonight. She wasn’t here to have a good time. She was anxious. The feel of hot, sweaty flesh and damp clothing as they moved from one room to another chafed her nerves and made her desperate for the crisp wind they had left outside, for a quiet moment to get her thoughts sorted. If she turned around now, she could be out of the house before Bishop even realized where she had gone. But the shout of his name rose above the noise level from behind them, and he twisted around. He looked down at Tori for a second and then, once he realized it wasn’t her who had called him, looked over her.


Tori turned too, and was promptly shoved to the side by a flash of icy blonde hair that smelled like fruit salad and an over amount of tan skin. A girl Tori didn’t recognize threw her arms around Bishop’s neck. She wore a thin loose camisole and a tight black skirt that just barely covered her ass cheeks. Tori could see her hot pink underwear beneath the sheer tights, and without her black stiletto heels she’d be shorter than Tori.


Bishop returned the hug, but he looked surprised, and the way his eyes flashed up to the ceiling told Tori he was annoyed, which settled the rising irritation in her chest. Then the girl stretched up and kissed him, arching her back and forcing Bishop to hold her upright. The dull needling sensation that had been poking at Tori’s stomach since they arrived became a punch of adrenaline to her chest. Over the weeks of trying to convince herself that she hadn’t fucked up, she hadn’t even considered the possibility that Bishop would get over it and start seeing someone. By the way he had been acting tonight he was definitely not over it. But that obviously hadn’t deterred him from at least trying to move on. His sexual conquests had never bothered her before. She used to find them a little amusing; no one ever lasted long. Growing up Tori always felt as if she had a sort of claim on him, a type of ownership. While the other girls came and went, he kept her close. She realized suddenly that that was not the case anymore. She had no right to Bishop Carmichael. And the sight of his lips pressed against this girl’s made her nauseous.


Tori wished he would let go and let her fall. She crossed her arms and waited for them to finish.


“You made it! I thought you said you couldn’t come,” the girl’s voice had a drunken lush to it. Bishop finally let her go and scratched at his jaw with his thumb, a nervous habit Tori recognized as awkwardness. He wasn’t looking at either of them.


“I said I might not make it.”


“Well I’m happy you came. I missed you…” She sidled up to him, her fingers plucking at the hem of his shirt.


“Let’s go somewhere quiet,” she said. “I want to talk to you.”


Tori’s hands clenched into fists. Every moment he wasted on this girl felt like time lost. She had a sudden fear getting home and finding the locks were changed and an eviction notice laughing at her. Bishop’s gaze flashed to hers, and she glared at him with a look that urged him to hurry up and ditch the bimbo.


“Shay, now’s not a good time. We’ll talk later. Have you seen your cousin?” Shay’s head whipped around and her accusing eyes found Tori. She knew she was with him.


“What the hell is she doing here? Have you been with her this whole time?” The way she said it gave Tori the impression Shay had heard about her, and it gave her some satisfaction. And she didn’t miss the double meaning of her second statement. She wanted to know if Tori and Bishop had been together throughout his and Shay’s entire, if not short, relationship; not just together tonight. Tori smirked, and Shay gnashed her teeth. Bishop hooked his hand under Shay’s upper arm before she could do anything else and pulled her off to the side.


That is her, isn’t it? I’m right.


I’m just helping her out with something. Relax.


Don’t tell me to relax!


Bishop said something else to her that Tori couldn’t hear, and then Shay huffed, and after one last furious glance at Tori, stomped away. Bishop waited until she was out of sight before he returned to Tori’s side.


“She’s charming,” she said to him. He scowled.


“You don’t even know her.”


“No, but apparently she knows me.”


A comment about his taste in women rose up in her, but Bishop turned to her and took her by the shoulders and pushed her back to the wall. The image of the girl and the boy she had seen outside flashed in her head, and Tori’s heart thumped in agony and disappointment when Bishop only stood there and looked her in the eye.


“Stay right here and wait until I come back. I mean it, Tori. Don’t cause any trouble tonight. If you know what’s good for you, do what I say.”


She opened her mouth to remind him that she could take care of herself, that he didn’t have to worry about her. Then she remembered why they were here, because she couldn’t take care of herself, and just nodded. Bishop looked at her a moment longer before he opened the closet door to her left, which turned out not to be a closet after all, but a stairway that led down into the basement. More music rose up from the darkness below, something more haunting and disturbing that left her cold and fearful as soon as Bishop was gone and the door was closed behind him. She considered going after him. She stared around at the strangers in the room, fast feeling invisible and that she didn’t belong there—just another foster kid in a house full of four others, all yelling and screaming—and then paced over to the counter where a 32 case of beer bottles sat, some discreet, and probably cheap, brand she didn’t recognize. She reached into the almost empty cardboard box and pulled one out, braced the cap against the edge of the countertop to open it because she couldn’t find a bottle opener, and took a few large gulps of the watery alcohol. She wondered how long until Bishop would come back up, and then her thoughts turned to Shay, and she took another sip. She considered going to find her and lay her fists into her pretty face. She thought she couldn’t understand what Bishop saw in her, why he was with her, and then realized that she did. Shay was the exact opposite of Tori. There was nothing there to remind him of her. Another swallow of beer. The bottle was half gone. She wasn’t sure whether to feel pleased or pissed off.


The smoke in the tightly packed room was making her lightheaded. The conversations around her had lost their sharp edges and were turning muddy, like a song or a video clip slowed down a few frames. Tori finished off her drink and left it on the counter for somebody else to clean up in the morning. She left the kitchen in search of a bathroom, suddenly in need of one. She forced her way down the hall to the base of the staircase, certain she’d find one on the second floor. At the top of the stairs it was less noisy, and not as smoky. The first door on the left proved to be the bathroom, and she locked herself inside and flipped on the light.


It smelled overwhelmingly of men’s shampoo and body wash, but it was a sweet relief compared to the sweat and weed aroma downstairs. The counter top was covered with deodorants and other toiletries, and the toilet seat was up. Tori stared at it for a short moment before begrudgingly deciding against it. She could hold it.


She turned to go and stole a wary look at her face in the dirty mirror. One of the lightbulbs overhead was out, making it harder to see, but there were still bags under her eyes. Or was it just her makeup? And whether that was actually the color of her skin, or if it was just the tungsten light turning her a sickly grayish yellow, she couldn’t tell. She ran her fingers through her hair, scratching her scalp to disturb the part and trying to get it to look more intentionally messy and less like she hadn’t shower yet that day. The building layer of grease in her hair made it easy to rearrange, but she was still a mess. No wonder Bishop was taking it easy on her. She was pitiful.


She wondered where he was, if he had actually gone down to the basement to find someone who might supposedly help her, or if he just stole away to enjoy a moment without her. She considered going back downstairs and waiting for him like he’d told her to. Had he already come up from the basement and found her gone? Was he looking for her? Or had he just left, assumed she’d taken off on him again and given up on trying to help her? She hoped not, and the fear that that might happen made her turn to leave.


Before she opened the door someone pounded on it, and a girl yelled on the other side, “Open the door, she’s gonna hurl everywhere!” Tori didn’t move right away. For a moment she was stuck, suddenly ten years old again and living in Bishop’s parents’ house, locked in their bathroom while Jed Carmichael threw himself against the wood over and over again, and a less hardened Bishop whispering to her in a brief moment of reprieve, begging her to let him in.


The girl knocked again, and didn’t stop knocking. Tori rolled her eyes and opened the door. Two girls burst in; the first went straight for the toilet and spewed into the bowl while the second twisted her mouth in disgust but tried to hold back as much of the sick girl’s hair as she could. Tori stood there and laughed. The first girl, the one puking her guts out, was Shay.


Shay’s friend, another skinny blonde girl, glared up at her.


“Why the hell are you laughing? This isn’t funny!”


“Oh, if only you knew. Tell your friend to learn how to hold her liquor.”


Shay’s head slowly turned and her gaze made a laborious climb upward to Tori’s face. Spit and vomit shone on her chin, and combined with the red blotches in her cheeks and the rage in her eyes, Tori couldn’t stop herself from laughing again. At least someone at the party looked even worse than Tori did. And out of all the people there, she was vindictively happy it was Shay.


“You bitch,” Shay said. Tori looked at her. She tried not to think about Shay and Bishop together, about him touching and kissing her skin, sinking into each other. False images nailed themselves to her heart, and all at once she wanted, needed to know everything. How many times had they had sex? Did he fuck her in his car? In the passenger seat where she sat on the ride there? Where did he meet her? How well did they know each other? How much did he tell her about Tori? Nothing, she tried to convince herself. He wouldn’t tell Shay anything. He doesn’t care about her enough. She probably didn’t know what it was like growing up in the system, or with abusive parents. She probably didn’t know anything about Bishop, and even less about Tori.


“You don’t deserve him,” Tori said. It came out in a whisper, a few exhausted words that left her shoulders heavy and her muscles weak. She leaned against the door frame. Shay’s face scrunched up a little around the eyes and mouth, a tightening in her skin that made Tori believe it hurt her to hear those words, because they were true, and Shay knew that, whether she could admit it or not.


“And you think you do?”


Tori thought about the voice and text messages Bishop had left her. At first he just sounded concerned, asking where she’d gone, if she was okay. Slowly it shifted to hurt and confusion and a desperate “call me back, please” at the end of each missed call. Until finally the anger took over, and the call me back’s turned into “you win, I won’t call again.” He didn’t call or text again after that. That was three months ago.


Tori shook her head. “No. I know I don’t.” The guilt that had been bubbling just beneath the surface of her skin all day like butter in a pan began to finally burn her. Shay twisted her head and dry-heaved into the toilet bowl. Her friend up until now had been kneeling next to her with nothing else to do but awkwardly listen to the conversation, but now she returned her caretaker attention to Shay and reclaimed a few sweaty wisps of hair that had pulled loose from the masses. Tori left them, ready to find Bishop and go.

 

[melissaphilia]

THIS IS NOT A ROLEPLAY. THIS IS A WRITING SAMPLE FOR MY PERSONAL USE. PLEASE DO NOT REPLY TO THIS THREAD. FEEDBACK IS WELCOME VIA RATINGS OR PM. THANK YOU.





The setting afternoon sun cut through the glass windows of the Baudelaire Conservatory. Only a few hours of daylight remained, but inside the temperature was still well above 80*F. Nora Tate sat crossed legged on the cobblestone path that cut through the garden. In her lap lay open a sketchbook. A mug of stained water and a palette of paints rested on the ground next to her. The conservatory was popular today; or rather, the other rooms were filled with people. Nora could see them loitering on the other side of the wall, pretending to enjoy the flora around them. Most likely they were trying to lengthen their stay and avoid the winter chill outside. Not that she blamed them. To the north gray clouds were gathering; it would snow tonight.





Nora paused, lifted the brim of her hat to wipe away the beads of sweat forming at her hairline, and examined her work. Gentle bruises of pink and purple dotted the heavy paper, rendering a like image of the blooming Foxglove before her. She tapped the end of the brush against her cheek, debating. Something was missing. A spray of the genus were scattered around, all in varying shades of pinks, whites, and pale yellows. All just as beautiful, but none more so than the purple ones. Her father’s favorite. She wanted to get it right.


The clap of shoes on stone stole her attention away from her work. The footsteps were too fast, too purposeful to be a mere ambler. Still, part of her sparked at the potential for conversation, for discussion about the beauty and danger around them. Exciting, wasn’t it? To be within reach of death, close enough to touch and taste and smell it, and yet the effect of some were so instantaneous that you would leave this world with a smile on your face. Nora found it fascinating.


The newcomer stopped just behind her, his shadow stretched out next to hers. She didn’t turn from her subject. Sure enough when he spoke she recognized the voice of her teacher and uncle, Castro Tate.


“Order?” he asked.


“Lamiales.”


“Family?”


“Plantaginaceae.”


“Genus?”


“Digitalis.”


“Very good, Nora. You’ve been studying.” There was a proud smile in his voice. He knelt down next to her and looked over her shoulder at her drawing. After a moment he pointed his finger.


“It needs more depth here.”


She mixed a slightly darker violet and added a few strokes of shadows before she smiled with satisfaction. As always he was right. The addition helped the flowers reach beyond the page. Finally she looked up and smiled back at him. He stood back up. He looked alarmingly like his older brother. They had the same intelligent brown eyes, clean-shaven, and thick chestnut hair.


“We’re meeting with Dr. Graham at four.”


“I’m almost finished.” Nora jotted a few notes in the white space next to the painting and then packed away her tools in the leather satchel resting on the ground. She rose to her feet and her uncle examined her. He wore a look of disapproval.


“Is that what you’re wearing?”


Nora frowned and glanced down at herself. Instead of a proper skirt or dress she was sweat crusted and dirt stained in her work clothes. She wasn’t even wearing a corset, only an under slip. She was too slight and flat to bother with one. She began to protest, but Castro stopped her.


“No matter. We’ve no time for you to change now. Grab your coat and let’s get going.”


With only the slightest touch of regret, Nora bowed her head to hide her smile and followed her uncle out of the empty exhibit. As she passed them she spoke the names of the different plants.


“Hemlock… Mandrake… Belladonna…” At the cast iron gates she stopped and turned and shut them, locking them behind her with the key she kept on a chain around her neck. She brushed her fingers over the plaque that read “The Poison Garden – Donated by Sir Allister Tate”, and the newest inscription below it: “1840-1893”.