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Apathy's Omega! Holy hell! xD I didn't even realize it was you until I got to wondering and checked. Haha, this is nice. I hate that Omega died, really, but I love the idea you have behind your story. ^^
Quite awhile since the last time we talked. How have you been?
Name: Dravin Micheal Hoffman
Nicknames: Neco
Nationality: German with a hint of Dutch.
Age: seventeen || 17
Class: Junior
Status: Sheep
Appearance:
Personality:
Biography:
Schedule:
>>>>>Creative Writing
>>>>>Probability and Statistics
>>>>>Anatomy
>>>>>Sociology
>>>>>Latin
>>>>>String Ensemble
Extra Curricular:
>>>>>Soccer
>>>>>Debate
Likes:
Dislikes:
Theme Song:
Extra:
Sample:
lollipop-heart-stab Like clockwork, one might describe the morning's processions. From the earlier than sin wake-up calls to the outlandish display of insanity, that seemed to grasp the house as of late, there was little to nothing that could be proclaimed as "normal" in the start of the house(or rather estate)'s daily routine. Not to say that anything would, or even could, be considered a normality in the house. In which case everything that seemed to happen was of a "normal" state of affairs within this place. Without any normal activity nothing could be considered abnormal, save what was considered abnormal to the normalcy of the house that was. With abnormal being the "norm" and the normal being the "ab", there really wasn't much cause for sane or logic thought while in the presence of those who dwelled within these walls.
The only one to have not grasped the concept as a resident made his debut with a flamboyant display of what the house could easily consider abnormal behavior. The man had been there as long as any of them and still he refused to allow things to flow smoothly. Things, somehow, still seemed to surprise him with the little flower so appropriately named as she was. The way the man, Terrance, acted bordered lined superbly irritating and mildly amusing to the girl listening from the fairly large kitchen. Depending on her mood she may find something as simple and childish as embarrassment humorous, or perhaps blood curdling. It was a toss of chance with Zea, really. Left up to chance and what side of the bed she managed to wake up on that morning.
The room of dried blood, as Stormy had named it so lovingly, was one of Zea's favorite in the house. Next to her own room, of course. It usually smelled of citrus, which on it's own was a lift to the senses, and the color made her feel warm and cozy. Besides the occasional dumbass remark or display of stupidity, it was quite the lively and enjoyable place to spend a few hours of one's day. Too bad the idea of stupidity had manifested its self in the form of the twit known as Terrance. The man was pretty much useless, in every sense of the word. He couldn't cook, he could hardly make anything interesting, he was damn close to utterly being close minded and the man was so homosexual he couldn't think straight(excuse the pun). Yes, indeed, he was a complete waste of space as far as Zea was concerned. Unless, of course, he provided some much needed entertainment at his own expense. This happened to be quite frequently.
But the display of adoring affection that morning was quite amusing, to say the least. Even as she turned the temperature of the stove top down she listened to yet another morning of the usual. The usual being; Stormy get up, Stormy declare she's up to the world, grumpy old sourpuss wakes up to deliberation, sourpuss is bewildered at normalcy of house, Stormy p0w3ns. The End. Zea was normally up a good deal before the other occupants of their lovely home, slaving over a hot stove because no one else seemed competent enough to feed them. Zea didn't mind, for with great power comes great leverage.
Moments after Terrance had fully indulged himself with the spew of word vomit, for the morning's festivities at lest, there came a rush of air past his face. A small line of blood, merely a scrape, appeared across the man's left cheek. What had done this, one might ask? At first glance it would appear nothing, but a slow glace to the left of Terry's head would give the answer. For there, stuck in the wall, was a thick, sharp metal pronged instrument (presumably a fork) protruding from the wall. It still rang from the force of its flight, from a launch pad known as the extended hand of the 'almighty' Zea. The only evidence that it had been her was in her dropping hand, that and the slight gleam in her eye that could only mean trouble.
She kept her pace up, her simple boxer shorts and tank top clearly a sign she had yet to change that morning, until she stood at Stormy's side. A glance from Terry, where her eyes had been, to Stormy and back again only resulted in a raised eyebrow, "She has just as much right to run around here bare-chested as you do, dear Terrance. So why don't you go put a shirt on, like a good little boy, or Shut the hell up. " she let a little grin form on her lips, "Or I could oblige you with another utensil." It was no secret that Zea had a...rather strange liking to abuse, physical or otherwise. It was also a well known fact that she relished in the torment of others. The threat of "another utensil" was one that would, no doubt, include greater pain than a mere scratch. The overall affect was greatly enhanced with bloody apron tied around her waistline and neck.
As if there hadn't even been the slightest hint of a threat on anyone's life a moment ago, Zea chimed in with, "Now then, go eat your breakfast...before I decide to eat it myself." It was the type of thing you just didn't argue with, or question for that matter. Especially when your "chef" told you to eat. Believe it or not Zea took offense to those whom neglected to indulge in her meals. Making the decision to no partake in one of her oh-so-lovely meals, had a good chance of having the next one poisoned. Depending on your rejection, one might much more possibly end up with something carved into them; or something removed, just depending.
Nearing the kitchen there grew a sweet aroma in the air of, indeed it was, breakfast. On the center island, next to the first stove and oven, sat the promised delectable. Eggs, bacon, sausage, muffins, french toast, a fruit platter and hash browns. Zea herself was a pig, eating more than a girl her size would be capable of, and more yet. She naturally just assumed that everyone else ate as she did, therefore a reasonable cause to fix a deluxe meal. This was a kind act, correct? A gesture of pure generosity, no? A token of appreciation to her fellow housemates? Errrrr. Zea might very well prepare the food, but to hell if she was going to clean it up. If she was gracious enough to feed them, they could deal with clean up; if they wanted another meal in their bellies, that was.
 lollipop-heart-stab · Wed May 14, 2008 @ 06:49am · 0 Comments |
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