I felt like writing...
I like to RP.
I also like to write. I saw a challenge on "RP_me" on LJ, and figured, I'd give it a go. It was "Write an opening for an RP"
You don't need to read it. It's just brain dribble:
If he didn't need the money, he wouldn't have left the house that day.
The headline was everywhere "They're Real!" And he wanted to hide under the blankets every time he heard it. As he was fixing his morning meal, cold from the refrigerator, the evening news anchorman blared "Supernatural Creatures Have Been Discovered!" in that way that they have where they speak only in words that begin with a capital letter. He'd nearly dropped the gallon jug of bovine gore at the shock of it.
He placed it carefully on the counter, his green eyes wide, ringed all in white as he listened to the newscaster talk about how someone had been arrested, confessed, and then PROVED they were a supernatural creature. They said that they would have photos, but the person didn't seem to show up on anything except for FLIR. Here they placed a picture done in radiating colors. Two cops, red, warm, and one figure, as cool as the air around him.
That was it. They were all exposed now. Everything that so many of them had fought for, that they'd lived and died to keep secret was out in the open. They no longer had the safety of the shadows.
He watched as the news, listening to the recounted tale of how this man had bent steel bars, turned into an animal, even vanished. He listened, and he trembled, fear sharpening his fangs, blending with the green of his eyes until they became crimson. He did what one did when they had no opponent to fight. He hid. Hid in his bed with the blankets pulled up to his ears until he heard his alarm go off again. He had to go to work. Pretend he was normal. Pretend that this didn't bother him. Pretend that his co-worker's stares at his pale skin, habits of never eating or going outside during the day wasn't going to turn to suspicion, turn to pitchforks.
He collected himself, waiting till the last few moments to get out of the safe cocoon of his bed. He needed the money. Even if he had fangs, and claws, and an unnatural hunger for the blood of the living...he still had to pay his rent and bills.
He tried not to slink down the street. Tried not to listen to the people talking excitedly around him. He exhaled, and didn't inhale again, the scent of fear thick on the crowded California streets. Instead, he focused on getting to work, his shoulders hunched against the cold he didn't feel. He finally made it to the diner, pulling the door open, where he was greeted by the usual cheery shouts of his co-workers. He gave a weak, thin smile and nodded. They were his friends. They would understand that he wasn't a creature...right? That he lived mainly on a diet of animal blood, purchased. That those who did allow him to put fang to vein didn't remember it in the morning, or, if they did remember, they wanted more.
They had to know that he wouldn't hurt anyone.
"Hey Amy." he said to the cute redhead as she passed by, wafting a bowl of some sort of stew under his nose. It smelled foul, but, then again, all mortal food did.
She smiled and nodded to him as he slid into the back, grabbing his apron, tugging it on. A night waiter wasn't so bad. He got tips, and to meet a lot of people. He gave a thin smile to one of the cooks who nodded in return. He never really knew what to think of him...then again, he crushed easily. He had one on Amy, he had one on the cook....
He was probably just really lonely.
With that, he grabbed up his pen and paper, checked his tables, and set to work, introducing himself.
"Hi, my name's Mike, I'll be your server tonight!"
I also like to write. I saw a challenge on "RP_me" on LJ, and figured, I'd give it a go. It was "Write an opening for an RP"
You don't need to read it. It's just brain dribble:
If he didn't need the money, he wouldn't have left the house that day.
The headline was everywhere "They're Real!" And he wanted to hide under the blankets every time he heard it. As he was fixing his morning meal, cold from the refrigerator, the evening news anchorman blared "Supernatural Creatures Have Been Discovered!" in that way that they have where they speak only in words that begin with a capital letter. He'd nearly dropped the gallon jug of bovine gore at the shock of it.
He placed it carefully on the counter, his green eyes wide, ringed all in white as he listened to the newscaster talk about how someone had been arrested, confessed, and then PROVED they were a supernatural creature. They said that they would have photos, but the person didn't seem to show up on anything except for FLIR. Here they placed a picture done in radiating colors. Two cops, red, warm, and one figure, as cool as the air around him.
That was it. They were all exposed now. Everything that so many of them had fought for, that they'd lived and died to keep secret was out in the open. They no longer had the safety of the shadows.
He watched as the news, listening to the recounted tale of how this man had bent steel bars, turned into an animal, even vanished. He listened, and he trembled, fear sharpening his fangs, blending with the green of his eyes until they became crimson. He did what one did when they had no opponent to fight. He hid. Hid in his bed with the blankets pulled up to his ears until he heard his alarm go off again. He had to go to work. Pretend he was normal. Pretend that this didn't bother him. Pretend that his co-worker's stares at his pale skin, habits of never eating or going outside during the day wasn't going to turn to suspicion, turn to pitchforks.
He collected himself, waiting till the last few moments to get out of the safe cocoon of his bed. He needed the money. Even if he had fangs, and claws, and an unnatural hunger for the blood of the living...he still had to pay his rent and bills.
He tried not to slink down the street. Tried not to listen to the people talking excitedly around him. He exhaled, and didn't inhale again, the scent of fear thick on the crowded California streets. Instead, he focused on getting to work, his shoulders hunched against the cold he didn't feel. He finally made it to the diner, pulling the door open, where he was greeted by the usual cheery shouts of his co-workers. He gave a weak, thin smile and nodded. They were his friends. They would understand that he wasn't a creature...right? That he lived mainly on a diet of animal blood, purchased. That those who did allow him to put fang to vein didn't remember it in the morning, or, if they did remember, they wanted more.
They had to know that he wouldn't hurt anyone.
"Hey Amy." he said to the cute redhead as she passed by, wafting a bowl of some sort of stew under his nose. It smelled foul, but, then again, all mortal food did.
She smiled and nodded to him as he slid into the back, grabbing his apron, tugging it on. A night waiter wasn't so bad. He got tips, and to meet a lot of people. He gave a thin smile to one of the cooks who nodded in return. He never really knew what to think of him...then again, he crushed easily. He had one on Amy, he had one on the cook....
He was probably just really lonely.
With that, he grabbed up his pen and paper, checked his tables, and set to work, introducing himself.
"Hi, my name's Mike, I'll be your server tonight!"