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Post by FISCHER CHRISTIAN MOORE on Jan 2, 2012 0:40:30 GMT -5
[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: 363636; width: 370px; padding-top: 30; padding-bottom: 30;]wretched, look at me, i've lost it  melting on the table, in parking lots and markets. Hazy. Dark. Alone. Fischer wandered down the hallway of the townhouse he shared with his beloved wife, Camille. He heard her cry out distinctly, and rushed into the room they shared. ”Barren!” |
[/i] She shouted at him, hurling a pillow. The pillow hit him squarely in the face before he knew what was happening. “Camille, Cammy!” He rushed over to her, attempting to wrap an arm around her. She shrieked and clawed at his face. Blood gushed all over the pure white comforter. He let loose a low, guttural growl. Tears spilled from his eyes as he looked at his wife in a red haze. Her face was distorted, her voice shrill.[/blockquote] Awakened with a start, Fischer sighed and shook his head. He rubbed his bleary eyes vigorously. He had fallen asleep in the lounge, again. Fischer had been doing that quite frequently as of late. The professor stayed up late at night, plagued with nightmares. Though, he would never admit to such a thing. He stretched his arms above his head and let out a satisfied groan. Then he glanced around the lounge, relieved that nobody was around. It would have been embarrassing if someone had walked in and caught him sacked out. He rubbed his neck absently and then crossed the room to the couch. Fischer plopped down heavily onto the cushion and rested his head on his hand. He lifted his feet onto the coffee table in front of him, and grabbed the remote. He figured that watching the news might calm his frazzled nerves. Fischer had no idea why he had been so on edge recently. He felt like something big was going to happen, something shattering. With his history, the entire idea freaked him out. Anything that could change his situation was automatically labeled as disastrous. The professor couldn’t stomach much change. Fischer bit his lip as he flipped through the channels. He crossed his legs at the ankle and slumped more in the cushion. He felt stuck. He was drifting, and didn’t know what he was doing. He paused at the news, but then changed his mind. It wasn’t what he wanted to hear. He didn’t want to watch people bitch about how much taxes were going to raise if this presidential candidate got office, or how New Zealand was doing after their natural disaster. At least, he thought it was New Zealand. Whatever, who cared? The people of the country knew the risks of living there, and continued to do so. Why should he give them his hard earned money to keep repeating their mistake? Maybe if they lived in a safe place, they wouldn’t have those issues. He could feel himself scowling, so he moved to restrain it. His face was always so expressional. Some people believed that they eyes were the key to the soul, but he disagreed. His thoughts were usually splayed across his face prominently. You didn’t need to dig very deep to know what he was thinking. Sometimes his lack of control over his facial expressions led him into trouble. Though he was blunt, the art studios professor tried to distance himself emotionally from people. Despite his best efforts, sometimes Fischer wasn’t able to hold himself entirely away. It was especially evident when the professor spoke with his teaching assistant, Trey Bishop. Subtly, his face grew more animated when they conversed. Some people were able to pick up on it, but Fischer himself wasn’t. He believed that he was above making mistakes like that. Nobody would think he was overly warm to any one person, surely. Fischer finally settled on a crime investigative show. Those types of shows were his secret vice, though he would deny it adamantly if anyone asked. As he watched, cemented an idea in his head of a painting he wanted to do. Painting was one of the professor’s favorite ways to pass the time. He was currently engaged in working on a portrait for the Dean. He wasn’t especially fond of doing portraits. There wasn’t much room for creativity. At least, that’s what he thought. People got angry when you experimented with their faces. Fischer didn’t really blame them. He wouldn’t want to be portrait with an enormous nose if his nose was, in fact, normal. However, most people had no self-concept. You could paint them almost exactly, and the person would find fault with something that was done perfectly. Sometimes the Art Studios Professor lost hope in pleasing people, but usually he didn’t let critical comments bother him. If anything, critique spurred him on to continue doing his work in his own way. He was always telling his students to cultivate a style. Once they’ve achieved a style, perfect it! Many people thought he was annoying, but there were always a few who actually took his advice. Those were his favorites. He gave them glowing references, and often displayed their work anywhere he found space. Gunshots on the television re-claimed his attention. He leaned forward slightly and put his head in his palm. The lead detective was an attractive man. He was the epitome of masculinity. Fischer felt jealousy brewing in the pit of his stomach. The detective was a hulking, scowling, monster of a man. He was the bad cop of the duo. His partner was a small, petite female who looked like she would snap at the slightest touch. She was a marked contrast to her partner. If he was stuck in a tricky situation, he was sure he wouldn’t choose her to help him out. She was sort of attractive in a very understated way. Her hair and features alone were unremarkable. However, when you put the whole picture together she could be counted on to draw eyes. Her cheekbones were prominent, and her slender body possessed a few curves. He found his mouth curling with distaste. The woman reminded him a whole lot of Camille. He wasn’t sure why, but the woman carried herself much in the same way that his ex-wife did. The thought infuriated him. Anger replaced the jealousy in his stomach. He let out a roar and hurled the remote in the general direction of the television. It was a good thing he had lousy aim, so he didn’t have to replace it. The remote bounced off of the wall. As it crashed to the floor the batteries flew out. Fischer grumbled about nothing in particular as he hobbled over to pick up the pieces and put the thing back together before someone walked in. He wouldn’t be happy to have someone see him so frazzled. [/div] words 1,100 | tagged; SPENCE | This really sucks. xP [/center][/td][/tr][/td][/tr][/table][/center] |
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Post by trey CALVIN bishop on Jan 3, 2012 3:58:56 GMT -5
[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width,400,true][atrb=style, background-image:url(http://colourlovers.com.s3.amazonaws.com/images/patterns/0/635.png)][atrb=style, padding: 10px;]  --- WATCH OUT --- ~~~ smoother than the la weather that's how he holds himself together
Things were very much the same for Trey Bishop, at least. Nothing changed in his life. He was comfortable with that. Everything was precise, organized into blocks of time and each block sorted into a section of each day, into a category like 'school' and 'personal'. He got up at 4:58 AM every morning and had his coffee and an egg in a basket. At 6:05 he went for his morning run and at 6:45 he returned to have his shower and from there he made his way to the school to start his work day. He'd set up in the professors' housing, at his own request really. The original plan was for him to live in a proper apartment away from the school but somehow he'd managed to weasel his way into getting a proper living arrangement on campus. Trey had been called persuasive by some, manipulative by others, but he'd only ever call himself right.
It was for that reason, the living on campus reason, that Trey was almost always at the school. It was his work! It was his career, his job, his life-long ambition! He was devoted as hell, thank you. Yes, there had been a short time where he wanted to be a cop, but that petered out before too long and what he was left with was his desire to be a teacher. But that wasn't right. He wanted to be a professor. He wanted to be the dean, to have his own school, to be the one in control. Trey never really thought about his reasoning too much. He just... wanted. It wasn't that he wanted the power, it was just the responsibility. Trey liked taking care of things and he was good at it, thank you.
Coffee cup in one hand, old files in the other, tie loose around his neck and jacket hung over his shoulder, the male stalked through the professor's lounge on his way to the file room. He passed one of his professors entirely, missing the man on the couch and not glancing back once. He had his coffee, he had a mission, he was simply passing through. And thankfully Fischer Moore didn't seem to notice him at all. The assistant went about filing his papers absently. Some people would hum, others would slouch or drag their feet. Trey was as professional on the job as he was off it. His life was professional. He dressed the same all week and spoke the same, acted the same. It was interesting how some people were different when they were teaching compared to how they were normally. It felt... disloyal. Not that Trey was a great advocate for honesty. It wasn't that he was a liar, it was just that he... manipulated the truth tactfully to get his way. And more often than not, it worked. Because he was careful and he was smart, he had a way with words and he was good at pretending that he was capable of feeling things like empathy.
It wasn't until that vocalization of some emotion Trey wasn't familiar with and the sound of something breaking that the younger male poked his head out of the filing room, still holding his coffee. There in the lounge was the one professor he still felt he had to impress. Professor Fischer Moore. Also known to some of his students as 'Fish'. He seemed... distraught.
"Hello there." The words were light, considering the situation. Clearly something was going on that Trey had no part in. Professor Moore looked tired, skin a bit crinkled like he'd fallen asleep on patterned fabric. His hair was mussed and he generally looked a bit frazzled. The man did have a generally ruffled look a good deal of the time, but it was still a contained kind of ruffle. A clean dirty. Today was different.
"Can I... get you some coffee?" The construction of the words was awkward, but Trey's voice never changed. It was always very smooth. Not so much calm as just even. It made sensing his emotions, minute as they were, rather difficult. Unlike Fischer there ere very few changes in his physical presence or voice to indicate a change in emotion. He was constant. Static. The same.
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Post by FISCHER CHRISTIAN MOORE on Jan 14, 2012 22:19:21 GMT -5
[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: 363636; width: 370px; padding-top: 30; padding-bottom: 30;]wretched, look at me, i've lost it melting on the table, in parking lots and markets.
Fischer almost jumped at the smooth voice of his Teaching Assistant. Almost. He had honestly thought he was alone in the room. He hadn’t suspected that he had an audience. He tugged at the collar of his shirt, suddenly feeling stifled. “I uh..” He paused to clear his throat. He wondered just how much Trey had seen of his outburst, but he was afraid to ask. He didn’t like feeling vulnerable, but he wasn’t sure just where this situation put him. “ ‘Ello.” He finished lamely, nodding at the man. He felt strangely out of it, but he was quick to recover. “Lovely day, eh?” He smiled slowly, the corners of his lips twitching. It was just like him to brush off his dilemma and try to direct the attention somewhere else. Most of the time it worked, but he didn’t underestimate Trey. If he wanted to pursue what had just occurred, Fischer knew that he would.
“Coffee sounds absolutely fantastic, actually.” He jumped on the offer. If anything, it would help him regain his composure that much more quickly. Not to mention it would take the edge off of his headache. “What brings you here?” He asked, cocking his head to the side. He knew that the lounge was a place for relaxation, but he had never really taken Trey as the type of person who would find much amusement here. Most of the professors were stiff, and unfriendly. He tried to spend as little time as possibly with his contemporaries, himself. He felt as if he couldn’t measure up. He hated the feeling of any of them breathing down his neck. He was different than the rest of them. Even if they didn’t know, he did. Usually he was pretty good at fitting in with whomever he needed to, but lately it had been a hard pill to stomach. He had just stopped trying.
Fischer stretched his arms above his head. He rubbed his stubble absent-mindedly. It was something of a nervous tick for him. Whenever he was even relatively unsure of something, he would play with his stubble. “Done anything interesting lately, Mr. Bishop?” He attempted to keep the conversation away from himself. There was no way in hell that he wanted to reveal anything. His own personal demons were just that, personal. They were not meant to be discussed in a professional setting. Even though he had had a melt-down, he didn’t feel as if the nature of it was anyone else’s business. He smoothed his hand over his rumpled shirt, grimacing when he realized how he must look. He contemplated leaving, but there was really no point. He knew he would just drift right back as soon as he had taken care of some things at home. There wasn’t much for him to do during his spare time besides work on pieces and grade papers. He sure as hell didn’t have much of a personal life.
words 491 | tagged; SPENCE | I'm sorry. D: |
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