Lexi's Composition Notebook
So, I thought I'd share some of my work before diving into some RPs. Feel free to comment; I'm always looking for constructive criticism or... constructive praise? Lol. Kidding. I know I'm new. And awkward.
Moving on.
Here I'll probably put a mis-match of one-shot scenes, musings, writings, etc. I'll put some author's notes at the top of each post before the writing so hopefully... You're not... too... confused..?
I'll look back down at the ground now.
Last edited by LexiZone; 10-20-2016 at 01:21 AM.
One-Shot Scene
*Author's Notes* This is what plays in my mind whenever I hear this song (linked on the title of the song). Have a look...
. dance with the devil [breaking benjamin] .
The masquerade was just the beginning.
Becks had one job for this mission, and it was the job she absolutely despised. She argued, pleaded, even tried to lock herself in her little cubby of a room in the underground; but they still made her do it.
She couldn’t decide which was worse: the fact that they forced her to dress up to look like some ridiculous princess… Or the fact that the dress was colourful. No one else would be wearing any colour at this masquerade, and they were forcing her into a dark plum coloured ball gown.
“When I die, their asses are going to be haunted,” Becks grumbled bitterly under her breath as the taxi slowed. “I swear on my own grave. They’re...”
The twenty-two year old trailed off, hazel eyes staring at the mansion in awe. Most of the building had been torn apart in the initial destruction of Earth as everyone had known it; what used to be white brick was permanently stained with black from the fires of Hell, broken glass in every window, the roof barely holding itself up. But when the flickering light of the heatless fire pits that lined the walkway to the entrance hit the building just right, the opaquely black night sky giving ways to endless shadows, an eerie beauty swept over the environment like a welcoming fog.
Welcome, Rebecca. To the End.
One of the many servants, a sickly-thin looking man dressed in a black tuxedo with singed holes in the fabric, opened the cab’s back door for Becks to step out. Boney fingers of the man’s deathly pale hand reached out, offering her a hand out of the back seat of the vehicle. She quickly declined, keeping both hands on the rather full-skirt of the gown as she stood up straight.
Stepping onto the walkway, she nervously pulled at the black silk shawl to be tighter to her shoulders. Such a contrast between the dark plum of the gown, the porcelain paleness of her own skin. It had taken a very long, hot bath to get the amount of air soot that usually clung to her, staining her skin with a slight grey tinge. That was the only alone time she had been given in the underground before being primped and pampered. Pale skin clean, dark brown hair brushed, washed, and pulled back in a classic updo, and two inch heels to give a little more height to her 5-foot 4-inch frame. She felt like she was missing something…
“Miss?” the servant whispered hoarsely to get her attention. She glanced unsurely over her shoulder and he handed her the mask. “You l-l-left this in the taxi.”
A small smile crossed her pink-glossed lips and she nodded a very slight ‘thank you’, afraid that if she spoke her voice would give away her nerves. She took the mask from him and turned back to face the mansion. “Okay… Just… Breathe…” she whispered to herself.
The inside of the mansion was more hauntingly breathtaking than the outside. The entryway was empty aside from the lingering scent of brimstone; the broken floor tiles crunching weakly under her high-heeled shoes. The ground beneath the tiles was still solid, but the sound still made her hold her breath, as if she was expecting to fall right through into the realm of the Dead. She walked further, following a hallway lined with paintings of past Presidents; each painting ripped, burned, and defaced with the stain of red blood. It was a hallway of remains. Painful reminders of what used to be.
As she neared the main ballroom, the lights still a flicker of heatless orange flames, Becks could hear the faint sound of a string ensemble playing a very beautiful, lively waltz. Which seemed so much the opposite of what the mood should have been, with the dilapidated ruins of a building that used to house a world leader and the type of guests expected at the soiree.
She stopped suddenly, her breath caught in her throat as her shaking hands brought the mask to her face. The mask fit like a glove; a feminine plum colour that matched her dress with sharp, silver-glittered wisps of lines following the shape of the mask. Her movements felt weighted, as if she could collapse under the pressure of gravity at any moment. Breathe, she told herself, finally remembering to inhale.
This was her time.
She entered the ballroom, trembling hands holding the full skirt of her gown in order to calm the nerves. Her own eyes peered through her mask at the large gathering, careful not to make eye contact with the eyes that peered back at her. As alive as the eyes seemed to be that stared right through her, giving her an internal chill, the scent of death hung heavy in the air. Becks wanted to cringe at the smell; wanted to turn around and run away from the place.
Fear twisted her stomach into knots as she slowly made her way through the crowd of well-dressed people, feeling each pair of eyes she passed wearing her down little by little. It wasn’t until she slowed her pace, feeling his gaze, that she remembered to breathe once more. For a gaze that was as cold as winter air in the dead of night, the fear in her stomach began to warm, a feeling of relief of a familiar set of eyes watching her before she could see him.
“Rebecca.”
His voice was firm, but comforting; like being wrapped in a warm fuzzy blanket before lying down on the cold cement floor. She was surprised that he ended up behind her, having not even noticed that she had passed him in the crowd. She turned slowly, a very small smile crossing her lips. She didn’t want to reveal too much of her fears at once, especially in his presence.
“Luke.”
Her voice was shaking.
The young man approached her in a gliding stride, creating the illusion that he was floating across the floor. Even in her heels, he still stood head and shoulders over her; short black hair tousled stylishly, black eyes hidden behind a crimson red mask with black outline. His pale skin gave more colour to the mask and the completely black ensemble he wore: a fitted tuxedo with dress shirt and narrow tie, the only accent against the black being the crimson red handkerchief in the pocket.
“Let’s dance.”
His voice was sensual as he took her hand before she could object, guiding her easily to the other dancers as she continued to stare, just dazed by his appearance. Her hand still trembled in his, her gaze finally focusing on her surroundings once more. He always had that way with her… The sudden loss of reality as she caught sight of his black eyes; staring into an eternity of darkness.
Her body tensed when he turned around to face her again, his left hand resting on her side, his right hand holding her left as they stood close, her right hand on his shoulder as they readied to waltz. The sound of the string ensemble grew louder, bolder, suddenly an entire symphony orchestra of song as he lead her in the dance. Her hazel eyes stared up into his as she took very slow breaths, each step they took together feeling lighter and lighter. The peering eyes and the scent of death only grew stronger, the people only looking like shadows in her peripheral vision. The lights from delicate chandeliers hanging above dimmed, the music taking over any other noises she may have heard. The shadows grew longer, darker, her grip tightening on his shoulder and hand for reassurance.
In the back of her mind, she heard a faint whisper.
“Say goodbye. The dance has begun.”
Rough Draft
*Author's Notes* My friend had started writing a story, turning a RP forum into a "real life" in which members were taken and turned against each other in order to live/survive/entertain-the-overwatcher type thing. I wrote this as a beginning for my character aka me.
an epilogue.
Sometimes the adventures in my mind were all I had.
I was always an outsider looking in; always that girl who watched from behind the stage as everyone else played out their lives. I’d try to participate, try to feel like part of something, but was just pushed promptly into the background.
I used my imagination to feel less alone. Used it to feel like I was a part of something and accepted. I would have close friends, people who understood me.
People who would trust me. Love me. Save me.
And I would be the person I wanted to be; the one who would be heard, thought about, even envied.
In the adventures in my mind.
Then I was offered a new reality. A place that even the imagination was considered “thinking inside the box”. An escape from who I was--the outsider. Become an insider. I could be whoever I wanted to be, and then some.
No longer just in my mind.
I had no idea that they would still force me to fight. Kill. Destroy other people’s havens.
The safety inside their own adventures in their minds.
One-Shot Scene
*Author's Notes* Something from my little-bit-rustier days, but I dream of my mafia princess being more than just a scene all the time... One day maybe she will be. Until then, at least there's this.
life of crime: tales of a mafia princess
"working the night away"
She still walked with a sway in her hips and a smirk across her crimson-coloured lips. The evening of work was still young so she was still in decent spirits; not even the light rain could bring her down. She wore a black, belted trench coat with the collar up to defend the rain drops. Her long blonde hair was tied in a low ponytail to the left, her hair falling in front of her shoulder. Black stiletto heels clicked on the sidewalk, her hand absently fixing the black fedora that she always wore when working—it was fun to imitate what the history books seemed to perceive as “proper mafia attire”.
The neighbourhood was not one of her favourite ones to walk in this time of night. The shadows were a little too long, the buildings looking a little too abandoned. She tried not to let the atmosphere phase her, though; the job was a simple money pick up, nothing more.
“You sure pick a helluva place to meet these people,” she heard her right hand man, Sly, mumble under his breath. He was a thin, naturally tan-skinned man, who still managed to stand three inches taller than her when she wore her three inch heels (which would top her at about 5’11” tall). He wore a leather jacket over his dress shirt and dark wash jeans, his black hair slicked back from the rain.
Angela let out a small, faint laugh, glancing at her friend from the corner of her eyes. “Hey, I would have picked a fine dining restaurant. Unfortunately, my father decides to associate himself with the scum of the city.”
“I would too,” Sly agreed. “Easy money. I still think you should’ve picked the muscle over me. These guys think they can intimidate a pretty thing like you.”
She stopped walking abruptly, trying to hide her smile from the compliment. “I’m sure you’ll be enough muscle. This guy is just a little late on his account payment. Not like he’s a bookie.”
Sly merely shrugged, letting out a quiet sigh when she turned and continued to walk down the block. They walked the remaining few blocks in silence before the two stopped in front of a closed down arcade. Angela absently shot a glance at Sly, her brown eyes almost daring him to say something about the meeting place. “The people down on their luck will take what they can,” she said before he could come up with a witty comment.
She didn’t even knock, opening the unlocked door and stepping inside. The windows had been boarded up five years ago, and the odor in the dank building confirmed it. She kept a solid, serious mask on though, despite her desire to cringe at the smell of… what was it? A mixture of mold and rats? Disgusting.
“Oh Benny,” she called out while Sly propped the door wide open to let as much light into the dark room as possible. She found a light switch as she heard a scuffling of old shoes on the laminate flooring; light filled the cramped space once the switch was flipped. “What, didn’t want to clean up even though you were expecting company?”
A small man who resembled the rats that still crawled in these walls poked his head out from behind a broken down Pac-Man arcade machine. Angela had to make a second effort not to cringe; the man probably hadn’t slept, let alone showered, in days. His greying brown hair was falling out in clumps—probably from the stress of having gotten into trouble with the wrong people—his blue eyes bugged with fear as he looked right at Angela.
“Oh, M-Miz Di Rizzo,” he stuttered apologetically, quickly pressing a winter hat over his head in order to hide the embarrassing bald spots. “You’re early.”
“Actually, I’m fashionably late,” she replied nonchalantly. She kept her hands in the pockets of her trench coat; she didn’t want to touch anything in this dirt-and-mold infested store. “You remember you owe a little money from your latest gambling escapade, right?”
“Uh, y-yes ma’am.”
Her brown eyes darkened as she glared at the small man. She hated being referred to as “ma’am”. She wasn’t old enough to be a “ma’am”; she was only 25 years young. “And you remember that we agreed on a very reasonable payment plan for you, right?” she asked, her voice beginning to turn to ice. He was wasting her time.
“Uh, a-about that…”
“Ah, ah, Benny,” she interrupted, tilting her head to the side almost mockingly. “We planned a very reasonable payment schedule for you, but you still decide to disrespect us by not handing in your payments on time.”
“I-I have it! I swear!”
Angela glanced at Sly, who had decided to lean against the open door. She nodded and he silently, almost boredly, stood up straight and approached the small man. Benny stood at attention before scurrying to the back of the store, where Angela could only assume stood his living quarters. Sly followed him. She walked slowly around the main area while she waited, looking at the unplugged stand-up arcade games, her heels clicking.
She stopped walking when she suddenly heard a shuffle of feet then a crash, followed by a weak groan in pain. She walked towards the back, finding Sly holding the poor man over his small kitchen table, Benny’s arm twisted behind his back.
“He’s got nothing, Ange,” Sly confirmed. “Though he does have a frying pan he thought would make a good weapon.”
Angela tisked softly under her breath as she slowly approached Benny, Sly not letting go. Benny’s free hand still held a rusted and warped frying pan. “Benny, you’re only making your hole much deeper,” she said quietly as she easily took the frying pan from the man’s hand. “You don’t want my father to send the others here with a shovel to finish the hole, do you?”
“I’ll have it tomorrow!” Benny pleaded weakly as Angela examined the frying pan. “I promise! I swear on my childrens’ graves!”
“You don’t have any children, Benny,” she replied boredly. “Lying to me and swearing on non-existent childrens’ graves is not helping your case.”
Angela placed the frying pan on the counter of the small makeshift kitchen. She absently opened cupboards and drawers until she found what she was looking for. She took the jagged but dulled steak knife from its safe hiding place in the back of the utensil drawer and turned around to face Benny, who was currently trying to cry. No tears were coming—yet.
“We want our money by tomorrow, Benny,” she cooed almost reassuringly as her index finger ran softly over the blade. “If you don’t have it, at least have the decency to steal a shovel from a hardware store and start the digging yourself.”
The grip Sly had on the man suddenly tightened, his free hand clamping the man’s wrist still on the table. With a swift stab, the steak knife was driven into the flesh between the knuckles of Benny’s index and middle fingers. He screamed in pain, tears easily flowing from his eyes now.
Angela left the knife to stand in the man’s hand, nodding to Sly again. Sly let go of Benny, wiping his hands against his jacket in hopes to get the touch of low-life off his hands. The two walked out of the abandoned arcade, the only other sound aside from Benny’s cries being the clicks of Angela’s heels before she turned out the lights, Sly closing the door behind them.
One-Shot Scene
*Author's Notes* Another scene-inspired-by-song. Actually, this happened... Aside from the very last question. Promise.
. california love [2pac ft. dr. dre] .
The water was the perfect temperature; the perfect pressure coming from the shower head. The warm overhead lighting shone above the shower curtain, the pale colour of the tiles leaving no traces of shadow. Beads of water trailed down my back like snails creeping along my skin as I slowly opened my eyes, feeling like I had just awoken from a dream. The steam accumulating in the confined room added to the dream-atmosphere; the water felt unfamiliar, but the surroundings were just the same. I was in my own bathroom; in my own apartment.
The wall tiles need to be cleaned.
I move my face closer to the wall so my eyes could focus. Right there, between the tiles… They needed to be scrubbed. My index finger reached up in front of my eyes, touching the grime. It was rough; but not as rough as the look of my dirty finger nails. My nose scrunched up slightly, wondering how I had made such a mess…
I turned slowly on my heels so I faced the stream of water. The temperature was still perfect. Droplets hit just below my collarbone as I lifted my chin towards the ceiling, the rhythm soothing my mind once more. My body swayed slightly under the water, a fruity aroma of soap rising into the air as I washed--no--scrubbed my body. There was music… More upbeat so I started to bounce instead of sway to the song. Had it always been playing? Didn’t matter; it was a good song, and I was nodding my head; my eyes closed to take in the music and the water.
I turned around to wash my back and suddenly stopped. My left hand held the loofa tight, mid-reach behind me. My eyes opened, a frown on my face as my mind raced. I was back, no more dreaming.
I remember walking to my bedroom… Undressing… It was mechanic. I remember not even thinking about it; I just closed the door, turned on my shower speaker, turned on the hot water…
But how did I get here?
And more importantly…
Who did I kill?
Last edited by LexiZone; 11-07-2016 at 04:27 AM.
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