Post by Chance Harebell on Mar 13, 2006 20:38:24 GMT -5
((I'm thinking of entering this in a contest, so I'd like honest opinions on it. I think it starts to drag on near the end... I did have fun with it though. I always have fun inventing characters.))
The Unfinished Character
Hell tempted me. Life scared me. I laughed at Heaven for being out of my grasp.
What is it like to be a figment of someone’s imagination, hanging in limbo until my creator dies and I either disappear entirely or become an immortal written into the paper of some book? I have been entirely created from those first three lines, and my development will be told like a story.
First, is my soul. My creator always starts there first. My soul will be strong and fearsome, yet hurt and weak at the same time. The words that come to my creator’s mind to describe that part of me are ‘a creature of flame.’ One who lashes out and burns anyone who tries to touch me, but also one who falls to ashes when subjected to rain. I will have willpower that never quits on me until something traumatic puts me in my place and crushes my fragile existence.
I’ll be slender and wiry, strong but mostly built for speed. I will be clever, quick to make a jab at someone, and quick to turn an insult to my advantage. My eyes will be yellow, like a cat’s, and slanted, showing clearly that my intentions are never innocent. I will know what I’m doing and use it to my advantage.
I will be female, with all the wiles of a vixen, getting my way with a wink or a smile that I’ll never truly mean. My hair will be red, kept back in a long braid that trails down my back. I’ll be short, like my creator, but full of spirit and fight.
My clothing will be tight jeans, cut off halfway down my calves, with many holes. My shirt will be an old green tank top, my arms bared to the elements. My shoes, when I wear them, will be small and light, a dull brown color because I don’t care enough to buy a good pair.
I won’t be human. My personality couldn’t possibly be contained in a human body, forced to follow the silly human rules. I will be one of the shadows, a demon of sorts.
I will have a chilling, mocking laugh that will make people feel smaller than me, a way to make up for my lack of height. I’ll always be filled with an unquenchable rage that drives me to make myself stronger, smarter, more. I will hate anyone who surpasses me and sneer at those who haven’t made it to my level, competing with those who are equal in strength, and thus I will always be alone.
My favorite color will be red, the color of the deepest flame in a fire. My age I will keep to myself always, along with many other secrets.
I will have no family, and I will never tell anyone why that is. I have left those memories behind, or so I will tell myself. Really, they are buried in my complex mind and will gradually tear me apart.
And one day, someone will stop me, either someone who loves me enough to hold me down, or someone who hates me enough the destroy my twisted self and rid the world of me. My name will be...
For now my creator will not give me a name, though I beg and plead, nagging at the back of her mind for her to complete my character. To give me a name would mean that I truly exist and I would become part of some intricate story she has fabricated. I will become immortal.
Or perhaps I will always float in limbo. I admit, I am slightly afraid of being real, of life. My instincts yearn for the thrill, though. Perhaps Hell would be better. It certainly is tempting.
And Heaven. Ha. I have never tried to gain passage there and never will. It is too much trouble for my weary soul.
For now, I am in limbo still, with no name but at least a past, a self, and a personality to ponder and a creator to bother. I am unfinished.
The Unfinished Character
Hell tempted me. Life scared me. I laughed at Heaven for being out of my grasp.
What is it like to be a figment of someone’s imagination, hanging in limbo until my creator dies and I either disappear entirely or become an immortal written into the paper of some book? I have been entirely created from those first three lines, and my development will be told like a story.
First, is my soul. My creator always starts there first. My soul will be strong and fearsome, yet hurt and weak at the same time. The words that come to my creator’s mind to describe that part of me are ‘a creature of flame.’ One who lashes out and burns anyone who tries to touch me, but also one who falls to ashes when subjected to rain. I will have willpower that never quits on me until something traumatic puts me in my place and crushes my fragile existence.
I’ll be slender and wiry, strong but mostly built for speed. I will be clever, quick to make a jab at someone, and quick to turn an insult to my advantage. My eyes will be yellow, like a cat’s, and slanted, showing clearly that my intentions are never innocent. I will know what I’m doing and use it to my advantage.
I will be female, with all the wiles of a vixen, getting my way with a wink or a smile that I’ll never truly mean. My hair will be red, kept back in a long braid that trails down my back. I’ll be short, like my creator, but full of spirit and fight.
My clothing will be tight jeans, cut off halfway down my calves, with many holes. My shirt will be an old green tank top, my arms bared to the elements. My shoes, when I wear them, will be small and light, a dull brown color because I don’t care enough to buy a good pair.
I won’t be human. My personality couldn’t possibly be contained in a human body, forced to follow the silly human rules. I will be one of the shadows, a demon of sorts.
I will have a chilling, mocking laugh that will make people feel smaller than me, a way to make up for my lack of height. I’ll always be filled with an unquenchable rage that drives me to make myself stronger, smarter, more. I will hate anyone who surpasses me and sneer at those who haven’t made it to my level, competing with those who are equal in strength, and thus I will always be alone.
My favorite color will be red, the color of the deepest flame in a fire. My age I will keep to myself always, along with many other secrets.
I will have no family, and I will never tell anyone why that is. I have left those memories behind, or so I will tell myself. Really, they are buried in my complex mind and will gradually tear me apart.
And one day, someone will stop me, either someone who loves me enough to hold me down, or someone who hates me enough the destroy my twisted self and rid the world of me. My name will be...
For now my creator will not give me a name, though I beg and plead, nagging at the back of her mind for her to complete my character. To give me a name would mean that I truly exist and I would become part of some intricate story she has fabricated. I will become immortal.
Or perhaps I will always float in limbo. I admit, I am slightly afraid of being real, of life. My instincts yearn for the thrill, though. Perhaps Hell would be better. It certainly is tempting.
And Heaven. Ha. I have never tried to gain passage there and never will. It is too much trouble for my weary soul.
For now, I am in limbo still, with no name but at least a past, a self, and a personality to ponder and a creator to bother. I am unfinished.
