Upright & Outraged

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2009-10-04T03:53:10Z

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Life & Times of Rob Pattinson (Chapter Four - Thalia)

2008-10-17T15:24:34Z

Now we're getting into individual encounters. The first is with Thalia, because I'm lazy and chose the easiest character to do first--mine! Haha. Okay, I want to say beforehand...anything that you think seems romantic IS NOT. Rob's fascination with all of the women is purely intrigue--he's never met anyone like any of them before. So in this chapter, if he stops to study Thalia or marvels at something about her, it is just because she is interesting to him. It will be the same for the other three girls too. I am NOT playing favourites with my own character!
The crap-ola lyrics in this chapter are, once again, lyrics I wrote for a local band. The lyrics suck, I know, but I didn't feel like writing new ones, so nyeeh.
And besides all that...enjoy!

“When are you getting back to town?” Rob pressed his mobile closer to his ear as he walked to his car, waiting for an answer. He’d overslept because of last night’s late homecoming and for that reason didn’t get off set until mid-afternoon, which caused him to miss a lunch-date with a good friend of his who was leaving for Montana in about…ten minutes. He felt horrible.

“Three weeks,” the somber voice on the other end told him.

He popped his car door open, but paused, “Oh. That long? I am so sorry—I suck.”

“It’s all right,” the voice assured him, “You can make it up to me when I get back.”

“Uh oh,” he smiled, sliding into the driver’s seat and sliding his key into the ignition, “Now, what does that mean?” She always seemed to come up with the most creative ways of getting back at him when he screwed up. Ways that weren’t really vengeful, but definitely a teasing sort of retaliation. Dress shopping. Chick-flick marathon. And his least favourite: Thai food.

“Thai food.” He groaned as she spoke the words, though he’d been expecting them, “And dancing afterward.” He started to protest, but she cut him off, “Three weeks, Rob—and I won’t even get to see you before I leave.” Damn, damn, damn. She was too good at guilt-tripping him. Not that it was necessary, because he folded to pretty much anything she wanted anyway. She was the closest thing he had to a best friend, and his loyalties ran deep. If she’d asked him to go to Montana with her, he probably would have asked for leave from his movie right then and there. In his head, a voice told him it wasn’t just friendship driving him to such loyalty, but he wouldn’t acknowledge this. He couldn’t afford to read into things like that—couldn’t afford to risk ruining things between one of the few true friends he actually had. Maybe, if stronger friendships formed with the women from last night, he would permit himself to examine those feelings. But not yet. No, he couldn’t do that yet.

“Fine,” he sighed, pulling out on the street and starting his usual downtime, aimless drive. “But you have to wear that blue dress you hate—because it looks stunning on you, no matter what you say—and you aren’t allowed to yell at me if I step on your feet.”

“Am I allowed to hit you?”

“Not unless I break your toe.”

She pretended to sigh in reluctance at this, “Fine,” she grumbled, “I suppose that’s fair.” Then she laughed, but stopped short, “Oh, my plane is boarding. I’ll call you when I get to my hotel, okay? Bye, beautiful boy.”

“All right, then—bye, gorgeous girl.” He flipped his mobile shut and sighed, turning a corner and searching for a shoppe that would serve as an adequate distraction for a while, until something else came up. Maybe he would call one of the women. Maybe he would call a different friend or two. Maybe he would make plans to do some extra PR work. The decision was made for him twenty minutes later, as he sat by the window of a little coffee shoppe, when his mobile began to chime the tune of Duran Duran’s “Falling Down.”

“Hullo?” He answered with a bored sigh—how was it possible to be so bored in Los Angeles?

“Huh, hey I was wrong,” a female voice answered, though she seemed to be speaking to herself. “It is his real number.” Then, to him, she said, “Pattinson? It’s Thalia…Azure? From Antrim?”

“Oh?” He sat up a little straighter, “Hey, Thalia—I was actually thinking about calling later.”

“Yeah? About what?”

“Hadn’t gotten that far yet.”

“Ah,” she laughed lightly, seeming less hard and indifferent than she had in person. Talk about your phone personalities. “Well, listen—I know this is a long shot, but are you busy right now?”

“Right now?” He looked down at his empty coffee cup and the shredded napkin that encircled it. He tilted his head thoughtfully, “Not too terribly—why do you ask?”

There was a clanking sound, which Rob assumed was her putting glasses away at the bar. “Well, one of the bands from last night called me this morning and hired me to write a song for them. Trouble is, they need it by tomorrow night and I’m not sure of how well I’m really doing with the lyrics so far. Normally, in these instances, I’d ask Dreyton, but he’s in New York helping a friend with an off-Broadway musical and I don’t really know any other songwriters. So basically,” she sighed, “What I’m saying is, could you help me out?”

Rob glanced down at his watch. 1430. As long as he didn’t stay for longer than nine hours, he wouldn’t have to worry about getting little sleep and waking up late. And he wanted to see Thalia again, and help her out if he could. He was in a bit of a writing slump himself—“Break” had just been revised a tiny bit from the original version he wrote during his last year of secondary school—but he was sure he could at least give her constructive criticism. She must have mistook his silence, because she added, “Feel free to say no. I know you’re busy, and I can probably get this done with or without you. It was just a thought.”

“Oh, no,” he said quickly, “No, I want to. Are you at the bar?”

The clanking sound stopped, “I don’t live at the bar, Pattinson; I’m at my apartment. But I could meet you at Antrim, if you’re more comfortable—“

He shook his head, though he knew she couldn’t see this action. “No, I can come to your place. I’m sorry—I tend to assume things, and I tend to be wrong in my assumptions.” He slipped his jacket back over his long, wiry arms and stood, “Do you want me to go home for my guitar?”

“My brother is Dreyton Azure,” she replied in monotone, as if his question was ridiculous. “Our guitars have their own bedroom. And, god help me, I wish I was joking.”

“Point taken,” Rob laughed. He was already halfway to his car, keys jingling in his hand. “How do I get to your place?”

“Do you have GPS on your phone?” He affirmed this. “Okay, I’ll just message you the address.” She did then, and they rang off. Rob flipped his phone over the study the directions that appeared for him, and slipped into his car. He hadn’t been living in L.A. for too long, and some of the streets were still unfamiliar—Thalia lived in some upper-middle-class suburb he’d never heard of, and it took him almost a half hour to find it, though it was only about ten minutes away from where he’d started out. Suffice it to say, when he finally found her front door and knocked, he was a little aggravated. This aggravation melted away, however, when the door swung open to reveal an unfamiliar version of a woman who, in herself, was still unfamiliar. This wasn’t the dark and defensive Thalia from Antrim—not this girl wearing a white, cotton camisole over faded blue jeans, striped hair falling in natural waves to her shoulders, wire-rimmed glasses perched on her nose. For a moment, Rob wondered if he was meeting the Yin twin to Thalia’s yang. Then she opened her mouth.

“You get lost?”

He rolled his eyes and stepped past her as she moved aside, inviting him in. Her apartment was large and open, free of clutter, but still cozy and inviting. The walls were white, as were the curtains and most of the furniture—it was a very innocent, bright place and not at all what Rob had been expecting. As if sensing his reaction, Thalia insisted, “It’s all Dreyton—he’s very into brightness.”

“But you aren’t.” It wasn’t a question.

“No, not at all, but,” she looked around, head tilted, “I actually kind of like the apartment the way it is. It’s easier to think like this; easier to get inspired.” She gestured for him to sit on the plush, paper-white wraparound sofa.

He settled in with a laugh, “Ah, were that the case, you wouldn’t need me here.”

She raised an eyebrow at him, then smirked a little. It wasn’t a smile, but it was something. “Good point.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder, to the kitchen just beyond the living room, “You want anything to drink before we get started? I haven’t been shopping this month, so all we really have is coffee, but it’s the gourmet kind.”

He thought about this for a moment—white room. Everything completely pure and clean and sparkling. Coffee was dark and he had a tendency to get distracted and uncoordinated when he was working on music, so it probably wasn’t the best choice of drinks. Still, he smiled and nodded in encouragement, and Thalia disappeared into the kitchen. She came back a few minutes later with a cup in each hand, setting them on the glass coffee table before disappearing again. This time, she returned with a cherry wood acoustic guitar and a short keyboard—she handed the first to him and then settled in on the couch, laying the second instrument across her knees. She reached toward the coffee table and picked up a notebook, flipping it open and then sighing, as if to acknowledge the beginning of work.

“Okay, so the band that hired me is called Sober On Sundays—they were the ones playing when Delaney poured half a glass of beer over the edge of the balcony, remember?—and they’re an all-girl alt-rock band, originally from Monterey. They want a song about breaking up with a guy that you really love, but know he’s not right for you in the long run, and so on and so forth.” She rolled her eyes in clear abhorrence of this cliché. He didn’t blame her. “Unfortunately, I’ve never had a break-up like that, so I’m not sure if I’ve even got the right emotion to the words. Add that to the fact that writer’s block has decided to glue itself to be like my own personal bodyguard, and I am completely useless.” She stabbed the notebook furiously with a pen and growled quietly.

Rob had to press his lips together to keep from laughing. Not at her words, but by the fact that she was saying them. This was the first time he’d heard her speak so much, and also the first time he’d ever seen true emotion in her face, and hear it in her voice. So she’s not a robot, he noted silently, knowing that saying these words aloud would probably cost him a few teeth and a perfectly angular jaw. “I’m sure you’re doing fine—what have you got so far?”

She sighed through her nose and clicked her keyboard on, then tapped a few keys. It was a simple sound—slow and incomplex, and Rob could tell that she wasn’t an overly-skilled pianist—but it sounded nice enough. Like a lullaby. Then she started singing, and Rob had to admit, he was a little surprised. He hadn’t been expecting her to be tone-deaf—after all, he’d heard her sing part of the jingle last night, and it wasn’t bad—but he wasn’t expecting her to actually be good. Her voice had a slight husk to it, similar to his, and she kept a steady pitch without a lot of tricky vocal tricks, and he found that he had to force himself to focus on her lyrics.

“What would you say,” she hummed quietly, “If I said I’m leaving today? I know it’s without warning, but it’s what I’ve got to do. What would you say if I said this is the way it has to be? I know I owe you more than that, but you’ve got to think this through.” Her fingers stuttered over a key before picking up their regular pace. She didn’t even react. Her brother had taught her to be a true musician. “I’m sorry—I know it don’t make much sense. I won’t blame you if you want to chalk it up to circumstance. But I’ve got to go, and you’ve got to know: It’s really for the best I say goodbye.”

Her hands moved a moment longer before stilling against the instrument. “So, um,” she started as Rob stared at her blankly for a long moment. He didn’t even realize he’d wandered off—he’d become so focused in studying her as she sang. Her crystalline eyes shone under fluttering eyelashes, her eyebrows pulled together in deep concentration, her spine straightened and her alabaster cheeks turned an endearing shade of pale pink. She was staring back at him now, expectantly, “That’s all I’ve got so far.”

Huh? Oh! He blinked, finally pulling himself from his stupor. “Right—very good.”

She scoffed, not believing him, but didn’t comment. Instead, she told him, “I’ve only got the first verse. I have no idea about the chorus or second verse or bridge or anything. And I know the music needs a ton of work. I just,” she pulled a hand through her hair, tossing the striped locks so they hung at awkward angles, “I really need the money, so I took the job without even thinking about my writing problems lately.”

He looked around, confused. This apartment was fantastic. It was very large, located in a good neighbourhood, and filled with things Rob doubted even he could afford. “You need money? Isn’t your brother one of the highest paid songwriters in L.A. right now?”

She steeled her gaze on him, eyes serious and strong. “I intend to earn everything I have—I don’t ever want to give anyone a reason to say ‘you owe me; you couldn’t have done it without me.’” She blinked and that stunning emotion was gone, and she tugged her notebook over to the cushion between her body and his so he could see the sloppily-printed lyrics and simple chord indications scribbled in above them.

Very quietly, Rob told her, “I understand that,” and then leaned over to study the lyrics, not forcing her to elaborate any further on her self-sufficiency. He cleared his throat and got back to business, tuning the guitar before plucking a few strings. “All right—I think the first verse is good as is. You may not think so,” he said in a rush when she scowled at him, “But it is going to sound like Shakespeare next to those Silverstein lyrics they were singing last night.

“Now,” he began strumming the same tune on the guitar, then added a few chords and quickened the pace just a little. “On the second verse, it should go backward—tell the reason for leaving. Like…” his brow furrowed in thought for a moment before he tried, “Don’t misconstrue—I’m still in love with you. Everything I said was true, and it prob’ly always will be.” He licked his lips and looked up at Thalia, who was watching him, nodding encouragingly. Not wanting to let her down—wow, when was the last time he’d worried about letting a singular person down?—he quickly wrote another line in his head. “Don’t misunderstand—I’m dying to take your hand and play through this a better way, but I can’t afford the subtlety.” He kept strumming the pre-chorus loop, but turned his head to face Thalia, waiting.

Finally, she pursed her lips thoughtfully, “Hm… I think my verse was better.”

Out of all the things he’d been expecting, that wasn’t one of them, and Rob faltered on the guitar strings as silent laughter shook his body. He stilled himself before the guffaws could actually sound, and forced a straight and offended face. “I didn’t come here to be insulted! If that’s how you’re going to be, maybe I should leave!” And then she did it again—that thing these four women seemed to do so well…she stared at him. No emotion painted her face, nothing twinkled behind her eyes. It was just plain indifference. For once, he had people that weren’t desperate to please him; people that wouldn’t lie to him to protect his fragile feelings. So, silently, he added, “Or maybe not.”

She rolled her eyes and nudged him with her elbow—their first physical contact. “You’re a terrible bluffer.” He had to tighten his lips to keep from gasping. He was an actor, acting was what he did, yet she’d been able to see through his façade and know he wasn’t genuine about leaving. Before he could comment, she’d picked up her notebook and was adding his lyrics under hers. “Okay, how about, for the pre-chorus…” She gestured for him to start playing again, and he did. “I’m sorry—I know it’s unexpected; tearing down this whole damn world that we’ve constructed. But you’ve got to see, it’s not just for me: It’s really for the best I say goodbye.” Rob nodded and Thalia wrote, then they read the lyrics together and began editing. Adding, subtracting. Vocal math. A search for the perfect equation. This + this = heartfelt. This * this = cheesy.

Of course, the conversation shifted slowly, fading from the task at hand to random topics as they got to know each other. Before either of them realized, two hours had gone by and they’d stretched out on the couch and inhaled a pot and a half of coffee, instruments forgotten on the floor. They talked about their first-ever celebrity crushes—John Cusack and Katherine Hepburn, respectively. They talked about their favourite musicians—“Ani DiFranco,” was Thalia’s quick and definitive choice, while Rob had to think for a while before stating simply, “I don’t have one.” They also talked about the other women from Antrim.

“I really like Louise,” Thalia told him as she returned from the kitchen yet again, two cups of coffee in hand and a plate of odd-looking pastries balanced across them. “I actually called her this morning and caught her before she had to go to class—she’s really interesting, once she stops being so shy.”

“I never doubted that,” Rob insisted sincerely. He picked up one of the pastries from the plate and pinched it between his fingers, examining it closely, “What is this?”

She took one and popped it into her mouth, “Mung pastry—try it.” He did, taking a small bite. All at once, a dry, sweet taste coated his tongue and almost melted before he could swallow it. It was delicious, and he took another bite to finish it off, asking Thalia what “mung pastry” was. “Exactly how it sounds,” she said casually, eating another, “A pastry filled with mashed mung beans.” His expression must have read something of horror, because she laughed and the sound was almost as melodic as her singing, “It’s a sweet bean paste—it’s nothing weird.”

He wrinkled his nose at her, but took another pastry nonetheless. He settled back against the pillow cushions and sighed, “So…Lindsay seems very cool.”

Thalia nodded in agreement. “Yeah, and that Delaney—she’s something else.”

“That’s putting it modestly.”

“I like her.”

“Me too.”

1945. How was it possible that he’d spent four hours at Thalia’s apartment? It had barely felt like one. He’d been having such a good time, getting to know her, laughing with her, writing with her. He’d been surprised when she’d announced it was “almost seven-thirty” and she “had to get her ass to work.” He’d been reluctant to leave her company and the comfort of her black-hole of an overstuffed couch, and judging by the way she dragged herself up at a snail’s pace, so was she.

“Thanks for helping out,” she’d said at the front door as he walked toward his car. “I’ll try to get the chorus finished tomorrow and then it’ll be done.”

He’d nodded, fiddling with his keys. “Call me and let me know how it goes over with the band.”

“I will,” she’d promised, and he believed her. If he’d learned anything in those four hours, it was this: Thalia Azure didn’t have many reasons to lie.

Life & Times of Rob Pattinson (Chapter Three)

2008-10-14T20:32:30Z

I made a boo-boo on the last one. The last one was actually Chapter TWO, and this is Chapter THREE!
This one is a little less than perfect, if compared to previous chapters. If you don't like it, tell me and I'll edit it. I just really wanted to get it done before going into work.
Anyway...here ya go!

“Ouch! That’s my foot!”

“No, that’s my foot.”

“Yes, but it’s on my foot.”

“I think someone just touched me inappropriately.”

“Sorry, that was me—nice butt-muscles though.”

“You didn’t seriously just compliment my ‘butt-muscles,’ did you?”

“OW! Seriously, what do you have against my feet?!”

Thalia pushed aside the curtain at the top of the stairs, illuminating the five people currently crammed on them. “Sorry,” she shrugged, “Should have warned you it was narrow.”

“And dark,” Louise added, stepping onto the balcony. Lindsay followed close behind, nodding and leaning against the wall to rub her left foot, a small, pained pout on her face. Rob appeared, shaking his head incredulously, his expression looked like he was fighting between being outraged and melting into gasping laughter. Delaney stepped up between both of them, grinning apologetically, a quirky grin on her face. She shrugged, “What can I say? My hands and feet are uncontrollable in dark, enclosed spaces.”

“Your boyfriend must be thrilled,” Lindsay mumbled, pushing off of the wall and moving to stand next to Thalia and Louise.

Delaney narrowed her eyes, but in a playful way. “Past ones have enjoyed it, yes; why wouldn’t they? I mean,” she winked at the actor in their presence, “Robert, isn’t that what men like? An unpredictable partner?”

“I, erm,” he shifted nervously, beginning to regret his decision to join them, “I’m not, er—“

“Oh, for god’s sake,” Thalia interrupted before he could finish stammering, “Don’t scare the man away—at least wait until he’s been drinking to ask him shit like that.” She rolled her eyes and gestured to the only table on the balcony. It was a medium-length mahogany number that could easily fit the five of them, plus maybe another two or three. In the centre of the table were three bottles (one scotch, one ginger ale, and one Club Soda) and a large pitcher (beer, presumably), as well as glasses for all of them. Rob slid his guitar from his shoulder and propped it against the corner of the table before taking a seat, and the women soon joined him. He noted, to his amusement, that no one sat in the seat right next to him—yet another deviation from what most people would do. He took a gulp from his glass, the scotch tickling his throat, burning slightly, before looking each of them over, waiting for them to say something about the show.

It was Lindsay who spoke first. “So,” she smiled, “What do you guys all do?” It threw Rob through a loop, and he mentally berated himself for being so self-involved. He hadn’t really been in the spotlight very long, but he’d already managed to convince himself that every conversation would revolve around him. Way to get a big head, Pattinson, he sighed internally. Still, he snapped to attention; he thought he’d seen all four women in their “career habitats,” but he was curious as to any extra facts.

“I’m a screenwriter,” Delaney offered—Rob had assumed that. “I’ve been doing it forever. Actually, right after I got out of school, one of my scripts got turned into a movie. Creatureland?” She looked around the table, then shrugged, “It didn’t get a lot of publicity. Other than that, I just write and play cello. Sometimes I beta for new games.” She took a glass from the table and filled it with beer, taking a sip.

Rob suddenly raised his eyebrows. “Creatureland—that was the one with Marisa Petroro and Chad Todhunter, right?” Delaney nodded, and he smiled. “Yeah, I actually did see that. It was…interesting. Very gory. I liked the incorporation of zombies and alien bugs—very clever.”

Delaney beamed at him, then turned to Louise. “What about you, hon? What do you do?”

“Oh, I,” she stirred her straw in her pink drink, “I’m a vocal and instrumental major at Musicians Institute. Other than that, I just, you know,” she lifted her shoulders lazily, “Sing at clubs and coffee shoppes for extra money.”

“Where are you from?” Rob wondered aloud. It was the most he’d heard her speak thus far, and her accent was a little thicker now. If he’d been born here, he probably could have identified it.

She sipped her drink, “Texas.”

Thalia perked up, looking uncharacteristically excited, “Hey, me too. I’m from Midland.”

“Really? I’m from Odessa.”

“Wow—we were neighbours.”

Louise smiled a genuine smile for the very first time, and Rob couldn’t help but smile too. It wasn’t that shy little grin she’d been giving everyone—it was a true, full-blown, toothy smile that lit up her face and made her radiate beyond her years. He liked it—it suited her. Just like that, though, the smile was suppressed to a tight-lipped grin and Louise asked Thalia, “So, um, what do you do?”

Thalia tilted her head from side to side nonchalantly. “Mostly just this—bartending, you know? I’m a writer, too, but mostly I just freelance articles for magazines and websites. Every once and a while, I’ll help my brother write a song, but that’s about it.”

Rob waggled his fingers, encouraging more information, “Any songs we may have heard?”

She shifted in her seat, and he could have sworn she looked…embarrassed? “I helped him write that stupid jingle for Suzy’s Celebrity Pet Grooming. You know, that—“ she started humming then, a sweet, quiet sound, “You know you’re beautiful, and we know it, too—so don’t you think your pet should be as pretty as you?” She hung her head, ashamed.

Lindsay laughed loudly, “Oh my god, I hear that song everywhere. To me, it always sounded like it was mocking people.”

“It is!” Thalia insisted, “I hate people that froo-froo up their cats and dogs. I think there should be a special circle in hell for them!”

They all laughed, mumbling agreements. Rob finished his scotch and reached for the bottle in the middle of the table, pouring another two-fingers worth. “And finally,” he said, still smiling, looking at Lindsay, “What about you?”

She pushed a glass to Delaney, who still had the beer pitcher at her side. It returned to her filled to the brim. “Well, as you know, I’m a make-up artist. That’s what I do most of the time, for steady pay. But I also,” she ran her finger over the rim of her cup bashfully, “Model and act when I can—that’s really what I came out here to do, but it’s not going as well as I’d hoped.”

Rob felt for her. He always played it up to sound easy, but he’d had his fair share of struggles getting into the business too. Acting and modeling and even music—nothing came as easily as people would like. It was a constant struggle, he knew that well. “It’s a tough business to break into,” he told her kindly, “But that only makes it more worth it when you get your first, real big break.”

She smiled at him, and it almost took his breath away. Each of these women—they were all stunning in their own way, but no more so than when they smiled. What he felt, in these instances, was not a physical attraction, but more like a glorious witness. Like he was privileged to be in the presence of something so genuine and spectacular. “Thankyou,” she said to him, then asked, “So what all do you do? I mean, obviously we know about the singing.”

“And the acting,” Delaney added.

“And modeling,” Thalia pointed out.

“And writing.” They all turned to look at Louise, who blushed a little, but continued on nonetheless. She was gaining confidence around them. “I mean, you wrote those songs.”

Lindsay’s eyes flew wide, as if only just remembering. “Yeah! I really liked that first one—it’s so relatable and gorgeous. And that last one? That was intense—I’m almost afraid to ask what inspired it.” Everyone could tell, however, by the look in her eyes that this was exactly what she was asking.

Rob laughed and sat back against his seat, sipping his drink. “I’m glad you liked it, first off,” he noted. Then he shook his head ruefully, “It’s about a girl I knew in secondary school. She was dating my best mate, so we were around each other a lot and she…she liked to play the martyr about a lot of things, let’s just say that.” He laughed and took a swig of his drink. “I tried to talk to her—help her out—but I think she just wanted to be miserable. So when she and my friend broke up, we lost contact and then I moved here.”

Thalia cleared her throat and leaned forward, taking a glass and pushing it toward Delaney. “Judging by how you sang that song,” she noted to Rob, nodding thanks to Delaney when she pushed back a beer-filled glass. “She was more than just your ‘best mate’s girlfriend.’”

He stared at her for a long moment, blinking because he couldn’t think of anything more intelligent. He didn’t think anyone would pick up on that. It had been so long since he’d even seen Lisa, but he guessed those feelings he’d once had for her weren’t as faded as he’d thought. More than that, though, he still wasn’t used to people being so outright with him, even if it was something they thought might offend him. So finally he exhaled and forced a tight-lipped grin, shaking his head, “You’re right. I pined after that miserable mess for the longest time.”

Lindsay sighed and filled Louise’s now-empty glass with ginger ale, then lifted her own glass and announced, “To misery!” They all raised their glasses and repeated the word, bringing their drinks to their lips. Before Thalia could take a gulp of her beer, however, a loud static sound erupted from her pocket, followed by, “Tally, you’d better just be having ginger ale!”

She sighed and pulled a small walky-talky out of her pocket, pushing a button and pressing it against her lips. “I know, Lucile.” Then she clanked the device down and pushed her glass aside. “Freaky Irish booze-psychics,” she grumbled under her breath, pouring a ginger ale and taking a sip while the others laughed at her.

Rob noted how easy this was becoming. He knew that none of the women had been very familiar with each other when the night began—about as familiar as he had been—but now they were all sitting around, laughing, breezing through conversation in a carefree way. Almost friends, even if just for a night. Just for a night. The words repeated in his head, and he realized with a start that he didn’t want this to be just for a night. He liked these women—truly, honestly liked them. And not in the way he was used to liking women—for their looks and their adoration for him—but for their personalities and their actions and their strange behaviour toward the world that echoed around the city they called home. And their talents and intelligence, because they all had these qualities in spades. No, he most definitely didn’t want these friendships to end tonight.

So he asked, “Before we leave tonight, would you all mind terribly if we exchanged information?”

“Like an insurance thing?” Louise laughed, giving Rob a brief flash of that happy smile again. “Rear-ended—‘can I get your information?’” It was so strange. Ten minutes ago, she would barely look at him. Now, she was making a joke at his expense.

He laughed along with her. “Right, right; it did sound like that, didn’t it? What I meant was,” he shrugged, “Exchange phone numbers or e-mail addresses or something—I think I’d like to keep in touch with all of you.”

He wasn’t expecting them to stare that way, blinking, incredulous. Finally, Delaney laughed a big, belly laugh that echoed around the balcony and probably could be heard in the crowd below. “Get a load of this guy!” She said, her voice as loud as her laugh, “Honey, you don’t have to act with us—we’re not groupies coming on to you in some dive bar. We have no expectations.” The other three murmured in agreement.

Rob felt his brow furrow as his eyes darted to each woman individually. “No, I’m completely serious,” he tried to convince them. “I don’t meet many people who…I don’t know…treat me like a normal person. At least, not without having some ulterior motive.”

They were staring at him again, and he regretted saying anything. Did he really seem that fake? Or did they just not want to continue this relationship as much as he did? Finally, Louise reached a hand into her purse and dug out a pen and a sheet of paper from what looked to be an address book. “I think you’re serious,” she mumbled, and he smiled his thanks to her. She scribbled something down and handed it to him. Louise Carter – GuitarGirlLou@IndependentCast.org – 555.0134

Thalia continued to study him a moment longer before taking Louise’s paper and adding her own information. Thalia Azure – ItsyBitsyIrishCowgirl@IndependentCast.org – 555.6133

After that, the paper got passed around until it fell back in front of Rob. Del Callaghan – SciFiKickass@IndependentCast.org – 555.3302 and Lindsay Colvin – PrettyInPunk@IndependentCast.org – 555.0007. He smiled and folded the sheet, sliding it into his pocket. He politely asked Louise for another paper from her book and he put down his own personal information four times, tearing the sheet and passing the scraps around. “Now, I’m trusting you,” he said quietly, “To not release my personal information to the public?”

“Never,” they all agreed, then resumed their discussions. They talked for another hour and a half, though it seemed like longer. Conversation shifted from light to serious to angry to light again and again, and Rob was beginning to wonder why he’d always surrounded himself with friends that were men. Sure, they were easier to relate to on a surface level, but you couldn’t talk to men the way you could talk to women. Not if you were another man, at least. This was fun. It was silly, but straightforward, and he could already trust these four to be honest at every turn.

Finally, around midnight, it was Thalia’s walky-talky that broke up the party. “What?” She answered with a sigh when her name was called through it, interrupting a game of (Blank)est Moment at her turn. They were on ‘Grossest Moment,’ and she’d been in the middle of her my-brother-pushed-me-into-a-septic-tank story.

“Tally,” Lucile’s voice came through, thick with sleep, making her accent all the more incomprehensible. “I have to go pick up Mallory from the babysitter and get home to bed, but it’s still pretty busy down here…”

She trailed off, but Thalia caught her unspoken question. “I’ll be right down.”

“I’m sorry to break up your party, love.”

“Don’t worry about it.” She put the radio back in her pocket and stood, “So, I’ve got to get back to work.”

A collective grumble went through the group, but Rob stretched out and mumbled sleepily, “I should be off, too, actually. In fact, I should have been home an hour ago. I’ve got a 4 a.m. shoot tomorrow…today…whatever.”

“And I have class,” Louise said with some relief, as if she’d been wanting to say something for a while, but was reluctant to be the cause of the group breaking up.

Delaney stood also, hitching her huge purse up to her shoulder. “And I,” she sighed, “What am I saying? I’m unemployed and sleep until noon, but I don’t want to sit up here by myself. Let’s go!” She began sweep-gesturing everyone toward the stairs, like herding cattle. Before they descended, Rob whipped around, “Keep your hands to yourself.”

Delaney laughed openly to this, “Fine; I’ll stay away from your butt-muscles.”

“Stay away from mine too, please,” Louise added, disappearing into the dark stairway.

“No promises!”

Rob laughed as he followed the women back to the first floor, where they parted ways slowly, reluctantly.

It was near one in the morning when Rob got home, immediately falling into bed as he had a few nights before. Only this time, he was smiling broadly. He look his slip of paper from his pocket and propped it up next to his bedside phone. Maybe tomorrow, he would call. Maybe the day after, so it didn’t seem too odd. Either way, he knew he would try his hardest to see them again. He would try his hardest to keep this connection to the real world, and not the world that blinded him with lies on a daily basis.

Life & Times of Robert Pattinson (Chapter 3)

2008-10-13T20:53:21Z

All right! This should be the last of the "introductory" chapters to this story. After this one, its all friendships and personal stuff between all major parties (Rob, Delaney, Louise, Lindsay, and Thalia).
Before we'd begin, I'd like to state some things for the record:: 1) Joe Firstman is awesome. I actually met him once when he was touring with Jewel, and he was the coolest guy! He autographed a copy of his album for me (The War of Women--check it out!), and told me some jokes. Great guy. 2) The "Hugh" I keep mentioning is, yes, Hugh Laurie, from "House, M.D.". Haha. He's such an awesome Brit; I absolutely had to include him. He'll be making several appearances throughout this story, as well as some other celebrities we all know and love. 3) "Break" is not an actual Rob Pattinson song, so if it seems out of sorts from his usual lyrics, that's because he didn't write it! I wrote it for my band a while back, but we never ended up putting music to it and its just been gathering dust, so I gave it to Rob!
And, all always, leave lots of nummy feedback, please?!

"It all went to hell when you got your pictures, because you finally believed me when I said that you were so pretty."

Thalia poured shots with one hand and played invisible piano keys with the other, keeping in tune with the music that was floating from the stage. It was Saturday, Concert Night, and the second featured musician was on his fourth and final song—it would be over soon, and the third musician would take the stage. She tried not to think about him, though, because the uninvited musings over what he would sound like clouded her focus—something she was not accustom to. Curiosity was a familiar feeling for her, but it wasn’t usually so persistent. The side door swung open and, silhouetted in the street light that poured through, a familiar figure approached.

"Lindsay," Thalia tilted her head in acknowledgement, "The usual?"

The blonde woman shook her head, "I’ll actually have a beer. Bottle, not tap." She settled into a barstool and turned in it to see the stage, raising her eyebrows approvingly to the music. "Who’s this guy?"

Thalia popped the top on a Guinness, "It’s, uh," she slid the bottle across the bar and began wiping up a small spill-spot. The door opened again, but she didn’t look up this time. "Joe Firstman."

Without warning, Delaney plopped down on one of the stools with a heavy sigh, her purse hitting the counter with a loud thwack. "Can you make me a daiquiri?" She wondered with wide, wishful eyes, tone giving away her exasperation, "And double—no, triple—up on the rum?" Thalia nodded and began filling the bar blender with ice while Delaney, too, turned her eyes to the performer. "I know him," she stated suddenly, a small smile appearing on her face. "I met him when I was writing jokes for the ‘late night shows’ circuit—not my proudest hour, I’ll admit—and he was bandleader on Last Call. Nice guy," she shrugged as she finished and turned back to Lindsay, pointing at her. "Hey, weren’t you here last week?"

Lindsay glanced at her, fingers tracing over the letters on her beer bottle. "Um, yeah, actually, I was. I performed before you on Open-Mic night. I’m Lindsay Colvin."

"Delaney Callaghan." They shook hands and Delaney took a few pretzels from a bowl on the counter and popped one into her mouth. "So," she smirked as she chewed, "Did you come back to see Robert Pattinson?"

Lindsay, who’d just taken a drink, coughed and sputtered around the liquid. It took her a moment to regain her composure, and she croaked, "What? No. I mean, not directly—I just came to hear some good bands." She gestured helplessly toward the stage, desperate to get the other woman’s eyes off of her.

"Right. What about you?" Delaney asked as Thalia returned, handing her an ice-cold strawberry daiquiri that reeked of Captain Morgan. "Did you come back for Robert?"

Thalia blinked at her. "I work here."

"Mhm," she hummed thoughtfully, taking a sip of her drink. "And you?" She asked, drawing the other two women’s’ attentions to a fourth person they hadn’t accounted for. She’d slipped into a seat at the end of the bar so quietly and inconspicuously that they hadn’t even noticed. It was the shy, dark-haired girl who’d surprised them all with her song last week.

As she was addressed, the young woman started slightly, eyes flying wide and mouth opening soundlessly. She looked around for a second, as if searching for some kind of physical escape from conversation, but found nothing. So she simply repeated, in a quiet, mousy way, "Me?"

"Are you here just to see Robert?"

"Oh! Um, no. No. I just—no."

"Ah." There was a long beat of silence as Joe Firstman continued to sing in the background.

"Now you’re gorgeous—now you’re gone. Love you better since you’re sleepin’ around. And now you’re priceless, and I am so very poor—now you’re gorgeous and I’m drinking alone."

Finally, Delaney finished another long gulp and smacked her lips together. "Yep, I’m here for Robert too."

"Ugh, same here!" Lindsay cried, disgusted with herself.

"Yeah, me too." The other woman, Louise, tentatively slid two stools over so she was among the group. Three pair of eyes turned to the bartender slowly, probing.

Thalia blinked again, now aggravated. "I still work here." They continued to stare and she sighed, "Fine," she grumbled, "I am not…averse to finding out how skilled of a musician he is." The three others laughed at her annoyed expression, then they all joined in clapping as Joe stood and took a bow onstage. As he exited, Roger stepped up to the mic and laughed joyfully.

"Wow," he stated, "That was just fantastic, wasn’t it? I love how L.A. is just bustling with—" Thalia mixed some club soda with strawberry syrup and slid it to the ever-silent Louise, who looked at it curiously before taking a sip. She gave the bartender a small grin of thanks. Thalia nodded back and poured herself a quick shot, gulping it down while everyones’ eyes were on the club owner. "Tally," Roger said suddenly onstage, causing her to look up and find his disapproving eyes, "You’d better have just had a shot of water, young lady." The story they used at Antrim was that Thalia was a recovering alcoholic, but in reality, she was still two years from the drinking age.

Delaney snickered quietly. "Yeah, Tally—you can’t be getting’ drunk on the job."

"I’m sorry—do you happen to have an off-button?"

"I used to, but unfortunately, I think someone’s shoved it up your ass." They stared at each other for a beat—while Lindsay and Louise looked between them nervously, trying to decide if they should attempt to defuse this fight before it began—before both women began growing matching grins across their faces and chuckled quietly. All in good fun, the words didn’t need to be spoken to be true. Satisfied with that, all four women turned their attentions back to Roger.

"And now I am proud to announce—in his first performance ever at Antrim—Robert Pattinson!" As the name tripped from the Irishman’s lips, the air in the room seemed to still. Lindsay sat up ramrod straight, Thalia set down the glass she’d been wiping, Louise took in a deep breath, and Delany whispered a very quiet, "Here we go."

Rob paced back and forth backstage, guitar slung over his back, rubbing his hands together and hopping every now and again, as if trying to psych himself up. It was curious, how he still managed to get so nervous before his performances. Usually, he’d get a good drink or…four…in him before taking the stage, but Hugh—a fellow musician—had suggested he try it completely sober. He told him the feeling was like no other; the rush was startling. "It’s much more impressive when you can remember all the details," Hugh had laughed as they parted ways that morning after shooting a scene, "None of that fog to obstruct the memory of the moment."

"What moment?" Rob had inquired curiously.

Hugh had shrugged at this—a simple rise and fall of the shoulders. "That moment. You know. The one that makes you realize why you love the music. The one that makes you aware of how important it all is to you." Then he’d clapped him on the back in a paternal way and walked off, leaving a stunned and thoughtful Rob behind.

So he was going out sober tonight. Completely. Not even cough syrup in his system. He wanted to experience this "moment" Hugh had spoken of; he wanted to see if it truly existed. He wanted to know if it would somehow change him—deepen his connection to the music everyone else seemed to connect with so quickly and so profoundly.

The musician before him—Joe Firstman—finished up his set and breezed over to stage left, where Rob was standing. He bumped him on the shoulder distractedly and told him how good he’d been, but his focus was on Roger, who was giving a brief commentary of Joe’s performance. He rambled on in his thick Irish accent—even for Rob, who was a UK man himself, it was hard to follow at some parts—but cut short abruptly, eyes fasted somewhere in the crowd. "Tally, you’d better have just had a shot of water, young lady." The musician peeked around the curtain and into the audience, following the owner’s gaze. It led him to the bar, where four familiar figures were standing.

Tally, he assumed, was the bartender, Thalia, who was fiddling with an empty shotglass guiltily. Circled around her were the other three women he’d met so briefly—but so meaningfully—just a few days before. Delaney was sitting in the centre, leaning back against the counter in dark denims and a Clash t-shirt. She smirked and turned to say something to the bartender, who quickly snapped something back. The other two women tensed. On Delaney’s left, Rob recognized his short-lived makeup artist, Lindsay. She was slightly less casual, in khaki-coloured skinny jeans and a fleece, v-necked red shirt that matched the undertones of her hair perfectly. On Delaney’s right, the student—Louise—was tensed looking at the other women, looking like she was deliberating between helping and running away. Her dark hair was pulled up in a long ponytail and her green skirt fell lazily to her ankles, fluttering as she jiggled her foot anxiously. Finally, something seemed to break the tension and all the girls were smiling. Then, suddenly, they were turned back to the stage. It wasn’t until that moment that Rob realized…Roger had just said his name.

Glaring against the spotlight and trying to shake the uneasy feeling sobriety unleashed on him at the stillness of the room, he stepped to centre stage and twisted his guitar around until it rested against his chest. "Ahem," he cleared his throat into the microphone and desperately willed his fingers to stop trembling. "I wrote this one a while back. I hope you enjoy it—it’s called ‘Stray Dog.’"

Four women crowded a corner of the bar, all as different as could be. One held a beer, one a daiquiri, one an Italian soda, and one a ginger ale. One was light, but with a fair streak of rebellion, one was blunt and lively, one was shy and green, and one was antisocial and collected. In most circumstances, nothing would draw these four together—there would be no commonalities. Except in this circumstance; the one that left their drinks forgotten, their differences unapparent, as they stared at the performer on stage. From the moment he’s slender fingers started plucking expertly at guitar strings, they’d all been mesmerized, and kept very, very still, as if any movement would disrupt the atmosphere and the trance would be broken.

"Staring at the same old view." As soon as he started singing, any hazy attention in the room immediately focused. The perfectly raspy, somewhat sultry voice wafted over the crowd, settling in, sending a consensus of shivers through almost everyone. It was the perfect blues voice—the kind you didn’t hear too often anymore. "Held on fast—it became old news, and I…I’ll be gone ‘fore long. Oh, at least I’m going. Hallelujah for that—now you know what you’ve lost."

From the group at the bar, it was a surprise when Louise was the one to breathe, "Holy shit." Had they not been so distracted, the other three probably would have teased her for her "naughty language." Instead, however, they all nodded infinitesimally in agreement. Holy shit was right.

"Now you are the thieves that you pardon—searching for need that will never come. Hallelujah for that—there’s more for their own now. It’s time for me to forget; I need a reason."

A customer approached the bar and attempted to get Thalia attention. She ignored him.

"So, so long…stray dog. You’re only a joker, no—joker no more."

A man slid into the seat next to Lindsay and started whispering cheesy pick-up lines at her. She waved him off with a hiss.

"Oh, to each their own when you can call on your mind; just crying to hold back the tears sometimes."

A woman stepped in front of Delaney, obscuring her view. She brought her thick construction-worker-booted heel down on her toe and nudged her aside.

"Wasted, wasted, all before you forget what you came here for."

They all held their breath.

"You need to see the signs, and you need to stop wasting time, and selling the same damn story—story that you heard before. And I waited for you, but you’re long gone. Stray dog."

By the time the song came to a close, all four women—as well as many other people in the crowded club—were pink-cheeked and breathing unsteadily. It was amazing. Godly. It was what they all imagined the Sirens from Greek myth to sound like—so entrancing and irresistible. Rob grinned at the enthusiastic applause he received, took a drink from the bottle of water Roger handed him, and immediately started in on his second song. Then a third. And a fourth. With each new tune, the four women at the bar became more and more involved, leaning forward and twisting their heads so their ears were closer to the stage, eyes closed, bodies still and soundless.

Before his fifth song, he took a longer gulp of water and cleared his throat again, nervous. "Um, so this one," he started retuning his guitar. "It’s, uh, very new. I’ve never played it for anyone, so this will be a first—its debut, I guess. So you’ll have to let me know what you think, yeah?" He laughed a little at the scattered applause and whoops and hollers that went through the crowd. "All right, then. Well, it’s called ‘Break.’" His fingers began strumming harsh, angry chords, soon followed by vocals of the same variety—they women could see his jaw clench around the words.

"Explain this to me: Why you’re tearing yourself apart—why you’re ripping yourself away—so desperate to disconnect. Well, you’re about to break. Is your life really that bad? Are you really so alone? Idiot—open your eyes."

The tempo picked up at the chorus as his fingers crashed into the chords. "How can you stand there and say that you don’t care? If you think it, it must be true—there’s nothing left here for you. Are you really that blind? Maybe you deserve to break."

His voice steadied again. All four women had stopped breathing.

"Little China doll, playing like you’re so damn fragile—why are you living this way? So yearning, yearning to be shattered. Well, you’re about to break." He spit out the chorus again before launching into a quick-paced, acoustic guitar solo that rivaled Ani DiFranco’s insane strumming skills. He brought it back down to a slow melody as the bridge approached. The women all sat wide-eyed in anticipation.

"I won’t feel sorry for you, no matter how much you want me to—you do it enough for the both of us. Yeah, you do that enough for the both of us." The tempo began steadily picking up. "No, I won’t feel sorry for you, no matter how much you want me to—you do it enough for the both of us. Baby, you do that enough for the both of us."

His fingers slammed into the chords once more, briefly, making Lindsay and Louise gasp.

"I think you deserve to break."

He finished, took a few deep breaths, then bowed his head and walked quickly offstage, swinging his guitar back around to rest along his spine. The four women at the bar turned slowly to face each other, each trembling slightly, as if they’d just finished a ten-mile marathon or gone a week without sugar in their diets.

"That was," Lindsay said slowly, her voice breathy and quiet, "Pretty freaking good."

"Amazing," Louise corrected, her voice equally quiet.

Thalia blinked rapidly and shook her head to clear it, "I’m floored," she admitted.

"Hear, hear," Delaney nodded. They took a few minutes to get their breathing back under control and let their sense return before the redhead slapped her hands down on the counter and set her face in a serious expression. "Okay, ladies, it’s time for action; here’s what we’re going to do…"

Was that it? That had to be it! Rob was pacing back and forth again backstage, but this time it was more from overwhelming excitement rather that nervousness. He’d felt it; he’d felt that moment. Halfway through "Break," when he’d been coming down off of the first chorus and starting the second verse, when everything was silent and still but the two sounds he knew he could trust—his guitar weaving agreeably with his own voice—and the air was as still as a pond’s surface on a breezeless Spring day, he’d been hit with this rush of…fulfillment. Like it was just completely, utterly right for him to be up there, singing that song, feeling those feelings, connecting with the music on its purest, truest level. And it hadn’t been clouded with scotch or meaningless meanderings—just straight, undiluted beauty. It was like nothing he’d ever experienced before.

"I want that again," he decided quietly to himself as the fourth musician of the night took the stage. He would have to find Roger before he left later, and sign himself up for the next Concert Night. He zipped his guitar up in its cloth case and descended the steps that wrapped around the side of the stage, pushing the door open at the landing. This led him back into the club, and put him face-to-face with four familiar women. His first feeling was one of unease—they’d all been so strangely untypical in their encounters, and he worried briefly that this would damper his newfound emotion—but this was quickly replaced by a dull but sure excitement. He decided that, out of anyone in this club whose company he could have, this was the group he’d prefer. People that wouldn’t lie to him—people that didn’t care who he was, because his "fame" didn’t mean he deserved more respect or idealization than anyone else.

"Mister Pattinson," the blonde woman—Lindsay—said in a formal, English-accented voice, "We have reserved a table on the balcony." She gestured above, but it was impossible to see anything with the spotlight sitting just beyond the railing there. "Care to join us?"

He thought for a moment, shoving his thumb beneath the strap of his guitar case, hitching it further up on his shoulder. Then he smirked crookedly, "All right, then."

Four smiles faced him and the shy girl, Louise, took a small step forward and handed him a glass of amber-coloured liquid. "For you," she said, her voice a little louder than it had been in the classroom just days before, "Scotch neat." He thanked her and watched as Thalia handed her a glass with a slightly pinkish-red liquid in it that fizzed at the top—was it alcoholic? He wondered. Louise didn’t look old enough to drink.

Delaney smiled a wide, toothy smile and nodded toward the stairs, blocked off by a red-velvet rope, that led to the balcony. "Shall we?"

Rob realized all at once how comfortable he felt in the presence of four people he barely knew—much more comfortable than he had since moving to Los Angeles. His friends here were mostly high-profile, having their own lives in the public eye, like him. This kind of comfort was rival to that which he’d felt at home in London, wandering the streets at all hours with his best mates from school, not a care in the world, not having to worry about who would see and what they would say. It was for this reason that he smiled easily and followed the four women up to the balcony.

Life & Times of Rob Pattinson (Chapter One)

2008-10-10T18:59:35Z

The first official chapter of Life & Times of Rob Pattinson. This is the individual introductions. Hope you like it!

“This is ridiculous!”

Rob turned toward the voice, thinking it was directed at him. It was early morning—the sun was barely peeking over the Hollywood horizon—and this section of the lot was mostly empty. Only a few assistants and extras that would be appearing in the reshoot with him wandered about, heads low, mouths wide in yawning, Starbucks Styrofoam cups grasped tightly between their hands. The person who’d spoken, he realized, was faced away from him. All he could see was the back of a female figure, red hair pulled into a ponytail at the base of her neck, a pencil—he couldn’t help but grin—stabbed between the elastic and her skull, and a mobile pressed close to one ear.

“I just… No. No. Ugh,” she let out a loud groan that made Rob step back about a foot. “You know what? Let me talk to Martin. No, I want to talk to Martin. Hey…it’s a good script, dammit!” She pulled the mobile away from her face and stared at it for several beats, obviously trying to figure out if she’d really just been hung up on. Then she snapped it shut and shoved it into the pocket of her torn blue jeans.

Behind her, Rob could no longer suppress the little chuckle that had been building in his throat—the movie business was a tough and brutal one. Bad for actors, worse for writers. Though he was sure he was quiet in his laughter, the woman spun on him, eyes irritated and impatient. “Hey, you,” she snapped without taking a good look at him, “Do you know where I can find Alix Austin at and holy crap it’s you again.” Rob’s mind had immediately focused in on Alix Austin—the director of the film he was currently working on—so he didn’t register the second part of her statement until a few moments later. Then he blinked and looked her over quickly—jeans, t-shirt, red-brown hair, thick construction-worker boots. He did recognize her, but from where?

As if sensing this silent question, the woman continued, “I was at Antrim a few nights ago. Played the cello. You complimented me. You were there signing up for—okay, stop me when something rings a bell.”

Rob felt himself grin at this. People weren’t usually so forthright with him. It seemed like, nowadays, everyone seemed so desperate to impress him that no one ever seemed to be really real in his presence. He missed that. He missed attitude and true emotion. And then it clicked, and his grin widened, “Yeah, I remember. You did the Tchaikovsky piece, right?” The woman nodded absentmindedly at this, eyes scanning the almost-barren lot—he wasn’t used to not having people’s full attention either. “You were really good; what’s your name?”

“Delaney Callaghan,” she focused on him again, sticking out her hand.

He shook it, “Robert Pattinson.” He dropped his hands back to his sides, shoving them into the pockets of today’s chosen denim jacket. When Delaney raised her eyebrows at him pointedly, he took the hint and shrugged his shoulders. “Alix is probably at Kraft Services; she likes to load up on doughnuts before the rest of us can get to them.”

She let out a breath and nodded, a small smirk tugging at her lip, “Right. Okay, I should go, then. You know,” she sighed heavily, “People to see, scripts to pitch—work, work, work. Thanks for your help. Bye!” Before he could answer, she’d finished her quick words and was walking with incredible speed toward the main building, where Kraft Services had set up.

Rob watched her go, brow furrowed, “Erm…bye.” He turned then, shrugging it off, and started for his trailer.

“Okay, this is ridiculous.”

Rob’s eyes snapped open and darted to the left. It was the second time he’d heard those words in the past hour, and he wondered if Delaney had somehow wandered into the Hair & Make-Up trailer, still searching for Alix Austin. It wasn’t her, though. Instead, the woman standing behind the chair next a few feet from his checked her watch and let out an impatient sigh, foot tapping against the linoleum-tiled floor.

Rita, Rob’s hair and make-up artist, frowned and shook her head sympathetically and started in with her gentle Alabama drawl, “Just give him a while longer, sugar. Close your eyes,” she added to Rob, who complied long enough for her to spread a coat of base over each eyelid, then they fluttered open again, long lashes brushing against her fingers as they pulled away.

The other artist rolled her eyes toward the door. “I never figured him for one of those diva, late-for-everything kind of guys.”

“He’s not,” Rita pointed out as she began painting a black eye on her client. “You’ve never worked with a high profile actor before, darling, so you don’t understand: Things come up. He probably got called in for reshoots on the show.”

“I know,” the woman grumbled reluctantly, running a hand through her blonde-and-red hair. “It’s just that I blew off a pretty good modeling job to work on this set, and I have nothing to do.”

Rita smiled, putting down her brush. “Well, here—why don’t you finish up Robert while I run to get us some coffee? Really, I don’t mind.” After a few minutes of persuasion—during which, the swollen purple bubble pasted beneath Rob’s eye started to itch and burn like no other, but he kept silent—Rita left for the coffee machine and the other artist took her spot behind Rob. Once he saw her full reflection in the mirror, his eyebrows shot up, causing the pasted bruise to burn even more.

“I know you,” he told her matter-of-factly. “How do I know you?”

“What? Oh, right,” she picked up a make-up brush and moved around him to finish the colouring on his eye. Up close, he could see the flash of her nose ring every time she moved her head. “I didn’t mention it before because I figured you wouldn’t remember—you came into Antrim while I was performing the other night.” Another one? Rob laughed within his own mind—what were the odds? “I’m Lindsay. Lindsay Colvin.”

“Robert Pattinson,” he replied automatically, desperately trying to fight back the watering in his eyes as the paste began searing through his skin.

“Hm, I had no idea,” she told him with good-humoured sarcasm. “Oh, well, crap,” her ocean-blue eyes narrowed on something, “She put this on all wrong.” She picked up a bottle and let some liquid drip against his skin before gently pulling the pasted piece from his face, careful not to hurt him in the process. Once it was off and the cool air brushed against his cheek, the burning faded almost immediately. “Oh, thank god,” he mumbled quietly as she began reapplying the piece with a different adhesive.

“Better?” She asked as she began repainting the bruise.

“Much,” he breathed with relief. “Oh, by the way, I thought you sang beautifully at the club. ‘The Man That Got Away,’ right?” She nodded absently, entirely focused on finishing his make-up. “Dinah Washington?” He inquired.

She shook her head, “Judy Garland.”

“Ah.” Several minutes passed in silence—Rob noted how entranced Lindsay seemed to be in her work. She scrutinized every detail, determined to make it perfect. It was admirable—he liked people that took their work seriously—but at the same time, he hated unending silences. “Hugh really isn’t usually late,” he noted.

She scoffed and shook her head, “Is that true, or is this some kind of ‘Brit boys stick up for each other’ kind of thing?”

“Nah,” Rob told her with a straight face. “I’m from London. He’s from Oxford. Our people are as hateful of each other as the Chinese and the Mongolians.” When Lindsay’s eyes shot to his to see if he was serious, his straight face broke and he laughed easily. It was infectious, and soon the artist was smiling and laughing lightly to herself, rolling her eyes at him.

In the next moment, the door popped open and Rita’s voice floated through, “Guess who I found hoarding doughnuts with Alix?”

“Hello, love,” an old-fashioned English accent called, “I’m ready to be made pretty.”

“This is fucking ridiculous.”

What?! Rob’s mind snapped. Was it possible to be stalked by a phrase? He’d finished up on set an hour before—around 1100—and had almost succeeded in forgetting all about the two women he’d met so far. Now he was standing outside of Antrim and the tall woman sitting against the brick wall—cigarette in one hand, pencil in the other, poised above a spiral notebook—was bringing it all back.

She looked up at him, “What, what?” For a moment, he wondered if she was some kind of mind reader. Then he took in the way her forehead wrinkled under her brown-and-red striped hair, standing on the line between confusion and anger, and he realized that he’d actually said the word aloud. When he didn’t answer immediately, she exhaled through her nose and looked back at her notebook, “Okay. Don’t tell me. I don’t need to know.”

He shifted awkwardly and brushed a hand through his hair. “Sorry, I just…I was thinking about something.”

“Stressful day in the world of acting?” He started a little, before common sense came back to him. He still wasn’t quite used to people knowing who he was and what he did at every turn.

“I suppose you could say that.”

She took another drag of her cigarette and wrote a quick sentence on her page, punctuating it with a dark question mark, and closed the notebook. “I’ll make you a drink.” She started to stand but Rob shook his head and leaned down to put a hand on her shoulder, gesturing for her to sit back down. She complied, but turned two confused crystal eyes up at him.

He shrugged—he seemed to be doing that a lot today. “Actually, do you think I could bum one of those?” He nodded toward the cigarette in her hand and she cocked her head to the side, fishing the pack out of her pocket and holding it out to him. Marlboro Reds. Not his favourite, but they would do. He took one with a nod and worked the lighter out of the plastic covering of the pack, lighting the cigarette and taking a deep drag before handing the pack back. He blew the smoke out through his nose and rocked on his heels, “So, what’s ridiculous?”

“Excuse me?”

“When I walked up,” he elaborated, “You said something was ridiculous.”

She glanced back at her notebook and side, flipping through its pages aimlessly. “Writer’s block. I’m trying to finish this chapter for a story, but I’m stuck, and it’s just…”

“Ridiculous,” Rob filled in and she nodded, still not smiling. The actor was struck with a wave of confusion. So far today, he’d been faced with many things he wasn’t used to. Delaney and her forthrightness. Lindsay and her focus in his presence. Now this woman—

“What’s your name?”

“Thalia.” He looked at her, and she took the hint and added, “Azure.”

Thalia Azure—who wasn’t charmed into smiling by him. What a strange day. And then, “Weren’t you tending on Open-Mic Night?”

“I’m tending almost every night,” she affirmed, blowing smoke up to the sky.

He thought for a moment, trying to figure out how else he recognized her. “Your name,” he realized, “It sounds very familiar.”

She shrugged, grinding her cigarette out on the sidewalk. “You might have worked with my brother before.” She struggled to pull herself into a standing position, brushing dirt from the back of her dark jeans. “Dreyton Azure? He’s a songwriter.”

“Oh, right!” Rob nodded enthusiastically, remembering the man. “He wrote the songs for a movie I was in; he’s brilliant. Fun guy, too, your brother.”

“Groovy,” Thalia muttered, looking around. “So, I assume you’re here to confirm your spot?” He nodded, and she jerked her thumb toward the door. “Well, Roger’s inside. While you’re at it, could you tell him I’m going to lunch?”

“Yeah, sure,” Rob said as she began walking away, shocked by how abruptly she’d ended their conversation. Really, he wanted to shout, What is going on with me and women today?

“This is—“ Instinctively, Rob reached out and closed a hand over the young woman’s mouth before she could get the last word out. He’d stopped by Musicians Institute to see a music professor he worked with from time to time, but had ended up pressing himself against the back wall of the room while the class took turns playing an assigned piece on various instruments. A young woman in the back row, with long dark hair that fell in graceful curls to her elbows, fumbled slightly over a complicated chord change on her guitar. Frustrated, she’d started to say those words Rob had been hearing all day.

“Mmph,” she cried, green eyes wide and startled. Realizing what he’d just done, Rob quickly drew back his hand and the woman finished her sentence softly, “Ridiculous.”

All eyes had turned toward them and Rob shuffled back awkwardly, “Sorry.”

Professor Herdte smiled kindly and tapped her pencil against her podium, regaining the attention of the many young women who’d taken to ogling the sudden celebrity appearance. “Class,” she said, her voice projecting, but not harsh, “We’ll end early today. Practice, practice, practice, and I’ll see you on Wednesday.” The students started packing up their things, choruses of giggles echoing around the acoustics of the room. The women crawled by slowly, eyes trailing on Rob as they left. Two were brave enough to ask for photos and autographs, which he gave graciously, holding his Charm Smile in place. Once they were gone, however, he rolled his eyes and ran a hand through his hair.

The young women he’d startled was still sitting in her seat, playing over her piece again, trying desperately to master the chord change. Rob took a few steps forward and smiled down at her apologetically, “I’m sorry about that. It was kind of a…what do they call it? A knee-jerk reaction?”

She kept her eyes on her sheet music, biting her lip shyly. “I, um,” she mumbled, fingers still moving over her guitar, “I don’t really know.” Even at low volume, Rob detected a faint Texas twang to her voice. It made her shyness seem even more charming.

“Ah, well,” Rob took a seat in the chair next to her, “Anyway, I didn’t mean to scare you or embarrass you.”

“You didn’t,” she insisted quietly, but the pink shade that spread across her cheekbones suggested otherwise. She tripped over the loop once more and growled. It wasn’t what Rob would have expected—she was small and soft-spoken, so he expected her growl to sound more like a kitten purring. He was wrong. This was a true, guttural, utterly frustrated growl. It reminded him of the vampire sound effects they’d had to use on the Twilight set.

He took pity on her. “Here,” he said, holding out his hands. She reluctantly released her guitar to him, careful to avoid touching his hands during the hand-off. “It’s difficult to get, but once you get it right the first time, you’ll have it down.” He started strumming, but then stopped, “Wait—“ a sickeningly familiar feeling washed over him for the third time that day. “I know you from somewhere, don’t I? No, don’t tell me,” he said when she opened her mouth to answer. He blinked and chuckled ruefully, “You performed at Antrim on Open-Mic Night.” When he opened his eyes, she was nodding shyly, cheeks an even darker red than before. He didn’t mean to embarrass her, but it seemed almost hard not to. She would have been perfect in the place of Kristen during the blushing scenes of Twilight; she was good at it. Deciding the lighten the mood, he started strumming again and asked, “So, what’s your name?”

She cleared her throat and inhaled deeply, “Um, Louise. Louise Carter.”

“Louise.” He nodded and played the loop again, “All right, watch my fingers, okay?” He played it twice more, going through slowly at first to show her how his fingers moved, then quicker until he was playing at the correct speed. She watched intently, avoiding his eyes.

“Thankyou,” she said suddenly as he started through it again, “I think I’d like to try it again.”

“Oh.” He looked down at the guitar and handed it back to her, “Of course. Give it a go.” She played through it twice. The first time, she fumbled, but she got it right the second time and gave herself a tiny victory smile. What was different about her reaction to him? Rob wondered, because the other three Antrim girls had showed him something different. With Louise, he decided, she seemed almost desperate to put a distance between them.

At the front of the room, Professor Herdte cleared her throat and smiled, “Robert—did you need to see me.”

He nodded to her, “Yes. Yes, I did.” He turned back to Louise and gave her his kindest, most easing smile, “You’re doing great. I’ll see you around, Louise.”

She glanced at him quickly, offering him the smallest of shy smiles, “Thankyou.” He smirked at her before standing and walking to the front of the room. As soon as he was gone, she laid her guitar in its case and secured it, leaving before he had the chance to turn around.

It was almost midnight before Rob got back to his apartment. He’d gone out drinking with a few friends, but no amount of scotch could make him forget about the four women he’d met today. As he stumbled through his residence, stripping off his jacket and boots as he went, he played the separate encounters over in his head. Four women, all different in more ways than one. All with unusual reactions to him. All branching from that one night at Antrim. What were the odds?

As he fell into bed, he closed his eyes and groaned. Only three words seemed suitable for this situation, and they were the words he’d been trying to avoid all day.

“This is ridiculous."

Life & Times of Rob Pattinson (Prologue)

2008-10-10T04:10:06Z

Here we go! This is the sort of Prologue to my fanfic, "The Life & Times of Rob Pattinson." I'm so excited! Let me know what you think!

“Testing…testing.”

A roomful of eyes jumped to the stage, where a robust man with long red ponytail and ripped jeans was tapping on a microphone. “Oy? Can you hear me out there?” Of course, his thick accent transformed this into, “Canya’ear may oot tharr?” and the crowd mumbled in confusion. On the balcony, a woman with a baby in one arm rolled her eyes and raised her free hand, circling her thumb and index finger in the “okay” sign. The man at the microphone smiled and gave her a slight nod, clearing his throat and attempting to speak as clearly as possible.

“All right—I’d like to welcome you all to Antrim. I am Roger Kern and, on behalf of my staff and the performers here tonight, I would like to thank you all very much for coming out. Because, as you know…” he trailed off and the house band did a cheesy little drum roll. Roger smiled his brilliant, toothy Irish smile. “Tonight…is Open-Mic Night!” The crowd erupted in applause and the owner laughed happily, clapping along with them. Ten months earlier, when Roger and his wife, Lucile, had first instated Open-Mic Night, it had belly-flopped. Few people filled the audience. Fewer still volunteered to play. It had been a disaster. Then, by what can only be described as “pure dumb luck,” a nearby club was closed down due to infestation issues, and the music scene had shifted six blocks over, to Antrim. Now, it was the go-to place for up-and-coming musicians.

A spotlight blinked on (courtesy of Lucile), and Roger turned his cheek to look offstage. “I am greatly honoured to introduce our first performer. She’s no stranger to the Antrim stage. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the lovely…Lindsay Colvin.” He once again joined in on the audience applause, moving offstage as a young woman stepped into the spotlight. She had pale blonde hair that fell in slight waves to her shoulder-blades, glimpses of red under-dye becoming visible as she turned her head to smile at the house band. “1,” she began counting them in, aqua blue eyes flashing with excitement, “2…1, 2, 3, 4.” The soft plucking of individual acoustic guitar strings sounded through the club as the audience fell silent, listening intently. Lindsay hummed her way into the first verse, eyes slipping closed before she could see the side door of the club slowly opening.

The man who entered wasn’t noticeable right off the bat. He was handsome, without a doubt, but not in such an outward, snobbish way that all focus moved from the entrancing music to his face. He seemed pleased with this, obviously averse to being the centre of attention. He stood tall—somewhere around six feet—and dressed in simple jeans and a white button-down shirt under a dark brown leather jacket. He rose on the balls of his feet to look over the heads of the crowd, scanning, obviously searching for someone in particular. He ran a hand through his hair—which was medium length and messy, and resembled the colour of sunset sand—and puffed out his cheeks, releasing a breath. As the crowd began to warp and twist, some fighting to get closer to the stage, some trying to escape the tightening group, the guy pressed back against the bar, but his blue-gray eyes never stopped wandering the room.

“Looking for someone in particular?” From the corner of his eye, he realized the question was directed at him. He turned to face fully the twenty-something young woman who was wiping down the counter, avoiding eye-contact in a semi-purposeful way. Her brown-and-red striped hair fell over her shoulders, shielding most of her face from him, but he knew she’d been speaking to him.

He shoved his hands in his pockets, “Yeah. Roger Kern?” His accent was thick and polite—English or something of the like, the bartender guessed—but laced with a fraction of fatigue.

“Ah.” The woman’s hand stilled on the counter and she looked toward the stage, her blue eyes flashing in a way that could have gotten her mistaken for a third Deschanel sister. She tilted her head in that direction, “He’s emceeing—waiting to do the next introduction. Do you need me to call him over?”

“Erm.” The guy glanced at Lindsay, who was now gripping the microphone stand and singing with all the power her slight form could muster. A combined shiver of awe went through the crowd. “Nah,” the guy finally decided, turning back to the bartender, “I’ll wait until he’s finished. Could I get a scotch neat, please…” he leaned forward to read her nametag, “Thalia.” She didn’t reply. Instead, she shrugged and fixed him his drink, sliding it over the counter to him. He took it and slipped away, settling into one of the plush leather booths pressed against the back wall of the club. As Lindsay finished her song and the crowd applauded, the guy raised his eyebrows, impressed, and tapped two fingers against the wrist that was too busy supporting his glass to clap.

Roger hopped back on stage, eyes wide with wonder. “Amazing,” he said into the microphone, shaking the young singer’s hand with great vigour, “I’ve heard this young lady perform four times before, but it’s still absolutely baffling. Thankyou, Lindsay.” She blushed and nodded, smiling at the still-clapping crowd as she made her way down the steps and over to the bar.

“You were great tonight,” Thalia said, sliding the woman’s traditional post-performance drink—hot tea with honey and lemon—over the counter. “As usual. Was that a new song?”

Lindsay took a sip of her tea, “It was a cover from an old Judy Garland movie. A Star Is Born; ever heard of it?” Thalia shook her head as Roger began speaking into the microphone again.

“Wasn’t that great? Now, here at Antrim, we make it a point to make all our musicians feel loved, regulars and newcomers alike. So I’d like everyone to give a very warm welcome for a first-timer here. Louise Carter, come on out!” A girl—eighteen at the oldest—stepped into the light, shifting nervously from foot to foot, her guitar clasped tightly against her chest. She perched on the barstool in the centre of the stage, getting her fingers into position on her strings and clearing her throat.

“Hi,” she said shyly, tucking a long strand of curly brown hair behind her ear. She plucked one chord and cleared her throat again. “I’m Louise and this is a song I learned recently. It’s called ‘Stranger,’ and it’s by Elisa.” She strummed out a few chords before starting in on the first line and all, as with Lindsay, all noise in the club stopped instantly, all ears tuned in to her voice alone. “Stranger, you look so different,” she hummed, her voice ringing with such sincerity that Thalia’s hands stopped wiping the counter once again. “Some other thoughts fill up your mind, and you just made it happen.” Lindsay made a thoughtful “hm” noise in her throat. The guy sitting in the back booth took another sip of his scotch and pressed one finger against his lips in thought, eyes hard and focused on the singer. As she rounded the middle and pressed on toward the end of the song, he smiled behind his fingers.

The rumbling applause filled the building as Louise struck the last note on her guitar and ducked her head, biting her lip as she smiled humbly. “Thankyou,” she mumbled into the microphone.

“No, no, thankyou,” Roger corrected as he hopped over to stand next to her. “That was outstanding for a first-timer. Did you all think so?” The crowd clapped in agreement and Louise’s cheeks turned a light shade of pink as she thanked the crowd once more. Roger patted her on the back kindly and pointed her in the direction of the bar, which she quickly made her way to.

Thalia nodded to her as she approached, “You did really well. Most of our regulars can’t even win the crowd over like that.” The singer smiled graciously and ordered a club soda, drinking it in polite sips, green eyes watching the stage carefully. Three more singers past, none of them terribly impressive, as well as a keyboardist who fumbled over his own fingers and a violinist who got nervous about thirty seconds in and accidently launched his bow into the audience, almost gouging out the eye of a middle-aged businessman. Finally, the night began winding down.

Roger smoothed a hand over his hair quickly and leaned into the microphone. “Our final performer tonight is another newcomer to Antrim. Put ‘em together for the instrumental stylings of Delaney Callaghan.” Scattered applause echoed around—understandably, as the other two instrumental acts of the night had been a bust.

Despite this less-than-warm welcome, a woman strode confidently onto the stage, a cello firmly in her grip. As she set up, the light glinted off of her reddish-coloured hair, throwing it into a startling contrast against her bright orange t-shirt and faded blue jeans. She pushed her glasses up on her nose and leaned into the microphone. “This is an excerpt from Tchaikovsky’s, ‘1812 Overture.’” She tapped her thick-soled boots against the stage three times, counting in her head, before sliding her bow gracefully over the instrument’s strings. A rich, beautiful sound filled the air and a consensus of wrong judgment floated above the heads of the audience members; it was beautiful. The way her bow sloped over the cello, eliciting slow and steady hums that reverberated off of the tiled walls and ceiling. Her eyelids fluttered over each note, connecting, loving the sound as if it were her own kin. At the back of the room, the guy finished off his scotch and crossed his arms, closing his eyes and soaking up the melody.

“Beautiful.” Roger’s voice was almost breathless as he took the stage again, Delaney having finished her piece. He shook her head and smiled brightly, “That was bloody beautiful—thankyou for performing for us.” She smiled at him and nodded when he gestured toward the bar—performers got free drinks until closing time—making a beeline for where the rest of the performers were circled around the bartender. She ordered an Irish coffee and Thalia served it, complimenting her on her piece, all while her eyes followed Roger to the back of the room.

The club owner crossed to the man at the back of the room, sliding into the booth across the table, smiling. The guy laughed at whatever the Irishman said and leaned a little closer, long, delicate fingers moving as he spoke.

“Are you checking that guy out?” Lindsay asked curiously. Louise and Delaney, both sitting close enough to hear this, turned to look at the man in question.

Thalia rolled her eyes, “Settle down, gabber gals—I’m just trying to figure out where I know that guy from.”

Louise’s forehead wrinkled and she traced the outline of her glass with her finger. “He does look familiar.” For some reason, these words were surprising; she’d been so quiet the whole night that no one expected her to offer up an opinion without being prompted.

“He looks hot,” Delaney corrected, leaning across the bar, desperate for a closer look. “However,” she thought for a moment, “Yeah! Yeah, he does look familiar. But I can’t tell where I’ve seen him before; jeez, could the lighting in here suck much more?”

Thalia blinked at her before, with a serious face, informing her, “You’re very loud.”

“I know.”

The two men in back rose then, walking toward the bar. The mystery guy paused at the bar, grinning a tight-lipped, tired grin, “You all did very well tonight.” Then he was gone, breezing through the side door before anyone had the chance to thank him.

As Roger crossed the bar to stand on Thalia’s side, jotting something down on the notepad he kept under the counter, Lindsay leaned forward. “Who was that guy?”

“Pardon?”

“The guy who just left,” Thalia amended.

“We can’t figure out how we all seem to recognize him,” Louise added.

“Why was he here and is he coming back?” Delaney demanded outrightly.

Roger chuckled and shook his head. “Women—I will never understand them.” Then, more clearly, he said, “He was booking a space for Concert Night next week. His name is Robert. Robert Pattinson.”

Rob Fanfic Project!

2008-10-08T23:21:51Z

Hey, everyone!

I am starting this really huge fanfic project based on an actor, instead of his characters. Can you guess which actor? Yep! Its going to be called, "The Life & Times of Rob Pattinson."

And since I am such a nice person, I am extending this offer before I begin writing... You could be a character in the story! Interested? Details under the cut.

Now, since I like things to be balanced, you cannot be Rob's significant other. My own personal character isn't going to end up being his significant other either--see, I am totally balanced here! Also, you cannot be one of Rob's family members.
If you would like you be a character, fill out the form below and I will work you in. And it won't be a small part either--each submitted character will play a fairly large role in the plot! Keep in mind, however, that you may only submit ONE character. Here's the form::

YOU
Name::
E-mail (for contact reasons; if you would prefer to just be reached through LiveJournal, specify that here)::

YOUR CHARACTER
Full name::
Age::
Gender::
Occupation::
Hobbies/Talents::
Appearance (be specific!)::
Personality::
Brief biography::
Relatives/friends/pets::
Where is s/he from and where does s/he live now?::

Fill out this form and leave me a comment with all the information. (Note:: I may get in touch with you for further details about your character.)
Also, if you would like to view examples of my fanfic skills, visit here.

EXAMPLE::
YOU
Name:: Thayne M.
E-mail (for contact reasons; if you would prefer to just be reached through LiveJournal, specify that here):: LiveJournal contact

YOUR CHARACTER
Full name:: Thalia Emilie Azure
Age:: 20
Gender:: Female
Occupation:: Bartender/Writer
Hobbies/Talents:: Reading, writing, singing (good enough for karaoke, not good enough to be pro), softball, cooking
Appearance (be specific!):: 5'8", 135 lbs., athletic figure, pale complexion, shoulder-length dark brown hair with red streaks, bright blue eyes (think Zooey Deschanel!), wears wire-rimmed glasses, wears comfortable clothes (mostly jeans and t-shirts) and always the same pair of boots
Personality:: Introverted, homebody, curious, opinionated, defensive, short-tempered--also very kind and loyal and helpful to those close to her
Brief biography:: Moved to L.A. to live with her brother at age 17 to get away from her hometown, where she was ostracized for contraversial opinions and actions by neighbours and family alike. She is an underaged bartender, but also freelances writing articles and short-stories. Her brother is a successful songwriter, but Thalia refuses to accept handouts from him, which is why she works and doesn't go to college.
Relatives/friends/pets:: Brother--Dreyton Azure; best friend--Amber Colt; dogs--Kei (Tibetan Mastiff), Pavlov (Golden Retriever)
Where is s/he from and where does s/he live now?:: From Midland, Texas; lives in Los Angeles, California

It's Coming!

2008-10-06T18:28:36Z

Hey, guys--I said I was going to be on more, and I was so focused on using my week-end getting caught up with Internet stuff (mainly catching up on Twiheads), and then my phone got cut off! And because I live in the Stone Ages and have DIAL-UP, I couldn't get on! But I'm back now, and focused.
Also, for those who don't know, I'm working at Subway now! I am a sandwich artist there. Awesome. Also, very soon I will be starting some training classes and then taking calls for the RAINN (Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network) Help Hotline. Doing my part for women. Every little bit helps.

And...here's a countdown to the release of the official Twilight movie trailer!

Back

2008-09-26T14:58:24Z

Hey, guys, I'm back! So, the bad news is that I do have apnea, but the good news is that it is solely attributed to my other problems (sinuses, PCOS, weight, et cetera) and as long as said problems stay well-managed, the apnea should have no trying affects on my body. That is a very good thing, because apnea would be the thing I worried about the most--apnea can be fatal! But not to me, so I'm pretty happy.

I spent my two days in the hospital reading and watching television. But all I read was Anderson Cooper's Dispatches from the Edge (A Memoir of War, Disasters, and Survival) and watched DVD reruns of Anderson Cooper 360º, so I am just pumped full of CNN-type stuff right now. I adore Anderson Cooper--I think he's one of the wisest, bravest, most dedicated men on the planet, and he is pretty much the only person I trust for news.

Anyway, I'm back. I'm feeling a little better, and...yeah.

Time for an Anderson quote? I think so!
"Anyone who tells you they aren't scared in a war zone is a fool or a liar, and probably both. The more places you've been , the more you know just how easy it is to get killed. It's not like in the movies. There are no slow-motion falls, no crying out the names of your loved ones. People die, and the world keeps spinning."

And now, I am going to make a peanut butter and banana sandwich. Hey, you listen to as much Elvis as I do, and you start picking up some Elvis-esque eating habits.

Sleep Tests

2008-09-23T19:17:41Z

Hey, guys. I'm sittin' here, watching some Bones and waiting for my ride. I'm going into the hospital for a couple days. Don't worry! I'm not dying or anything. My last entry said that I was sleepy all the time, remember? Well, its been ridiculously bad (I fell asleep standing up for the first time in my life yesterday), so I called my doctor and she was concerned. PCOS, apparently, can caused sleep apnea which, untreated, can be very physically damaging to the body. She arranged for me to do a two-night sleep study at the hospital, so that's where I'm heading. If the test affirms, I'll have to go back in for more tests, but if it negates, then I'll only be there for two nights. Laptops and mobiles aren't permitted within the hospital, so I'm going to drop off the face of the earth until the tests are over. I'll talk to you all then. Wish me luck!

Ciao.

Sickly

2008-09-21T06:28:18Z

I feel like crap. Complete and utter crap. PCOS is kicking my ass right now. I have been so tired for the past two days, and I've been getting these headaches just on the left side of my head that pulse and make my eye feel like its going to pop right out. I'm fine, though. I mean, I feel like crap but at least I know that PCOS isn't fatal in itself. It can cause heart problems and diabetes and stuff, but aside from a little heart flutter, I'm okay so its nothing to worry about. But I just hate it when I have my "symptom spells" and I can barely function.

So if you don't see me around a lot lately, that's why. I've been sleeping through the past two days, with the exception of hanging out with a friend last night (we both ended up falling asleep, because she was sick-hungover), and going to a booksale today (13 books for 10$, and I was a zombie mess by the time I left). I should be okay in a few days at the most and then I'll be back! I just really need the rest right now.

I'm going back to bed. Bye-bye.

Music & Musicians

2008-09-19T05:21:43Z

Music. Is there anyone who can deny that music is as pertinent to our existence as each revolution around the sun? Music shares the same essential make-up as humans (because it is so very human), but without deceptions and miscommunications. Music is beautiful and ugly, jovial and depressed, excited and mellow, calming and enraging. It marks days and weeks and months and years and decades and centuries in its infinity. It has been around forever, since before we humans even knew what to do with it, and it will continue to flow through the world for as long as there is a world to flow through. And when our planet has been reduced to nothing more than a black ball of ash floating in a dismal darkness, music will sing through the stars and the planets and the sattelites that outlive us. All of this sounds horribly shmeltzy, I know, but I dare you to tell me I'm wrong.

So here is where my incredulousness comes into play, and my observations of the ignorant hypocrisy of human beings:: Why do we show such disrespect for music? Everyone loves music, though maybe not as strongly as others do, but it is impossible to deny. It is all but embedded in our DNA that music is love, music is sustanance, music is life in all its glory and all its gore. We need it as surely as we need breath. We need it, but we do not respect it. Not all of us, at least. People download songs illegally, they sample music, they take credit for lyrics that are not theirs, they circulate videos and tracks without permission. And, to add insult to injury, they cannot understand why its wrong for them to do these things. Its theft. Theft of music. And if music is life, then stealing a musicians music is like stealing the breath from their body. Its murder. Its hateful. Its hurtful and dispicable and outrageous.

Its totally apparent that I'm an audiophile, isn't it? Good.

It's the Little Things That Make Life Worth Living

2008-09-18T03:34:22Z

I ate a caramel apple today. My first in four years--not because I've been avoiding them, but because I always seem to miss them when they're "in season." I ate it an hour ago, and I'm still on Cloud 9. I love caramel apples. Even if they do murder my teeth.

Also, I'm in ecstasy over the fact that I finished a song today. I've been in a bit of a rut, but I finally cranked one out. I really like the first two verses--I'm not quite comfortable with the bridge so I'll probably edit it, but all-and-all, I like these lyrics. What do you think?::

"Useless (Three Choices)"

You don't gotta tell me I'm wrong
Dont you think that I know that? I know that
But you keep goin' on -- I don't need this from you
Shut your mouth -- just stop
Like I don't understand where I am, what I did
But what about you? Its all about you
Because it all boils down to the fact
That I can't seem reach you, just to teach you

You've got three choices
Before you're useless to me

You maintain this look, like you're so innocent
I don't buy it, so don't try it
And you bat those blue eyes looking for compromise
I won't give it to you
Because you started this game, and I took all the blame
But it stops here -- I'm not at fault here
And this whole thing falls down to the fact
That you can't make up your mind, just to decide

You've got three choices
Before you're useless to me

You've got me, the one whose been here
By your side until the end
Always taking you back, even when
I know the mess you've been in
You've got you, the good-times guy
You never think to stop and ask why
Living life day-to-day
Never fail anything -- never try
And the third choice -- the one on my mind
That I want to ignore
Here's your bag, where's my key?
Turn around and you'll see, there's the door

You've got three choices
Before you're useless to me

Bobby Dupea Lyrics

2008-09-14T22:51:58Z

So I did something very ambitious! I listened to Bobby Dupea's songs and tried to write out the lyrics by ear (since they're basically impossible to find anywhere else). I guarantee that they are NOT 100% accurate, but I think I got close. I only did "Roam," "Stray Dog," and "I Was Broken" because you can find the lyrics to "I'll Be Your Lover, Too" very easily. Here ya go::

ROAM

well, i like this world
well, i like this world
well, i like this world
i pray i was in this world
i fight outwards in this world
i could fight with words

ghosts in the rain
cold walk of freedom
well, i'm walking a hallway
i'm walking a hallway
said, i'm walking a hallway
i'm walking a hallway
i'm walking a hallway
well, i'm walking a hallway

i am proud and i'm gloried
thinking 'bout the day what'll surely come
when on the scene, i'm smile evaded
when outta nowhere, i'm gonna run
but i know where i go, i will be gone

somewhere to run to--if you see
you could see it through my mind
you wouldn't know it--no way
you'd know when my eyes roam
through the fog and hail and sleet
i missed the snow and nowhere
nowhere, nowhere, nowhere
you should've known where
should've known where
you should've known where
should've known better, baby

'cause i like this world
and i like this world

some people want to roam
some people, they roam this world alone
some people were born to roam
some people they roam this world alone

alone

STRAY DOG

you're staring at the same old view
held on fast--it became old news, and i
i'll be gone 'fore long
at least i'm gone now
hallelujah for that

now you know what you lost
now you are the thieves that you pardon
search for need that will never come
hallelujah for that

there's more for their own now
its time for me to forget
i don't need a reason to, so
so long
stray dog
you're only joker, no
joker no more

oh, to each their own
but when you can call on your mind
just crying to hold back tears sometimes
wasted, wasted
before you forget what you came here for

you need to see the signs
and you need to stop wasting time
and selling the same damn story
story that you heard before
and i waited for you but you were long gone

stray dog
you're only
only stray joker, no
joker no more
stray dog

I WAS BROKEN

i was lonely
i was tired, now i'm bound
my head is off the ground

for a long time, i was so weary
tired of the sound i heard before
knowing of the nights i'm out the door
haunted by the things i did
stuck between the burning light and the dusty shade

said i, i used to think the past was dead and gone
i was wrong--so wrong
elements of blindness make you strong--make you strong
in my times, i melted into many forms
from the day i was born, no
i know there's no place to hide
stuck between the burning shade and the fading light

i was broken for a long time
but its over now
said i was broken for a long time
but its over now

yes, and you--yeah, you walk these lonely streets
where people stand--people stand
and some people just can't
and i do pretend
i'm free from all the things that saved my friends
i was there until the end
and i know i can take the moon
stuck between the burning shade and the fading light

i was broken for a long time
but its over now

rob performing!

2008-09-14T19:08:00Z

The amazing blues stylings of Rob Pattinson (aka, Bobby Dupea). This is his performance of the song "I Was Broken," originally by Marcus Foster. And if you've never listened to Foster, I highly recommend that you do so--he's pretty amazing himself!

UPDATE:: I took the video down because Rob recently posted a blog entry stating that it wasn't by his approval that the video was circulated around the Internet. So, out of respect for the artist, I have removed it from my journal. Really, people--respect musicians. They put up with enough shit already.

Buttons!

2008-09-12T19:53:46Z

So I was recently made a moderator of one of my favourite communities--TWIHEADS! Yay! So, one of the duties is to make sure that the community gets lots and lots of yummy advertisement. So I made twelve buttons--six technically, but there is a moving and a non-moving for each. Under the preview, follow the link and it'll take you to the page with all the buttons and some codes. You can place the codes wherever you like (though I opt for the BLURB section of my LJ). Thanks for using!

PREVIEWS::

Follow the leader.

More From "Untitled"

2008-09-10T19:33:01Z

And again, another bit from my Untitled story. I posted part of this one earlier--Reno Baker. But this one goes a little further. So...yeah.

There was a light tap on the bathroom door, and I considered not unlocking it. Then I remembered that this wasn’t my house, my bathroom, or even my school, so I crossed to open the door slowly. I wasn’t expecting to find Reno on the other side, her fingers playing with a small pink bottle. When the door opened, she looked up and the seriousness of her eyes surprised me once more. She pushed past me without a word and waited for me to close the door before she spoke.

“Mrs. Aceman asked me to bring you this.” She spoke clearly, enunciating each word in a way I hadn’t learned to do until I was a freshman, and held the bottle out to me. “Baby oil. She said it will make your hair feel greasy, but it will get the glue out easier and you will not have to wet your hair; she said you would be worried about that.” Anne knew me too well.

“Oh, um,” I took the bottle, “Thanks.” I turned back to the mirror and dabbed the slick liquid over the pink streaks in my hair, then rubbed the matted layers between my fingers. I expected Reno to return to class, but she didn’t. Instead, she perched gracefully on one of the sinks, eyes on her scuffed shoes.

“I have always wondered,” she said, eyes still focused and intent, “Why they call it baby oil.” I glanced over at her quickly before returning to my hair. I’d actually wondered the same thing before, but it was one of those things that people generally didn’t inquire about aloud. She continued, “They say that it is made for babies—for their skin—but any time I put it on, it dries me out. And I do not think a baby’s skin and my skin can be all that different.” Her regal speak surprised me; I had yet to hear her use a single conjunction. It was less like talking to a fifth-grader and more like listening to a lecture from the lovechild of Albert Einstein and Queen Elizabeth. Besides that, just the fact that she was speaking surprised me; she hadn’t uttered a single word in the classroom. “I have thought, before,” she was still talking to her shoes, not even checking to see if I was paying attention. I was. “Maybe it is made of babies. I know that is unlikely, but I still think about it from time to time. How vile is that?”

With the help of the oil, I’d managed to slide most of the glue from my hair while she spoke. As I worked on the last stubborn blob, however, I stopped and turned to face her. This was getting just a little too weird. “Vile? How old are you, really?”

She finally looked up, cocking her head to the side, confused. “I will be ten in May. Why?”

I shrugged, putting my focus back into the task at hand. “You just seem too smart for a kid.” That was an understatement; most kids my age couldn’t talk like that if they tried with all their brain cells. For Reno, though, it seemed completely natural.

She blushed then, ducking her head to stare at her shoes again. “Sorry.”

I raised my eyebrows at my reflection. “Why are you sorry? It’s not a bad thing.”

“My brother says that the way I speak can seem…” She trailed off, her forehead wrinkling as she struggled over a word, “Condensing?” She frowned, as if disappointed in herself—sickened, almost—for forgetting the term.

I thought about it, then suggested, “Condescending?”

“Yes,” she nodded, satisfied. “Condescending. He says that I alienate myself.”

I slid the last of the glue from my hair and turned to face her, blinking once, then again. “You’re seriously only nine years old.”

“Yes,” she confirmed.

“You’re sure you’re not a midget genius?”

She was looking at me with that confused expression again, as if I were a moron. “People with dwarfism tend to have the appearance of adults—really, the only thing childlike about them is their height. And it is not politically correct to refer to them as ‘midgets.’”

“I—“ I sighed and closed my eyes, shaking my head. “I was joking.”

When I opened my eyes, she was studying me. “You are irritated.”

“No,” I insisted, and it was the truth. I concentrated on putting the cap back on the baby oil bottle as I spoke. “I’m just a little weirded out. I feel like I’ve slipped into the eighteenth century and Marie Antoinette is going to pop up out of nowhere and start screaming ‘Qu’ils mangent de la brioche’ at me.” I felt my forehead wrinkle. My French skills were usually reserved for when I was trying to demonstrate my intelligence; why should I have to do that in the company of a little kid?

And then, perhaps the most startling thing during this whole exchange, Reno laughed. It was a gentle, happy laugh around a wide, white smile and it filled the entire bathroom, echoing off of the walls. “That was a clever joke; you must be very smart.”

It was embarrassing, the way praise of my intellect from a nine-year-old flattered me. “I think you’ve still got one up on me, Matilda.”

She looked confused again. “My name is Reno.”

No way, I thought and then I repeated the words aloud. “No way. There is no way you’ve never seen that movie; everyone has seen that movie!” She continued to stare at me like I was a crazy person, and I decided to let the subject drop, rather that explain the entire plot of Matilda to her. Instead, I suggested, “We should get back to the classroom; we’ve got a whole ‘nother hour ahead of us. Did you finish your pyramid?” I tacked on the last question as an afterthought; I wasn’t a big fan of having the last word in an already awkward conversation.

“Yes,” she assured me, sliding off of the sink and landing on one foot, the other a space behind in what looked like a pirouette. A second later, I realized it was exactly that.

I opened the door for her, “Do you take ballet classes?”

She blushed again, and I was beginning to get the impression that she liked to avoid talking about herself. Nevertheless, she answered, “Not classes, but a family member taught me a little. I do not practice as often as I should,” she frowned at herself.

Despite her sorrowful pout, I laughed. “I know what you mean. I took ballet for the longest time, and I never practiced. It wasn’t until I botched a chainés during a recital and knocked another dancer off of the stage that I realized practice might actually be important.” I laughed again at the memory. Janey Hubert’s high-pitch scream and the brief flash of blindingly pink tool as she tumbled so easily over the edge of the platform, only two feet higher than the rest of the floor. The terrible thunk as she landed face-first against the hardwood floor. The humiliated fury that blazed in her eyes when Madame Mia helped her to her feet and inspected her ankles for injury. Ten years later, Janey still hated me for that.

Reno laughed lightly at this, but not with the same smiling enthusiasm as she had earlier. We stopped just outside of the classroom door and she asked me, “Do you still dance?”

“No. Well, I mean, I still dance, but I don’t take classes anymore.”

“Why did you stop taking classes?”

I glanced through the thin window on the door and saw Anne waiting on the other side. Her eyes were on us and they were heavy with something I couldn’t place. “Um,” I mumbled, turning back to Reno, “I just, you know—“ I shrugged and tried to force back the image that was forming in my mind. Aunt Nettie’s face four years earlier, when I’d insisted I was too old to continue with ballet classes. She tried to convince me to stick with it, but I knew this was more for her sake than mine—Nettie had been an incredible dancer at my age, but my grandparents had refused to allow her to pursue her talent—and I called her on it. I still remembered that crushed expression, so hurt and helpless when none of her words could force me back into that crowded little dance studio. But sometimes, even now, when she’d walk in on me forming imperfect turn-outs and grande-pliés to Rachmaninoff, her face would light up with a joy that hurt my heart, guilt travelling through me as easily as blood for taking that kind of happiness from her again. But she’d expressed, finally, that my dancing was enough, and she didn’t need to see me in some stiff recital for that; this information killed the guilt a little, but not always, and never fully.

“I do not know,” a voice corrected me, shaking me from the memory. I blinked heavily and realized that Reno was still staring at me, expecting an answer.

“Oh,” I cleared my throat and shrugged as casually as I could. “I just grew out of it; I wasn’t interested in ballet anymore. Traded it in for kickboxing classes,” I flexed my biceps exaggeratedly. She seemed to accept this, but I opened the door quickly before she could throw another perfectly reasonable question at me that I was unreasonably reluctant to answer. She gave me one last crooked glance before stepping through the door, ducking her head, and heading back to her seat.

More From "Untitled"

2008-09-08T04:06:51Z

The next part of my Untitled story. Can you keep up?! LOL!
TO MY STALKER! DON'T READ THIS YET! I like the whole symbiotic, alternating-reviews thing we have going on, and I want to read and review another of your stories before you do another of mine. Especially because you're such a better reviewer than I am; I don't want to overwork you! LOL. So hold off until I read your Satan story--and any other of your stories--first, please!
Okay, and to everyone else...if there is, in fact, anyone else...here it goes!

It had started out well enough, with Anne introducing me to the kids as Miss Wallace and inviting me to lead the group in an artsy math project. It seemed simple: Cut out a construction paper triangle, write out the Fibonacci Sequence in pyramid form (it was already done on the blackboard), and then decorate the paper with the various colorful art supplies that cluttered the short, glossy oak tables. I’d been sitting at one table for a while, with two boys and one girl—Rodney, Chip, and Reno, respectively. I’d lingered here because, unlike the rest of the students, these were the only three that weren’t constantly chattering in those shrill, pre-pubescent voices, saying absolutely nothing of real consequence. Rodney and Chip were too busy engaging in some sort of decorating contest to even notice I was there, and Reno kept her eyes low, seemingly intent on finishing her project. She had amazing focus for a fifth grader, and a face far too serious; looking at her, I found it hard to believe she was only ten years old.

Her hair was dark brown—almost black—and twisted back into a tight bun at the base of her neck, not a single strand out of place. Her eyes, hidden well under her thick lashes, were a clouded shade of amber, and her lips were pressed together in a hard line, brow furrowed. She wore a faded denim jacket over a champagne colored vest and solid white t-shirt, along with a pair of double-cuffed blue jeans. She looked like a kid, of course, but not really. She was what Nettie called “an old soul in a young body.”The last thing that caught my attention—though it would have been the first for most—was a long, white scar that ran from her left eyebrow, curved over her temple, and ended at her jaw. It was a neon sign, flashing white against her tan cheek, and I wondered if it had something to do with her seriousness.

I opened my mouth to speak to her—to weigh her personality against her somber features—when something hit the back of my head and ran coolly down to the base of my neck. I turned slowly. At a table behind me were five girls; three were laughing, one was trying desperately not to, and the final sat perfectly still, eyes wide and hand clapped over her mouth, absolutely horrified. The table had a thin strip of pink goop across its top and I reached around to feel my head. When I brought my fingers back in front of my face, they were the same shade as the goop, sparkly and sticky. I recognized it instantly. Avery had once had the entire rainbow collection. Glitter-glue.

The girl launched herself at me. “I am so sorry!” She wailed. As she got closer, I could see how badly she was trembling and any anger that might have risen in me evaporated just as quickly. By now, all the other students—except for the one named Reno, who stayed focused on her project—had turned to see what the commotion was about and were laughing, pointing, cracking jokes. Anne stood from the table she was supervising and started shushing them, ordering them to mind their own business and get back to work. The girl in front of me began to shake even more and I could see moisture coating her big blue eyes. I tried to give her my friendliest smile and placed my hand on her shoulder, gently steering her to the door and out into the hallway before she burst into tears. I’d barely pulled the door shut behind us when she began whimpering. “I didn’t mean to do it—honest. I just put my hand down and it hit the stick and it went flying and hit you. It was an accident,” she insisted, as if there was no way I would believe her. Her breathing quickened, approaching hyperventilation, and I had a funny feeling that she was one of those kids with freakishly strict parents. I laughed at this, recalling my own mother’s obsessive tendencies, and put one hand on the girl’s head. She silenced immediately.

“What’s your name, again?”

She sniffled, still fighting back tears. “Helena.”

I smiled at her, “Well, Helena—if you say it was an accident, I believe you.”

Her eyes widened hopefully, “Yeah?”

I nodded. “Besides, you know,” I flipped my short hair over to one side and twisted my eyes to see it, “I always wondered what my hair would look like if I dyed it pink. Now I don’t have to go to a salon.” I inspected the thick blob, already drying in my dark auburn locks, and wrinkled my nose. “Not really my color, though. What do you think?”

She imitated my gesture, scrunching her nose against her face, and shook her head. “No. Maybe blue?” I was glad to see all signs of a breakdown gone from her face.

I pointed at her warningly, “Don’t go getting any ideas.” When she laughed, I laughed, and opened the door again. “Tell Mrs. Aceman that I’ll be back in a few minutes, okay?” Helena nodded and skipped through the door, a smile still on her face. I heard the other students asking her if she was in trouble, and her easy replies that she was not. I shut the door again and walked quickly to the girls’ bathroom, locking the door behind me (students were never allowed to go during class time anyway) and bending my knees in a big way just to see myself in the mirror. From the front, I looked the same as always. Dyed dark hair—straightened every morning—cut in tidy layers that barely brushed my shoulders, with temple-length bangs. Two intense, hazel eyes that seemed to be stuck on a permanent shade of silver with flecks of yellow-green around the pupil. Average nose and thin lips, light freckles over my cheekbones, a scrawny neck and broad shoulders. Yes, from the front, nothing seemed out of place. Then I flipped my hair to one side as I had just minutes before, but this time it was with a sigh and a deep frown. The glue was definitely dried out, and far from unnoticeable. I was going to have to wet my hair to get it out, which I really did not want to do; my hair got very curly and untamable when it was wet, and it wasn’t something I wanted people to see—I wouldn’t even go swimming with anyone outside of my family and very close friends for the very same reason. As I debated with myself, I nervously began running my fingers through the tainted locks, breaking them apart and scratching away as much of the dried paste as I could.

thayne_m @ 2008-09-07T13:32:00

2008-09-07T18:36:28Z

Okay, here are the next couple pages of my Untitled story. Now, just keep in mind that these pages are very rough and in need of a lot of editting. Some stuff'll be taken out, some stuff'll be put in. This is just the basic idea. But right now...you get to meet Elizabeth's boyfriend, Rob! He's such a hottie and a sweetie...I modelled him after a famous Rob. Ten points if you can tell WHICH famous Rob. :D

First and second period weren’t quite as terrible as I had expected them to be. Both teachers—already familiar with me and my situation—merely nodded to me in greeting and allowed me to make myself invisible in the very back of the room, never calling on me for an introduction or an answer, never drawing any attention to me at all. I was grateful for that. As I left second period, a huge whoosh of breath escaping me at the relief of making it through another forty-five minutes without being recognized as “the repeater,” the tension began to drain out of me. Not only was my next class English—one of my very best subjects—but it was also the first class of the day I shared with Rob; maybe I could really do this after all.

I’d barely made it through the door of the classroom before I found myself wrapped up in two long, familiar arms, the breath getting trapped as my lungs were crushed. “Rob? Baby,” I muttered feebly, one cheek smashed against his hard chest, “You’re squishing me.” A gentle chuckle sounded somewhere just above my head and he held tight for a moment longer before releasing me and I stumbled back a little. As a reflex—too aware of the effect his hugs had on people—Rob’s hands shot out to steady me and he laughed again when I wrinkled my nose up at him playfully. I took a step back and examined him; it had only been two days since we last saw each other, but all of the anxiety over the impending school semester had made it seem longer. I had to make sure he was still the same boyfriend I remembered. He was six feet tall and very lean, but with surprisingly defined muscles. His dark, sand-colored hair was disheveled, sticking up at odd angles but somehow managing to look rugged and appealing. He wore that same bright, genuine smile that turned his eyes an almost transparent, happy shade of blue, like looking into two crystal disks mounted on perfectly chiseled cheekbones. Yeah, this was most definitely the boyfriend I remembered.

“Good morning to you, too, Elizabeth,” his eyes danced, and I knew he knew that I was ogling him. With ease, one of his hands reached to take mine and he turned me slightly, leading me away from the door and the impatient crowd that had gathered behind us.

I smiled and corrected myself, “Good morning, Rob.” As we walked, I went on my toes to press a quick kiss to his cheek and then allowed him to lead me to a pair of desks in the back of the room. He knew me well, which was good considering we’d been together for over two years; we both agreed that it wasn’t love—and we didn’t try to fool each other by speaking those condemning three words—but that never stopped us from caring for each other and knowing each other the way that people in love do.

“How were your first two classes? I know you were worried.”

I shrugged as I struggled with the zipper of my messenger bag, “Not too bad. No one made me speak, so I tally that in my favor.” I placed a spiral notebook and a pen on my desk, then stuffed my bag under my chair, turning to face my boyfriend fully. “How were yours?”

“Well,” he sighed, but didn’t look as sad as he tried to sound, “I have homework already.” His eyes suddenly lit up, “Hey, you had Martinez last year, right?”

I rolled my eyes. For the past two years, any time Rob had a teacher I’d had before, he was on my case about helping him with the homework. Cheating, essentially. “Yeah,” I confirmed, “Let me see what you’ve got.” He let loose a string of thank-yous and dug an already-crumpled worksheet from his bag, pushing it at me. I recognized it immediately, “The first part is easy—humerus, radius, ulna, carpals, metacarpals, and phalanges,” I rattled off the names of the arm bones. I handed the paper back to him, “The second part is just how they work together and their functions; it’s in your book.”

As the bell rang, Rob took my hand and kissed it lightly, speaking with a bad French accent, “I kiss your ulna, my brainy beauty.”

I laughed and shook my head, pulling my hand away and pointing to where his lips had touched, “Metacarpals.”

At the front of the room, a voice cleared loudly and we both looked up to see Mr. Alwen glaring at us—me, mainly—with his arms crossed over his chest. “Well, well—if it isn’t Miss Wallace,” he said snidely, loud enough for the entire class to hear. “They told me I’d have a repeat senior this semester, but I didn’t expect it to be you. Though, now that I think about it, it doesn’t surprise me.” I didn’t take it personally—Alwen was a bitter, hateful old man by nature—but I could see Rob visibly tense, as if trying to decide whether or not he should defend me.

Even though Alwen’s words didn’t hurt in the slightest, the way all eyes in the room turned to stare made me nervous. After momentary deliberation, I concluded that crying and running out of the room probably wasn’t the best course of action and decided to, instead, brush it off with a joke. I smiled back at my teacher and said easily, “What can I say, Mr. A? I’d just miss that smiling face of yours too much to ever leave.” Laughter rippled through the room and Rob relaxed beside me, smiling a goofy smile as I shot a “zing” look at the instructor.

Alwen didn’t reply, but I noticed his face beginning to take on a purplish shade. He clenched his jaw and turned his eyes away from me, launching into a lecture about the semester objectives, and I couldn’t help but laugh lightly to myself; when would teachers realize that they made such easy targets? Nevertheless, I couldn’t afford to fail the class—I took notes dutifully and waved Rob off when he tried to initiate a whispered conversation about the upcoming Extracurricular Faire, and I even forced myself to ignore Alwen’s sharp tone every time he directed a question or comment at me. Until last semester, I’d been a model student, and I was working hard to fall back into that rhythm.

With the exception of that tiny blip, the rest of the day went by smoothly. That was probably due to the fact that Rob was in my next class, lunch, and then the two classes following, but I wouldn’t tell him that; Aunt Nettie always said that there was never any reason to inflate a man’s ego, because they did that so well on their own. As we left sixth period Government, our fingers laced together and voices blending as we both tried to speak at once, I began to feel okay—a little silly for getting so worked up about being back at school, but okay all the same. The way Rob pulled me to him—pressing me against the side of his warm, slender body—made me feel completely comfortable, and all of my doubts inexplicably disappeared.

We stopped just outside of the main building, at the top of the ramp, and I turned to embrace him. He returned the gesture immediately, and I could feel his face against my hair, “I forgot; what’re your next classes?”

I sighed contently against his chest, eyes closed. “Teacher’s Assistant,” I told him lazily, “For fifth grade, over at McGruer Elementary.” In what was supposed to be my final semester, I’d had two free periods, during which I would usually go to the library or sit in on one of my uncle’s college classes. Unfortunately, though, free periods were only permissible for second semester seniors, so I’d been forced to fill the two blank spots with something; Teacher’s Assistant seemed to make the most sense. I got to leave the high school and didn’t have to push my mind to work past a fifth grade level—it was perfect.

“Which teacher did you get assigned to?”

“Mrs. Aceman.”

Rob pulled back slightly, his eyes incredulous and his mouth open, “Anne? You’re assisting for Anne?” I laughed at his expression. Anne Aceman was my aunt’s best friend and, for that reason, like family to me and my sister. As kids—before her daughter had been accepted into a prestigious boarding school in West Virginia—it hadn’t been uncommon for us to spend every night at Anne’s house during the summers, and she and her husband were still frequent attendees of our family dinners. I smiled to myself as I slipped away from Rob’s arms, keys in hand; this was going to be a Cake Course.
Or not, I corrected myself forty-five minutes later as I finger-combed neon pink glitter-glue out of my hair.

Untitled - Intro

2008-09-04T20:53:31Z

Okay, are you ready for more?! More of my original writings, that is. I have been obsessively rapping away at my keyboard for the past week, trying desperately to complete chapter one of my latest story (thusfar still Untitled) before I forgot what I wanted to write. And last night, I did finish! Now, I am not going to post the whole thing here right now, because its roughly 8,500 words long. But I figured I would post the first page and a half so that you could get a feel for my writing style. Please tell me if you like it, and tell me if you would like to read more of the first chapter or hear more about the plot or characters! Here goes::

It was so strange, standing on the deathtrap sidewalk I’d strolled so many times before, knowing now—without ever looking down—where the concrete rose and dipped and cracked into large, jagged stepping stones. I knew exactly how to place each cautious step, which way to angle my feet, which way to tip my body for better balance as I climbed the ridiculously steep ramp to the main building. Everything about this place was familiar and safe, yet I felt more uneasy than I had the first day I stepped foot on the property. At least, back then, I’d had my sister at my side to second my predictable chattering teeth and shaking hands. Now I was on my own, and the place I’d spent four years trying to escape stared back at me with a terrorizing sneer, laughing as it claimed the first of many endless days that would make up half of another year of my life. I could feel my chest tightening as I stood frozen on the concrete, and my fingers instinctively fumbled for my mobile.

“Hello?” A voice, thick from fatigue, answered after the seventh ring.

I was so relieved to hear my sister’s voice that I didn’t even think to berate her for going back to sleep after I woke her, just fifteen minutes before. I could hear the tension in my own words as I began to ramble, “I changed my mind, Avery; I can’t do this. I don’t know why I thought I could, but I’m standing here and I can’t feel my legs, and I think that’s a solid indication that this isn’t going to work, so I’m just going to come home now, okay?” My voice had become so high pitched and desperate by the last word that it sickened me; I hated those rare times when weakness got the better of me and my strong resolve shattered.

She yawned and I heard a faint rustling, and I could tell she was sitting up in her bed in an attempt to wake herself fully. She sighed, “C’mon, Elizabeth, we talked about this last night; you have to graduate.” I opened my mouth to reply, but she was already interrupting me, “And no—before you even go there—you cannot get your GED.” I should have seen that coming. No matter how many times I’d tried to convince Avery that a GED was just as respectable as a high school diploma, she would hear none of it. “Daredevil,” she’d repeat every time the subject came up, using my childhood nickname as she always did when she wanted to get me to see things her way, “Think about it; do you really want all those years of adolescent torture to be for nothing?” I would always sigh and shake my head and eventually agree with her, only to bring the option back into play a few hours later and the argument would start all over again.

I pressed the mobile closer to my ear and moved to the side of the ramp as other students began filing past me. I inhaled deeply through my nose, “I really wish you were here, Av. Who am I going to sit with at lunch now?”

“Uh, hello?” Her tone made it all too apparent that she was rolling her eyes, “You do realize that your boyfriend still goes there, right?” Oh, right. I mentally slapped myself; how had I forgotten about him? My boyfriend, Rob, was a year younger than me and that meant he and I would be seniors together this year. We’d even done a schedule comparison two days before and realized we had four out of eight classes together, as well as the same lunch. I remembered feeling so relieved at the time that I would have someone there for me, and then I practically forgot he even existed.

I laughed a little, “Yeah, yeah—boyfriend. He slipped my mind for a second.”

When Avery spoke again, her voice was suddenly serious and far too solemn for the carefree sister I knew and loved, “Elizabeth, I want you to graduate.” And I knew she meant it. It wasn’t in me to place blame, but my sister was the main reason I was being forced to repeat a semester of my senior year in the first place. She was the dreamer, always talking about a better life and true love and wild adventures that only happened in movies—she was also the sensitive one, letting her emotions govern most aspects of her existence, and this personality trait didn’t always work out in her favor. A year before, as our first semester ended and Christmas break freed us from the monotony of mathematical equations and science projects, Avery had found herself shanghaied by a tag-team “intervention” from our aunt and uncle about the boy she’d been dating. It was a long, angry mess that ended with Uncle Joseph shouting, Aunt Nettie sobbing, and Avery vowing that she and her boyfriend—whose name was now banished from our vocabularies—could not be kept apart. The next morning, she was gone. She and Mr. Unmentionable had left together without so much as a note or a phone call to reassure us that they were okay. The worry of it all—the thought of never seeing my twin sister, my other half, ever again—tore away more and more of me each day and soon, the semester was over and I’d managed to drop my average from a B+ to an F.

To be completely honest, I hadn’t even considered returning to school until two weeks before the new year started and Avery had reappeared in our living room suddenly, sobbing about a broken heart and a soon-to-be new addition to our family. When she heard about my failure, she’d fallen ill with guilt (and morning sickness) and insisted that I finish the semester and get my diploma, and I couldn’t bring myself to say no to her. As usual. That’s what brought me here today, on the brink of an asthma attack and fighting a serious urge to glue on a moustache and go into hiding for the next four months.

I shook my head, defeated. “Okay, I’ll give it a shot. For you,” I added in an overly-sweet voice that I knew would lift her mood immediately. Right on cue, she snorted into the phone—that delightful little snort that she was so careful to hide from everyone outside of our family—and blew a raspberry into the receiver. I laughed in return and we said our good-byes. As soon as I hit the red button on my mobile, I felt my spirits sink again and it was as if the conversation had never taken place; it was just me, a fatal sidewalk, and a daunting brick building. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and placed one booted foot in front of the other, starting the struggle against the incline.

Reno Baker

2008-09-02T21:13:00Z

Hey there, ladies and menfolk! I have a special treat for you today!
I am going to introduce you to a brilliant young girl. She is a nine-year-old genius, and the coolest kid ever. Her name is Reno Baker, and she is a character in my new story. Here is an exerpt from the story so far, and this is Reno's first real introduction to the main character, Elizabeth Wallace. Ready to meet her? Here we go::

There was a light tap on the bathroom door, and I considered not unlocking it. Then I remembered that this wasn’t my house, my bathroom, or even my school, so I crossed to open the door slowly. I was surprised to see Reno on the other side, her fingers playing with a small pink bottle. When the door opened, she looked up and the seriousness of her eyes surprised me once more. She pushed past me without a word and waited for me to close the door before she spoke.

She finally looked up, cocking her head to the side, confused. “I will be ten in May. Why?”

She blushed then, ducking her head to stare at her shoes again. “Sorry.”

I raised my eyebrows at my reflection. “Why are you sorry? It’s not a bad thing.”

I thought about it, then suggested, “Condescending?”

“Yes,” she nodded, satisfied. “Condescending."

I'm Ba-a-ack!

2008-08-25T04:25:22Z

I'm going to make this short and simple, because I'm in the middle of writing the beginning of a story and that first chapter is crucial, but I wanted to do this before I forgot, because I've been meaning to do it for a week or so.
So, I'm usually on DeviantArt, but DA has started to get a little--for lack of a better word--retarded about its content. All FanArt has basically been banned, and half of my gallery has been deleted. So, from now on, all of my FanArt will be here. That means icons, wallpapers, signatures, fictions...EVERYTHING. Along with some of my own original writings and whatnot, of course.

To give you some clue as to what you have to look forward to, here are show/movie/music/celebrity/novel FanArts that I hope to have up soon::

Twilight (book series)
Twilight (movie)
Rob Pattinson (actor)
That '70s Show (show)
Bones (show)
Stargate: Atlantis (show)
Gilmore Girls (show)
Firefly (show)
Serenity (movie)
Tin Man (mini-series)
Blood & Chocolate (movie)
Underworld (movie)
Blade: Trinity (movie)
The Messengers (movie)

Keep checking back for these, as well as my original stuff. It may take me a little longer to get around to some (my main obsession right now is Twilight, so that'll have most of my attention), but I'll try my damndest to get it all done!

Lovies!
~Thayne M.

Updates

2008-07-05T14:58:09Z

Wow, I've never really done just a normal type of journal entry here before! Well, I just had a few updates that I wanted to share::

--I turned 18 on 30. June, and I'm a big kid now!
--Two days after my birthday, I got my results back for my GED test. 3070 points out of a possible 4000. Good enough to qualify for a scholarship. I know I mentioned this in my last entry, but I am still very excited.
--For my fellow Boneheads, I know that I haven't updated "The Heart In the Handbag" lately, and I apologize. I've just had so much going on, between babysitting my niece during the days and studying and worring about my test and then my birthday excitement. Its just been a little hectic.
--I am going to be at my daddy's house all next week, with no Internet, so if you need me, that's tough luck.
--I have officially been a vegetarian for a month.
--The guy I've been interested in for two years finally asked me to a movie, but he'd said something stupid right before doing so ["animals were put on this earth so we could eat them"], and I said no. I really stand by my beliefs!
--I hate 4. July. I'm too jumpy for it. I almost had about 187 heartattacks last night.
--My American Idol audition is next month, and I still don't know what song I am going to sing, though I have it narrowed down to six or seven possibilities.
--I need a job, or else I'm going to get booted from my household. Anyone wanna take on a slacker roommate? I clean and cook!

All right; that's it!

GASP! Bones Fics, Ahoy!

2008-07-03T16:39:57Z

It was recently brought to my attention (and utter horror) that I have not uploaded any of my Bones fics to my LiveJournal. How much do I suck right now?
Okay, well, my patience with LJ's unwillingness to keep up font integrity is still a factor, so I'm just going to link you to the stories at my FF account. Feel free to comment there or here; the e-mail alerts all go to the same place! :D

A Better, Happier You [4 Chapters - Complete]
Possession [Oneshot - Complete]
The Heart In the Handbag [5 Chapters - In Progress]

Oh, and I thought I might share some good with all of you...
Not only did I just turn 18, but yesterday--two days after my birthday--I got the results back from my GED test. I PASSED! And I got 3070 points out of a possible 4000, which is a good enough score to apply for a scholarship!
So, I'm thinking Community College for two years, and then I'll transfer to an actual college -- do writing and cultural studies, maybe have a minor in theatre or something like that. YAY!

85 Bones Icons

2008-06-16T17:47:58Z

Who?:: Angela, Bones, Booth, Jack, Tessa, Zack
From?:: S01E02, "The Man In the SUV"
Spoilers?:: S01E02, "The Man In the SUV"
Rules?:: 1) You don't have to credit me, but don't take credit for my icons. 2) If someone asks where you got your icon, please link them back to my LiveJournal. 3) These are not bases. If you want text on them, please ask me to add it, or get my express permission to do it yourself. 4) If you snag any of the icons, please tell me the icon number(s)! I like to know which ones people like best.

(What if it doesn't end like that? What if it doesn't go bad?)