| Welcome to The United Literates, or TUL! We hope you enjoy your visit! We're an all-genre, all-literate forum on the Zathyrus Networks, and we'd love to have you join! Our roleplays range from the fun to the mature, and are all member-run and created; they extend from Fictional roleplays set in the past and future, to Real-Life and Fan-Fiction categories. In addition to roleplays, TUL also has a vibrant community of artists and writers, featured in The Cafe section of the website, who also love to do things out of character through our Lounge area. Right now, you're viewing the forum as a guest, which means you only have limited access to the board and its features. To join TUL and start roleplaying with us, all you have to do is click the link below, register, and pass through our brief application process. So what are you waiting for? Welcome to TUL! Register today! Once you've created an account, please head to The Application Center and follow the instructions to become a full member. If you're already a member, please log in to your account to access all of our features: |
| Here We Go Again!; =D | |
|---|---|
| Tweet Topic Started: Oct 7 2012, 10:48 PM (121 Views) | |
| Allokai | Oct 7 2012, 10:48 PM Post #1 |
Welcome to the Club
![]()
|
OOC Information Name: Allokai Gender: Female Who were you referred by? What site were you referred from?: I was here at the previous TUL way back in the day, then fell off the face of the earth and never reapplied when it changed... Age: Not a teen any longer...)= Contact: Ask Role Playing Experience: Years and years, but not so much recently. IC Information Role Play Sample: What was an artist, anyway? Was it someone who painted? Made music? Crafts? Did that definition extent to those who put together floral arrangements, or even to athletes who pulled off a perfect performance? If someone glued a couple of screws and feathers to a frame and called it art and sold it, and kept going from there, did that make the person an artist? Was it all a matter of skill and time, or was it simply how the piece affected others? Millie wasn’t sure how to answer those questions. However, there was one thing she knew quite well, and that was that, to be an artist, you had to actually do art. (Whatever art was.) And she had not been able to since…forever, it seemed. Her muse had left her and now that she had moved to Pelican City, it was even worse. It was not that she didn’t want to do art – her hands ached to hold a paintbrush, to make something out of nothing, to express her feelings on canvas. She felt stifled without it, alone and lost, as if a piece of her was missing. But then, hadn’t she felt like that for a while, now? As if her artist was there, inside her, but caged, or guarded, somehow. As if something was keeping her from doing what she so dearly loved. Something inside her, dark and anxious and brooding. A block, a fence, a maze, perhaps. But today, she told herself, she was going to get over it. She was going to break through. ------------------------------------ And breakthrough Millie did. She bought herself some clay from the store, simple and air-drying, organic. She had never worked in the medium before, so she thought it might set sparks into the dead forest of her artistic desire. And, though it didn’t do anything nearly so dramatic, it felt good. It felt like something inside her was waking up again, stretching its muscles and shaking itself. She found sculpting to be a soothing pastime over the next few weeks, as she got herself moved in. It was relaxing to take breaks in between unpacking boxes and use that time for herself, working with her hands. She made many small sculptures over that time. Miniature dragons, horses, even a bird…though that didn’t go as well as she had hoped. Still, the voice of criticism was muffled enough for her to take her art back, little by little. It felt good. It was like brushing away the cobwebs and dust to reveal a beautiful wood floor underneath. Or perhaps it was like casting someone undesirable out of one’s life. Maybe that’s where things went wrong. Millie started to see him soon after finishing her third sculpture. He was a tall man, nondescript apart from that. However, there was something about him that gave her a very strange feeling when she saw him. It was an attraction, but not any type she had ever experienced before. Within it was also repulsion, though of a deeper kind than she had ever felt. She never went outside when he was around, and though he did not linger, she seemed to see him far too often. He had a lost look to him, she decided. Lost and angry, like someone who had been displaced wrongfully and was looking for a way back inside. Confused, a little confounded. Lonely as well, perhaps, but also oddly…transparent. She couldn’t think of any other way to put it. It was as if a wind might blow him away, or a light shower of rain wash the earth of his presence. He seemed like a piece of some other place that had come here and didn’t know what to do. It reminded her too much of herself. ---------------------------------------------- Time passed, and the man eventually stopped appearing around Millie’s apartment. She soon forgot all about him in the scurry and bustle of her new life. She forgot about a lot of things during that time, or tried to. The past was behind her, now, well and truly, and she was going to keep it that way. Her re-discovered artistic inclination helped, and, as she continued to weave her way into her new life, it blossomed inside her like a flower. She should have known the past could never be forgotten. She had made a new friend at her work, another artist, older than herself but still carrying a youthful flair. Millie did not make friends easily, so she cherished the sense of companionship Shelly immediately gave her. They were soon hanging out around town, talking or sketching or both. And then she got the phone call. Shelly in the hospital. Shelly in a coma. Shelly laying there, pale even against the white sheets, veins standing out in her wrists, face sunken, breathing much too shallow. And the memories…the flashbacks, the thoughts of white sheets years ago, of hands folded across a narrow chest, heaving breath, life fading, beeping of machines, fake smiles…the one who had done it pacing across the corners of her mind, a glint of silver in his hand, desperate as a starving wolf, motivated by it even to attack an old woman walking home alone at night… Millie visited even though it hurt her to do so. The feeling of helplessness drove her to do something, anything, and so she sculpted and sculpted and soon an arm of little watchful figures were lining the windowsill of Shelly’s hospital room. To Millie, it seemed as if, the more so gave, the more the life crept back into her friend’s still features. So she kept working, kept creating. Because, for once, she believed. She believed. That belief was what brought the tall man back. He appeared on the other side of the bridge as Millie was walking toward the hospital one evening. No one else was in the immediate area. No one but the two of them. He stood blocking her path, his expression one of silent demand, of betrayal, intent. She was carrying one of her sculptures, and his eyes immediately locked onto it. She knew then what he wanted. He would crush the life out of it, just as she had seen the life bled from those ghosts of her past. Just as she had starved her artist for air, such a long time ago. Millie looked at him, rooted to the spot. Her breath fogged in the air. The sound of the stream reached her ears from below. She could hear, faintly, the grumble of traffic on the road nearby. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. The world went on around them, and Millie knew that all things had an end, a destination, a fate. Nothing could drift forever, and wrongs had to be righted. The man’s arm unfurled like a ribbon, or a kite, or a bag floating aimlessly across a parking lot. He held his palm out toward her, menacing but also oddly childlike. Lost. He demanded, but he also pled. He was the stray dog that had run from her earlier in the streets. He was the man with the knife. He was…he was… He took a step toward her. As the world carried on relentlessly around them, she went to him. The Genres: Fantasy...in any different forms. Modern. Probably other stuff I am forgetting at the moment. Ask me. XD |
![]() |
|
| Walking Softly | Oct 7 2012, 11:02 PM Post #2 |
![]()
Old-Timer
|
![]() I'd like to welcome you to the TUL community and hope your stay with us will be thoroughly enjoyable. If at any time you find yourself stuck, confused, or in need of answers; please PM an admin or post in the Shout-out board. We will be more then happy to answer what ever questions you may have. If you'd like an in-depth review of your admission, please contact the staff member that accepted you. Be sure to keep up to date with our Broadcasts as the information posted will effect your experience here on TUL. Check this out! Here is a list of some features to check out on your stay here. These are not all the features we have, but some of the larger ones.
Please be sure to read the rules before proceeding, for they will prevent you from So, without further ado, welcome to The United Literates! Enjoy yourself!
|
|
~Burn the land and boil the sea, You can't take the sky from me~ Long Live Firefly The Battle Arena - participate and vote! Seriously, click on it. My signature shall never again include reference to pole dancing. | |
![]() |
|
| 1 user reading this topic (1 Guest and 0 Anonymous) | |
| « Previous Topic · Accepted Applications · Next Topic » |








8:13 PM Jul 10