Re: Liam Fowler [D7] Oct 6, 2011 20:28:30 GMT -5
Post by semper on Oct 6, 2011 20:28:30 GMT -5
Liam Aspen Fowler
Liam Aspen Fowler
Do you believe in the day that you were born?
Tell me, do you believe.
Do you know that every day's the first
of the rest of your life?
I am no one out of the ordinary. There is nothing that sets me out from the rest of the lumberjacks in District 7.
My height is only 6'3", so I'm not some giant like that Paul Bunyan guy in folklore, and I certainly don't have a blue ox named Babe. That'd be nice, though, but alas I do not. Anyway, because I'm a full time lumberjack (and I don't mean to brag), but I'd say I'm pretty muscular in the arms. Not so much the legs, but they still have the depressions around the lines of the muscles when the skin slides over them. My hands are hardened with callouses from all the years of swinging axes, and with that also comes endless amounts of blisters. There's never really a time when there's not a blister or a blood blister somewhere on my hand, but usually I pop them with some sort of needle. They say not to do it, but oh well. I need to work to live.
My skin is usually tan year round because of always being outside, and it also has a weathered look to it. Bright white scars stand out on my arms and hands from whenever accidents have happened while logging or my failed attempts at cooking, and I'm not afraid to admit that I've had quite a few bad cooking experiences. On my left cheek, there's three long scars running diagonally from between my eye and nose across my cheek and ends near the back of my jaw. It's the result of an angry rooster attack, but I'll get to that later. My hair is dark brown with a few natural blonde highlights from the sunlight, and it comes down to just above my eyes in jagged ends. I never really take the time to make it look nice, so my hair is always unkempt. I'm not out to impress anyone anymore -- especially after what happened to Kyra -- so I honestly don't care what I look like. I have thick, dark eyebrows, but luckily they're not hideously wide. The iris of both my eyes are a grey-hazel usually, but like my sister's eyes, mine change colors between blues, greens, and ambers, all depending on my mood, really. When I'm sad, hints of grey. Happy, shades of either amber or blue. Angry, flecks of green. All along the outer edges of the iris, I might add. The nose is straight and somewhat pointed at the end, set squarely above a thin set of lips. I also have a tendency to not shave my face for a few days at a time, so I can often be found with stubble along my jaw. Doesn't really bother me. Hey, I can try shooting for the authentic lumberjack look if I want to, alright?
My clothing is very simple and unoriginal and very predictable. I love flannel shirts, no matter the color on the plaid design or how worn they are. The material is so soft and always keeps you warm, so the moment fall hits, that's the only kind of shirt you'll ever see me wear. In the summer and spring, I'll resort to just plain T-shirts that are worn out and showing their age. My jeans are all the same way, too: worn out, threadbare, frayed at the ends, and have tears in various places. I don't mind, though. At least I have clothes to wear -- and lovely flannel shirts to keep me warm.
Don't tell me if I'm dying
'cause I don't wanna know.
If I can't see the sun, maybe I should go.
Don't wake me 'cause I'm dreaming
of angels on the moon,
where everyone you know
never leaves too soon.
Quite frankly, I loved life. I loved everything about it: the ups, the downs, the curve balls, you name it. For the most part I was a very optimistic person. The glass was always half full and there was always a silver lining to every situation. I tied to not let things get me down because, in the end, no one gets out of life alive, so why not make the most of it and be happy with what you've got? That being said, it used to take quite a lot to anger me. If whatever angered me was immoral, though, like everyone else, I'd snap as quick as a twig. However, I tried to stick to the "kill them with kindness" saying as much as I could. But ever since my wife, Kyra, was killed in a fire, things have changed. I still love life, but it's not as appealing anymore. Now that she's gone, it's like half of a painting missing. The remaining half is still beautiful, but it'll never be the same.
I am a lot quieter now, more reserved and cautious. I do still have my moments of being obnoxious, but those are rare now. Kyra's death certainly put a damper on me, and even though I know she would want me to move on, I can't. I'm hopelessly depressed deep down, I know. Harboring all this sadness and just forcing it down further won't do me any good, but it's all I know how to do. I've tried exercising to get rid of some steam, but obviously that hasn't worked. So for now, I've given up on that and just continue to bottle it all up.
My little girl Stella is probably the main reason I still have a smile on my face. I'll always love my sister and parents, but at the end of the day, Stella's the one I love coming home to. Her bubbly personality just seems to put a light feel to things and makes me happier. Because of what happened to Kyra, I can honestly say that I'm very protective of Stella. I'd sooner gnaw off my own foot than watch Stella die. People say I'm overreacting, but all I want is for history to not repeat itself.
Aside from family, I simply love music. Specifically the violin. I've been playing for a very long time, and I don't mean to sound conceited, but I think I'm a pretty good violinist. A lot of times I'll just sit and play whatever comes to me in the moment, whether it's made up or something I've memorized over the years from faded ink on fragile yellow paper. A lot of times I'll play for Stella when she can't sleep, and though it sounds obnoxious to me in the silence of the night, it puts her out cold like any other lullaby.
I have a morbid fear of chickens and streets. The chicken one came around when I was younger and chased around by an angry rooster, so that one has a perfectly good explanation. The little brown- and black-feathered devils are more cunning than you think. They'll plot the death of you, I swear; that one rooster attacked me in my sleep, so I believe my chicken fear to be justified. The street fear, though... I don't know why I'm so terrified of streets. I will not cross them. Something could come flying down that wide, flat, open area and just hit you, and besides, I prefer the woods anyway, so roadways can just disappear for all I care. No one needs them anyway.
You can tell me all your thoughts
about the stars that fill polluted skies,
and show me where you run to
when no one's left to take your side.
But don't tell me where the road ends
'cause I just don't wanna know,
no I don't wanna know.
I've lived in District 7 my entire life, go figure. But my family was one of the lucky ones: we weren't poor, but we weren't rich, either. We had enough to get by with a little spare pocket change, and growing up with poor people living around us certainly made me learn at an early age that you have to be thankful for what you have. However, I also learned that a lot of the really rich people in the District were stuck-up snobs. Or at least the rich people I knew certainly were brats. I hated that; they were so blind so see all the people that were struggling to survive all around them.
Anyway, during my childhood, my sister, Aria, was essentially my best friend. I loved her and really enjoyed doing things with her, everything from teaching her how to fight to pulling pranks on people. The scariest moment I ever remember from back then was while playing hide and seek, Aria was bit by a spider. I didn't know what kind of spider it was, but judging by the reaction she had to it, it wasn't a little dainty granddaddy long leg. I carried her all the way home, and she almost died from that spider bite. I remember crying at her bedside, asking my mother if Aria would be alright, watching as people came to look at her and examine her condition, but the rest of that's a blur. Doesn't matter what happened, though, because she's still alive and well, thank God. I honestly don't know what I would've done if she had died so early on.
Soon after she had recovered, I remember coming home one day with a rooster that one of my friends had given me. The other boy had said that his dad was going to kill the poor animal, so in the spur of the moment, I said that I'd take him. My friend then handed the rooster over, and I took it home. Mom and Dad said I could keep it, so I made a little makeshift house for it, and ended up falling asleep beside it. In the middle of the night, I woke up to claws digging into my face. Of course I screamed and waved my hands to get whatever it was off my face, only to scare the damn rooster so that it gouged my cheek with its damn claws. Why the thing was perched on my face, I'll never know. Then once it was off my head, it chased me as soon as I stood up. Dad took the rooster after that, and I never saw it again. One thing is for certain: I hate chickens.
Years after that, when I was about 19 or 20, I met a beautiful girl named Kyra in the District Square one day. She was incredibly nice and very beautiful, and we started seeing each other after that. We were together for about two years when I finally mustered up the courage to ask her to marry me. She said yes, and after that we had a small wedding. Small, but very meaningful. Kyra was just about the best thing that ever happened to me, and I loved her a lot. I found myself generally much happier when I was around her, and I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. We then had a daughter, Stella, and she, too, was someone I loved and held very near to my heart.
All that was abruptly cut short about half a year later. Kyra was exhausted from many sleepless nights, so I told her that I'd take Stella out to the market with me so she could have some peace and quiet to catch up sleeping. It was a cold winter day, so the fireplace held a small fire in it. I left with Stella and came back about an hour later, only to find that the small house we called home was up in flames. There was absolutely nothing I could do -- Stella was with me, we were too far out in the woods for anyone to help, and the fire had engulfed the whole house. But Kyra... Kyra was still inside. I wanted more than anything to go in and get her, but it was too late. The grass around the house had been raked clean of dead leaves to use for fires and trees were far enough from the small house to not catch on fire, so I did the only thing I could: turned so little Stella couldn't see the fire (even though I highly doubt she would remember it at all), and I called out Kyra's name. There was no answer. I tried again and again, but still she didn't respond. I broke down and sobbed, holding on tightly to Stella as she began crying because of the loud cracking noises that came from our house collapsing in on itself. I comforted her, holding her tightly against me to protect her from the cold, turned around, and started off for my parents' house.
So that brings me to where I am now.
Don't tell me if I'm dying.
Don't tell me if I'm dying.
Song: Angels On The Moon by Thriving Ivory
Stella - three years old
Not going for anything fancy, just want the bio to be done so I don't end up procrastinating. x3
Not sure if the eye color changing part is alright. :S