EZRA FABLE MERCURY, DISTRICT 3

✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ
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5,831 POSTS
Pronouns: they/them
last seen Apr 25, 2024 0:02:39 GMT -5

“And now that you don't have to be perfect, you can be good.” - steinbeck

EZRA FABLE MERCURY, DISTRICT 3 Jul 15, 2013 3:27:18 GMT -5

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Post by ✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ on Jul 15, 2013 3:27:18 GMT -5

Name: EZRA FABLE MERCURY
Age: EIGHTEEN
Gender: Male
District/Area: District 3
Appearance:

Personality:

History:

Codeword: OH DEAR
Comments/Other:

EZRA IS IN CHELS' MERCURY PLOT

Last Edit: Jul 17, 2013 6:17:25 GMT -5 by ✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ

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✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ
Graphics

5,831 POSTS
Pronouns: they/them
last seen Apr 25, 2024 0:02:39 GMT -5

“And now that you don't have to be perfect, you can be good.” - steinbeck

EZRA FABLE MERCURY, DISTRICT 3 Jul 15, 2013 13:58:13 GMT -5

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Post by ✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ on Jul 15, 2013 13:58:13 GMT -5

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e z r a m e r c u r y

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"YOU'VE GOT A WARM HEART, YOU'VE GOT A BEAUTIFUL BRAIN. BUT IT'S DISINTEGRATING, FROM ALL THE MEDICINE." - d a u g h t e r [/center]
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"Ezra Mercury is by far the genius of the family that his father had ever aspired to be. A crazy insomniac who spends his nights up painting, his head's crammed with knowledge of mathematics, science, and architecture. Some say he's too smart for his own good, which is probably a saying he's tired of hearing. On the nights when even painting can't sooth his frantic nerves, he buries himself under the leather bound books left behind in his father's study. Although sometimes a bit too prideful of his elite status and knowledge, the compassion he possesses for his family is undoubtedly unlimited. When things first began to go wrong, he was the first to get his family back on track." - Chelsey

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"Speaking"
Doing
Deep Thought
Hearing

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Her bones slipped from the brush, forming themselves on the canvas as beautifully as they began. I wish he thought, I wish they would scuttle across the page and fracture like dust. The fur of an animal painted these things across the paper, bristles of an ox attached to a wooden stem. It's roots planted themselves in his arm, using his sanity for sustenance, his dreamscape for direction, or misdirection if you will. He swore he could feel the earth turning beneath him, and knew that somewhere down very deep and out the other side, there were the crumbling remains of paradise waiting for him. Tall towers that mankind dreamed into existence staggered across the land, places he would never see. Yet, he knew they were there, just as certain as he knew where her bones began. They stopped where he did, and felt themselves across the planes of his cheekbones, freckled covered things. They feathered his face like rainwater.

Rainwater had fallen long ago, on something like cheeks when it sprinkled with salt from skies of chocolate brown as they so often did. They seemed to do that a lot, ovals of horror lifting themselves out of a sighing droop only when his muscles worked to smile. That wasn't as often because rain fell of it's own accord, and Ezra had never been one to try to control the weather. It seemed to leek out of him, as if he'd never quite been taped back together correctly. Maybe he hadn't ever been because being smart took more work than they thought and when there were fists in the night to spur his brain along, something disconnected. If you get hit hard enough and often enough you end up with brain damage usually resulting in inability to communicate properly, insomnia, and unable to express proper emotion befitting a situation. Ezra couldn't remember the last time he had bothered to befit anything.

He tittered quietly as he found himself stuck on a bone. The brush wasn't fine enough, he switched to a rigger made with badger hair. Her bones had to be as beautiful as she was. He had to do this one right. Nervously, he moved slowly across the wall, and made a line as long as less than a centimeter. His fingers are long and agile, almost too long for the rest of his body. He's eighteen and he still hasn't grown into them, always a bit of a skinny runt. f he had known how to grow he would have shot up into the sky. He couldn't reach the stars, his father had placed them too high and Ezra needed a bigger ladder, or something, but all he had was nothing, there was no help. Everything was just out of reach, and the attic he called a bedroom was pointed and strong, covered in war paint, matching the ochre and white stains on his clothes and fingers. He could feel his blood cells vibrating.

Calmly, he tried to distract them, to make them think they were at rest, but his body had never really listened to him and as if to make a point, tears sprung to his eyes. Sometimes it hurt, like a magnet was crawling through his body, stealing all the iron out and killing him slowly. I wonder how fast it could travel up these lanky limbs? They were kissed by stars, speckled like the shell of a robin's egg. He had entire constellations scattered across his cheekbones and anywhere the sun chose to kiss.

There had been rainwater on the eaves of the house, dripping down far too slowly to be ponderous, more like ancient. A universal thought had been spreading it's self across the natural wave pool and it was here finally. It made sense that it was finally arrived on the day the gunshot exploded beneath him. He could see the blood through his floorboards.

And he's always found the legend of the phoenix mysteriously accurate. Beautiful beginnings found only in terrifying, painful ends. Never properly dying would make him want to kill himself but then to be reborn again, it defeats the purpose. It would be a trap, and that was horrendous. But we are. Trapped wasn't just a frame of mind, it was a mind being framed for something it didn't do, suffering the punishments anyway. He felt trapped sometimes, left only to his own devises when he wanted all of them. Such terribly beautiful things grew from under his hands, unable to be stopped, designs fled from his fingertips, houses, weapons, coffee makers, anything. He was created to create.

Yet creating isn't always easy, and giving birth to a new idea is harder than it looks. For some, like Ezra, it usually comes in a natural way. For others, they have to work at it, or it's taken out of them, squished out like the last bit of toothpaste in the tube. People use hands to shove, and words to squish a person down so deep they can't remember why they wanted to create in the first place. It hurts, to do anything sometimes because there is always going to be someone to throw you back into the deep waters you just swam out of. It hurts to say words that they don't like, to think about anything that they don't approve. It hurts to grow, to be anything, it hurts to become. Ezra has been becoming nothing more than a fable of what he was for the longest time, unable to sleep, unable to dream. All he can seem to do is paint, and say things that don't fit the puzzled outline they have built for him.

These days, he is less smart, and more insane genius. His hair hangs long and greasy, and when talking to him, most usually find him unable to keep positioned well. He can't stop moving, his eyes roam around the room, or he becomes to still to actually be listening. He's fallen apart at the seems so long ago that no one has noticed, he's supposed to be that way. When I took him out of the box he was like this. When someone has fed you lies to believe for most of your life, it's hard not to find that they become truth. Things like,

"No, Ezra, you will take over my business when I am gone. It's your dream."
"No, Ezra, your mother really did fall over, I would never touch her in such a way, how could you even say that?"
"No, Ezra, this really is for your own good, trust me."

He'd been trusting since he was born, the first one to 'lighten' up their parent's lives, as well as the first one to bear the burden of their father's wrath for his first few years of life. It was usually okay unless his father had had a drink or two. Sometimes though, fists seemed to speak louder than words and if they went for the little ones they wouldn't heal as fast as Ezra because he was the oldest. So he took the blues and greys and turned them into storm clouds on his arms, then transferred them to his walls, fingers tracing weather patterns onto the wood.

And he has a wobbly nose, with ears that are too big and eyes that droop because they don't smile with his mouth enough. He has a name and dirt beneath his fingertips, as well as an empty study beneath his attic room. Leather bound books crowd his hands for space in the time just after two am because there is no other space for them. They smell of cologne and brandy, sometimes there is a crushed flower, or a love letter to a lady with stars for eyes. there are no secret messages of pride, nothing to feel like he is a proper man yet. There are names and lawyers, and he is a chairman now, but he doesn't want to be a chair. He never wanted the chair his father sat in and he's expected to go to meetings and wear suits but he doesn't know how. His father told him to create so he did, but he never taught him how to be a man. All he taught him was the velocity and force at which a fist could fly, and that being smart was more important than anything else.

Once in the dead of night he met a figure named Clarity and she told him something deep and awful. She told him about the blood beneath the floorboards and the man who made it happen, how the gunshot he had heard beneath him when was trying to design the castle was not his fault. She told him about ravens and writing desks, about how they really had nothing to do with each other so he could give up, although there had been a writer named Poe. Clarity had said that he was not as free as freedom was meant to be, that his father had shot himself in the head. Freedom gave him clarity, and clarity gave him freedom. It didn't feel like it was for his own good at all, he felt like someone had driven a star down into is torso and killed him dead too. Yet, he still couldn't fall asleep.

He stood back and looked at his careful work. Her bones made up the constellations, her heart was a line of stars, arteries nothing but twinkling lights holding her all together. She seemed to be made from dust and light, nothing keeping her afloat but distant memories of what she had wanted to be to him. Her light still traveled to the earth, but she'd gone out with him, his super nova swallowing her whole. He heard her laughter echo up through the rafters, and a shudder ran it's self down his spine. The round brush fell with a clatter at his bare feet and he could smell iron in the air. The blood would drip again this morning.

o u t o f c h a r a c t e r[/size][/color]

FACE CLAIM .

FABER FRANCO • EZRA FABLE MERCURY

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I, ELEGANT .
am a potato.

CODEWORD . odair[/blockquote][/font][/color][/justify][/blockquote][/td][/tr][/table]

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Last Edit: Jul 17, 2013 6:29:23 GMT -5 by ✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ

compendium / avriel
clown car / pietro
2022 tracker / 2023 tracker / 2024 tracker

✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ Graphics 5,831 POSTS Pronouns: they/them last seen Apr 25, 2024 0:02:39 GMT -5 “And now that you don't have to be perfect, you can be good.” - steinbeck	EZRA FABLE MERCURY, DISTRICT 3 Jul 17, 2013 6:18:19 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by ✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ on Jul 17, 2013 6:18:19 GMT -5 Complete, I think.
	compendium / avriel clown car / pietro 2022 tracker / 2023 tracker / 2024 tracker

[ retro gm ] angel lí ✨ Advertiser 8,148 POSTS Pronouns: she/her last seen Apr 26, 2024 4:52:02 GMT -5 bloomtodeath	EZRA FABLE MERCURY, DISTRICT 3 Jul 17, 2013 6:40:21 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by [ retro gm ] angel lí ✨ on Jul 17, 2013 6:40:21 GMT -5 This is crazy-beautiful, wow. [/center]
	“and men said that the blood of the stars flowed in her veins.”