sasha everett.d5.fin
Oct 4, 2017 14:37:45 GMT -5
Post by grim. on Oct 4, 2017 14:37:45 GMT -5
sasha | 18 | d5
FC: Shaun Ross
FC: Shaun Ross
Every man has his season...
He was sprouted from the winter snows of December, and plucked from the ivory foams of the sea. His very skin paler then the iciest of toes, more pure then the plump skin of a ripened apple. His hair like the wool of a white lamb, though it had made him feel like a black sheep among the herd. His porcelain face was blemished by a large ridge in his nose. Darting out to the the left with such presents that strangers eyes seem to dance along the putrid surface almost unwillingly. His body long and lengthy, thin and frail like the legs of a newborn fawn. His lips spilling from his mouth in the most noticeable fashion. Their presence still masked by the wretched nose ridge.
To watch him walk was the most peculiar of sights. His head hung forward, hie shoulders slouched. His limbs floundering at his sides in the most spider-like way. It was like watching the sway of the trees or the fall of snow, it was oddly the most beautifully satisfying thing. He dressed himself in the most conservative of clothing. His attempts to hide his pale skin or rigid face had done little good though, as many had already tormented him for his birth defects. His disorder affecting only a handful of the total population, he had felt as though he was born to be unwanted, and unloved.
Every man has his time...
His family had decided that his disorder was far too different to cope with, abandoning him before his first words could even be spoken. Left to take on the world for what it really was, far before the age of independence. The orphanage had harbored the boy, taught him to walk and talk, but they did not love him the way family loves. They did not cherish him the way the beautiful boys and girls where cherished. He was simply given a room, a set of clothes, and two meals a day. Though there was not much else he could ask for given his predicament. He had spent years in the orphanage, awaiting the dream that one day he would be taken in by a loving family, possibly a blind one, but the dream had never come true. There was no room for disorder in this world, not even the innocent type.
Now at the age of sixteen he no longer has hope for finding what may have filled his sleepless dreams, or of ever becoming anything more then he had always been...unwanted. He had no friends, nor acquaintances to keep in his presence for more then they had already had to bare. He simply spent his days in school, and those that had not been in school where spent alone, in his room. It wasn't until his discovery of paint. He had snuck into the chambers of the head mistress and inside he had discovered ink. Colored ink that he had never seen before. So bright and wonderfully pigmented. For being someone who lacked melanin and color in his skin, hair, and eyes, this discovery was absolutely extraordinary. He somehow had thought that maybe, maybe this would be his outlet, his inner splash of color.
He began by painting on the blank pages of his school notebooks. Filling them with bright oranges and blues, watching as the paint changed the emotions of the page. Gave it life and expression, giving it its own will to be loved. He grew more and more envious of the pictures he was beginning to create. Watching them spring to life. Though he had kept his skills as an artist very secret from all, he had a taste for recognition. On a particularly brave afternoon he decided to leave one of his pigmented notebook pages under his desk in the back of the room. To his surprise the teacher had found it and decided to show it to the class the next day. The teacher had exclaimed how beautifully placed the color was and had said that talent such as this was nearly as exquisite as that found in the Capitol. His skinny frame could hardly hold such happiness, as it was the first time anything pertaining to him had been loved in such a way.
Show me a reason and I'll soon show you a rhyme...
Sasha had gotten a taste of acknowledgment, now understanding what it feels like to be desired. He began to paint even more vividly and more often, even going to the extent of skipping class to indulge in his art. But what he was creating just wasn't lively enough to quench his lust for being recognized. He began to capture the rodents that scurried along the orphanage's kitchens and keep them as his very own living canvas. He would ever so gently take a razor to their fur, sure not to puncture the skin, he couldn't go ruining his canvas. His lack of experience shaving squirming rodents resulted in the sad end of a few helpless lifes, but he eventually got the hang of it.
Once the rodent was shaven naked he would paint their smooth skin with splashes of beautiful colors creating them to be ever so elegant and no longer feared. He had seen that this splash of color was capable of transforming a living beings stature. He was able to make such a vial and disgusting rodent so beautiful and angelic. This had begun to bring so many useful ideas to mind. "If these rodents could be made beautiful...then why cant I?", "Perhaps people will see me for who I really am, they will finally see my inner color." His flustered brain began to flutter with excitement at the thought of becoming such a beauty. These types of dreams only came true in fairy tale and here he was painting his very own fairy tale.
The stroke of a bristle covered brush slides along his cheek as a bright violet purple now covers the right side of his face. Then a stroke of green on his left, and a splash of blue in the center. The vivid ink masked his pure skin so extraordinarily. He paints his lips a bright orange, and the hallows of his eyelids a deep purple. His shoulders parade a violent red, and his chest a mellow yellow. When he feels as though he has completed his most valuable art piece, he glances in the mirror. Overwhelmed by the beauty he cant help but feel tears streak down his painted cheeks. How could such beauty be hidden from the world? Well it simply couldn't.
He makes his way out of the orphanage's front doors and struts through the cobbled main streets. His body never exuding the amount of confidence that it does on this day. He grins as those around him begin to notice his brightly painted skin, he cant help but curl his lips into the most delighted of smiles as their jaws drop in awe. But then the faintest sound begins to come over the crowd. At first as a whisper but then soon after a complete uproar. They were laughing? Laughing at what he had created, at the beauty before them? Sasha's heart sunk to the very pit of his chest and he darted back to the corner of his lonely lifeless room, his cries could be heard through the creaking corridors by those children left behind. And it was this day that he had decided never to be bold again, never to try and mask who he truly was, for no amount of beauty could hide his beast.
He was sprouted from the winter snows of December, and plucked from the ivory foams of the sea. His very skin paler then the iciest of toes, more pure then the plump skin of a ripened apple. His hair like the wool of a white lamb, though it had made him feel like a black sheep among the herd. His porcelain face was blemished by a large ridge in his nose. Darting out to the the left with such presents that strangers eyes seem to dance along the putrid surface almost unwillingly. His body long and lengthy, thin and frail like the legs of a newborn fawn. His lips spilling from his mouth in the most noticeable fashion. Their presence still masked by the wretched nose ridge.
To watch him walk was the most peculiar of sights. His head hung forward, hie shoulders slouched. His limbs floundering at his sides in the most spider-like way. It was like watching the sway of the trees or the fall of snow, it was oddly the most beautifully satisfying thing. He dressed himself in the most conservative of clothing. His attempts to hide his pale skin or rigid face had done little good though, as many had already tormented him for his birth defects. His disorder affecting only a handful of the total population, he had felt as though he was born to be unwanted, and unloved.
Every man has his time...
His family had decided that his disorder was far too different to cope with, abandoning him before his first words could even be spoken. Left to take on the world for what it really was, far before the age of independence. The orphanage had harbored the boy, taught him to walk and talk, but they did not love him the way family loves. They did not cherish him the way the beautiful boys and girls where cherished. He was simply given a room, a set of clothes, and two meals a day. Though there was not much else he could ask for given his predicament. He had spent years in the orphanage, awaiting the dream that one day he would be taken in by a loving family, possibly a blind one, but the dream had never come true. There was no room for disorder in this world, not even the innocent type.
Now at the age of sixteen he no longer has hope for finding what may have filled his sleepless dreams, or of ever becoming anything more then he had always been...unwanted. He had no friends, nor acquaintances to keep in his presence for more then they had already had to bare. He simply spent his days in school, and those that had not been in school where spent alone, in his room. It wasn't until his discovery of paint. He had snuck into the chambers of the head mistress and inside he had discovered ink. Colored ink that he had never seen before. So bright and wonderfully pigmented. For being someone who lacked melanin and color in his skin, hair, and eyes, this discovery was absolutely extraordinary. He somehow had thought that maybe, maybe this would be his outlet, his inner splash of color.
He began by painting on the blank pages of his school notebooks. Filling them with bright oranges and blues, watching as the paint changed the emotions of the page. Gave it life and expression, giving it its own will to be loved. He grew more and more envious of the pictures he was beginning to create. Watching them spring to life. Though he had kept his skills as an artist very secret from all, he had a taste for recognition. On a particularly brave afternoon he decided to leave one of his pigmented notebook pages under his desk in the back of the room. To his surprise the teacher had found it and decided to show it to the class the next day. The teacher had exclaimed how beautifully placed the color was and had said that talent such as this was nearly as exquisite as that found in the Capitol. His skinny frame could hardly hold such happiness, as it was the first time anything pertaining to him had been loved in such a way.
Show me a reason and I'll soon show you a rhyme...
Sasha had gotten a taste of acknowledgment, now understanding what it feels like to be desired. He began to paint even more vividly and more often, even going to the extent of skipping class to indulge in his art. But what he was creating just wasn't lively enough to quench his lust for being recognized. He began to capture the rodents that scurried along the orphanage's kitchens and keep them as his very own living canvas. He would ever so gently take a razor to their fur, sure not to puncture the skin, he couldn't go ruining his canvas. His lack of experience shaving squirming rodents resulted in the sad end of a few helpless lifes, but he eventually got the hang of it.
Once the rodent was shaven naked he would paint their smooth skin with splashes of beautiful colors creating them to be ever so elegant and no longer feared. He had seen that this splash of color was capable of transforming a living beings stature. He was able to make such a vial and disgusting rodent so beautiful and angelic. This had begun to bring so many useful ideas to mind. "If these rodents could be made beautiful...then why cant I?", "Perhaps people will see me for who I really am, they will finally see my inner color." His flustered brain began to flutter with excitement at the thought of becoming such a beauty. These types of dreams only came true in fairy tale and here he was painting his very own fairy tale.
The stroke of a bristle covered brush slides along his cheek as a bright violet purple now covers the right side of his face. Then a stroke of green on his left, and a splash of blue in the center. The vivid ink masked his pure skin so extraordinarily. He paints his lips a bright orange, and the hallows of his eyelids a deep purple. His shoulders parade a violent red, and his chest a mellow yellow. When he feels as though he has completed his most valuable art piece, he glances in the mirror. Overwhelmed by the beauty he cant help but feel tears streak down his painted cheeks. How could such beauty be hidden from the world? Well it simply couldn't.
He makes his way out of the orphanage's front doors and struts through the cobbled main streets. His body never exuding the amount of confidence that it does on this day. He grins as those around him begin to notice his brightly painted skin, he cant help but curl his lips into the most delighted of smiles as their jaws drop in awe. But then the faintest sound begins to come over the crowd. At first as a whisper but then soon after a complete uproar. They were laughing? Laughing at what he had created, at the beauty before them? Sasha's heart sunk to the very pit of his chest and he darted back to the corner of his lonely lifeless room, his cries could be heard through the creaking corridors by those children left behind. And it was this day that he had decided never to be bold again, never to try and mask who he truly was, for no amount of beauty could hide his beast.
TEMPLATE BY ELIZA @ TB & ADOXOGRAPHY
