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knox

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Jan 1 2018, 02:20 PM
...to pass all the free time i do not have.

HANKERIN' FOR:
a character driven role play

INSPIRED BY:
cyberpunk
fairy tales and folklore
low fantasy (and all that that entails)
neo-noir
weird biblical type shit
studio ghibli
space opera

OR THAT CONTAINS:
extradimensional mirrors
shadow people
space pirates
super powered ladies
STAR WARS
(which is about the only straight up fandom i'm interested in these days)
vampires (p.s. space vampires are totally my aesthetic)

WITH:
you of course!

ABOUT ME:
i am a twenty-something something or other, working in an architecture/engineering firm, studying full-time in a stupidly overpriced american city. my favorite pastimes include walking meditation, collecting minerals and crystals, and spending prolonged periods of time staring at the moon. otherwise, i sweat stress. of the sort you'd want to bottle and throw at your enemies in a first person shooter. and so sometimes i will not respond for a few. under better conditions i like to maintain a good volley. generally, i prefer posts that are written w/ brevity and have an emphasis on visible details over character inner thought. that said, don't let that deter you from including it in yours. THE POINT OF ROLE PLAYING IS "HAVING FUN" SO LET'S NOT WORRY AND JUST DO THAT, RIGHT? THE FUN THING.

OCs I LIKE TO WRITE:
a chef struggling with vampirism
a plucky, ebony skinned alien princess
a roller derby girl who works part time as a professional mermaid
a gorgeous, long limbed blonde with gils and a mouth full of shark teeth
an aging super with a skin condition
a young man and his bogey monster
a recluse with regenerative cells
a rustic who communicates with trees by way of stethoscope
a team of vampire transporters:
  

Denise shifts in the cold, leather seat. Tsks, “Nah, c’mon. Not this shit again.”

Arashi taps a yellowed fingernail against the dashboard, strokes three shadows of zeroes on the LCD display, where the clock should be.

“Think I’m wrong?” He smiles, teeth the color of grained Dijon, molars and incisors too improbable for those thin, colorless lips he has. “Check.”

Denise shields her iPhone screen with the lapel of her stiff winter coat. Arashi makes a sharp (and probably illegal) u-turn onto a wary stretch of road. Another sign passes her by as Denise scrunches her nose at the screen.

“So?” Asks Arashi.
She cranes her neck at him. Arashi in his Agent Smith shades, looking twice as smug, and cheap, though Heavens knows nothing cheap could produce so vivid and accurate a reflection. Denise catches an image of herself scowling in the gray, ovular mirrors of Arashi’s lenses, right down to the freckles caught between her frown lines.
“So fucking what?” She snaps.

Arashi leers a little, teeth laughing, threatening to puncture the bed of his lip as they keep his cigarette in place.

“Told you,” he says, plumes of smoke snaking through his grin. “Like I said before, I always know what time it is.”

Denise rolls down the window. Her eyes- she rolls those, too.

“I don’t see why that matters,” she grumbles and jabs a thumb in the sun’s direction. “Look at that shit. Coulda been anybody.”

“Then why’d you ask?”

Denise just stares at him, and then she sees her expression in Arashi’s lenses, and for a split second she truly believes that she can make out the last few traces of herself on the night she first stepped into his white Chevy. The little hairs sprinkled across the coiled brown nubs of Denise Lewis’ fists, frozen arrow straight by the cold. Miss D standing in a frosted garden patch, wind whistling at her through the displaced windows, somewhere she isn't supposed to be. Not someone like her. She looks scared.

Arashi stops smiling when she doesn’t answer. After a while, he shrugs and lights another cigarette, and Denise grunts, turning in against the car door, resolving to watch the trees streak by until they stop again, until Arashi comes to joggle the sleep out of her. Then she’d find another mirror and tell herself different.

~


“People like me,” Arashi says, “Time is all we have. Time and hunger. One continually perpetuating the other.”

He pauses to light his cigarette and takes a needlessly long drag, inhales until half the cigarette is ash.

~


The same trees pass for fifteen minutes. The same barnyard houses plotted in the stone walls that rise on either side of them like a super-dome. The same tired porches, the same tumbledown attics. Attics with eyes that mourn.

Denise feels the coffee grounds in her teeth. She knocks back another mouthful of cold coffee and regards Arashi curiously. Arashi and his wide-set, impenetrable sunglasses. He adjusts them with his free hand, tips the visor a little further down.

~


“So, Arashi,” Denise says, “How come you’re driving this van instead of riding in it? What makes you so special? You a half breed or some shit?”

Arashi smiles again.

“Nope. I have an evolutionary advantage,” he says, grinning. “Superiority at the molecular level.”

“Superior my ass.”

Arashi, grinning: “We don’t reproduce, is what I’m saying. If that’s what you’re asking.”

Denise turns in her seat and smirks. “You got a dead dick, too, huh?”

“Want to find out?”

Denise hisses. “Fuck outta here.”

~


Saxon, beautiful. Hot cocoa skin clouded by a pallor of heavy cream. Maybe mixed once, now looking like just another white boy. Saxon, coming out of his coffin, shaking out his hair.

Denise saw Purple Rain at an outdoor screening in Brooklyn once. She remembers Prince, lakeside, shaking his head at a drenched, mortified Apollonia before ripping away on his motorcycle. Watching Saxon rise out of that velvet plush is like that- and she’s Apollonia. Wet and stupid without knowing why.

“Denise, Denise,” he croons, half-singing, half-speaking. Voice always at a whisper, an octave that makes her skin prickle- like a chill in her shirt collar. A tenor like winter settling in, before it gets real cold.


ne ways~ i live for character interplay and reciprocity, meaning i write as much for you as i do for me. so! will collaborate, world build, and chat despite perpetual exhaustion.

pm me with preferences or drop me a line at
ickeyknox@gmail.com
Dec 1 2016, 05:21 PM
LOOKING FOR:
a long/short term character driven role play.

CONTAINING:
angels and demons
fairy tales and folklore
ghosts
low fantasy
monsters
the seven sins and virtues
witches
werewolves
vampires

OR INCLUDING:
aliens
androids/automatons/cyborgs
cyberpunk
space operas
super powers
time travel

FANDOMS:
batman + anything DCU/vertigo based (streets of gotham, dcau, AU, etc)
howl's moving castle
spirited away
star wars (old republic, galactic empire era, first order era, post order anarchy, AU)
the thief of always

OCs:
a chef struggling with vampirism
a plucky, ebony skinned alien princess
a roller derby girl who works part time as a professional mermaid
a gorgeous, long limbed blonde with gils and a mouth full of shark teeth
FOR REF^
an aging super with a skin condition
a young man and his bogey monster
a recluse with rapid regenerative cells
a rustic who communicates with trees by way of stethoscope

will collaborate, world build, and chat despite perpetual exhaustion.

pm me with preferences, suggestions & samples or drop me a line at
ickeyknox@gmail.com
Jun 10 2016, 09:19 PM
sometimes i make gifs
today i made many












Apr 2 2016, 11:11 AM
In the damp office, the heavy brown curtains half subdued light which otherwise would have half revealed the Doctor’s face.

“How do you feel now Able?”

“Snug.”

The Doctor adjusted his crooked glasses on his generous nose:

“You admit that you feel smug in your crimes?”

Able looked into the Doctor’s face, “I was flying strong through the luminous moon glow, stringy flesh caught in my mouth.”

“This is no literacy game-show for you to throw your canned attitudes at.”

Three grey hairs formed suddenly from each of Able’s temples:
“Her limbs were crying, supple, exuding life. Why would this energy die? What would want to suck away such light?”

“You stand accused of need and greed,” the Doctor pushed his glasses up to his forehead. “And the misrepresentation of love. Have you ever thought of dying, Able?”


Uneasy, Almost Deaths In The Big City


Four thousand kilowatts of determined, jagged lightning bolt thrust into the outstretched hand of Able Fawlty. Coursing through his body, it made its exit through his lowered, quivering right hand and into the green of Central Park’s grass island. This, however, only after destroying the spiral notebook containing the last six months of written work Able had been carrying as his bible.

The lightning fizzled out, relinquishing a stream of delirium. The fireworks were real. They had been blasting their flames and smoke fifteen minutes for 15,000 open mouthed, clapping people. Leaving the colors, powder, and pounding behind as he twisted the pages in his hands. Able found himself surrounded by symmetrical, never ending trees, thousands of years old. Majestic, with no excuse for their being other than being, they rolled in ridiculous rows of perspective to an unlikely silver glow at their middle ending point.

And now, what seemed annoying became a satisfying realization that, there being no need to breathe, Able owned sudden powerful control over his life. He was indeed experiencing supernatural, technical difficulty.

The only experience akin to this was inhaling ‘whippets’, nitrous oxide. You hold your breath in and play a life gamble. Do I continue breathing?--Well, I don’t have to, I could just stop breathing--and I know I could just stop it until the old reflex system kicks in and forces me to gulp for air until oxygen has reached the damaged brain once more, but this was different. Able knew he could keep holding his breath indefinitely until he got up and completed the walk into the trees’ mid-light.

A lungful of air, still on his back, Able (to the surprise of twenty-three onlookers) screamed:
“I’m still here! It’s too easy to just let go!”


Simple Logic


Somehow you get thrown in certain situations and just have to ask yourself, “What are my beliefs?” Sure, we would like freaky things to happen to us (kind of), but how does it feel in its actualization?

end simple logic;

Bastille Day

Able was verbally fencing in a swearing match with his friend Batka, who was about to throw his rum into verbal vandalism. Batka was holding onto the claim that he was savior to Able’s almost dead body. Able was not going for Batka’s self-congratulatory rhetoric.

“What is it? Does it make you feel really good telling people that you ‘saved’ me? How the hell did you save me? You didn’t touch me! You stood there confused while that doctor--who was standing behind us when it happened--slapped me around.”

“I told him your name. He kept screaming it to you.”
“Wow. Hey, why don’t you just die? You’re a sycophant!”
“What’s that?”
To which Able Fawlty interjected some...

Simple Logic

“You know, Toady, sometimes when you give too much attention to taking a leak, you got to shiver and shake, and sometimes you just shake.”

Batka hissed and poured another round of vodka limes.

Courageous Interlude

Courageous caught himself singing “I am the lineman for the county” in a Russian accent for the twentieth time in two hours. He forced himself to sing “I am an anarchist”, but it came out in his baritone opera voice. He shook his head in an effort to reshuffle his brain and said hello to the Dog Man of Thompkins Sq. Park.

His phone went off and Courageous instinctively grabbed his backpack, making sure his supply was there. A phone call later, and Courageous was zipping through traffic, sweat dripping into his pants.

Detective Kwetsen sucked on his cigarette, then he spat a question out at Able, “What did you do when the time came?”

“I only came for information,” said Able.

“And so you tortured Able Fawlty as he lay dying. What information did you get?”

“He said nothing. I had to have an answer, any answer. I forced it out of him! But it was dim.”
“What information did you get?”

“He said that nothing is worth it, and closed his eyes. I kept asking and he shook his head. When I started to leave he said, ‘Just listen to your elders.’”

The Detective tossed his cigarette into a styrofoam coffee cup, “And you just left him there to suffocate ”
“I circled the block three times against the wind and smoked until I was sick.”

“You are guilty of guilt and despair and the unanswerable. You should have taken his advice.”

Fawlty Credit

“I’m watching this bank clerk. He’s forty years old. I’m seeing this old clip of The Beatles invading America. I’m seeing this kid in a Beatle’s haircut and nerdy glasses shaking his head off beat like he’s being screwed senseless in an orgasmatron machine. I’m watching the bank clerk’s glasses fall on his desk as he shakes his head, accusing me of high sea piracy for which only the gallows wait. I left without the loan, wondering, wondering, and wondering.”

“Able, another vodka?” This from Batka.

“So I go to my dad’s house, and play this worn copy of the 5th Dimension’s Age of Aquarius. My mom found me screaming and foaming at the mouth: ‘Liars! Pipe dream assholes!’ I smashed the goddamn album to pieces. No relic for any future generation... Yea, okay. Another drink.”

“Sure,” Batka said pouring another. “But remember not to go through my Clash collection, okay?”

“Make that three,” Courageous said, with his bicycle precariously perched on his shoulder, joining the two of them. He took the drink Batka handed him and asked, “What ever happened to Cecilia?”

“Cecilia? Which? The shoeshine girl?”

“No, the other one.”

“Sometimes Cecilia. Sometime later. She went to the pharmacy to get some vitamins and gel. What a woman.”

When Batka first met her, she was a Grateful Deadhead in flowing dress, no socks, and half frizzed long hair, no make up. Though absurd, Batka instantly procured boxes of tie-dyed shirts and became a Deadhead for her. Since then he continually changed at her initiation. That week Batka could not deal with her new chameleon pose and hoped it would soon end. He wanted out.

Able Corollary

Batka fished for ice in his vodka and said:
“Whatever reason you think she loves you for, that’s not it. It’s something from left field.”

Able slurred:
“And whatever reason you broke up with her for, is not the reason she broke up with you.”
Courageous said:

“And it ain’t the cock! Is it?”

Able: “Check Batka’s Theorum.”

Batka: “Check Able’s Corollary.”

The purple light shining from across the street into the apartment suddenly sprang with meaning for Courageous. As he fingered the light Caribbean sand remaining from a distant journey in his jacket pocket, he began:

“Able, this isn’t like when you died, but I keep having this dream. I’m at an office desk. The In/Out stacks are being replaced at my pace. I make quick decisions which show my wisdom or folly almost instantly. I’m bitching about fate and predestination when the image dissipates. The next scene is always a godlike person turning off a computer. Is that person me?”

Able and Batka bit their vodka stirring straws like hay and murmured:

“Sounds okay. Uh huh. Could be. Yep.”


Sometimes Comes


The three boys were still downing vodka when Sometimes Cecilia showed up. She avoided Batka’s kiss; and the Winnie The Pooh tattoo under her right nipple twitched and a final tear fell for the girlfriend of the thrash punker she had seen getting a beating on the way over.

Cecilia cried when watching a Truman Capote documentary; cried when the news was on; cried when she saw half clad street people hugging the sidewalk.

She had another uncanny talent. In her nose lay caked cocaine, surrounding her nose ring, continually penetrating. Whatever substance she took could be transmitted, like a disease, to whoever she kissed.

Able refused the joint Courageous pulled from his backpack, punctuating a gulp with a sneer and adding:

“I haven’t been able to think straight for months. The next step is alcohol, and then cigarettes. I think.”

Courageous snickered, and handed the joint to Cecelia who said:
“You boys are really uptight tonight. It’s definitely time to leave this joint.”

Sometimes Cecilia was wearing her hair proudly, a particularity for perusal that defied the wind. Mounds and mounds of mega-gel infused her scalp and the blow jelled in her nose permeated everything in the room. Even the lines in Able’s hands.

Speed Talking

The taxi was running down Park Avenue out of control. Able held on to the hand strap, praying while trying to ignore the prostitutes beckoning at the speeding cab.

The cabbie scratched an eyebrow:

“You see, it’s a whole big universe out there. What are you? You’re nothin’. You got problems? No problem. Don’t matter. Or maybe you’re one of them Karma kids. You that? You look it. You see, I wave my hand--don’t affect shit! S’like I tell my wife, ‘Baby you have an orgasm, you don’t--don’t matter. No universal changes--don’t affect shit.’”

Able doesn’t respond.

“I’m sorry. Maybe you’re gay? Same with violence then. Don’t matter. Put a slit in your belly. Don’t affect shit. War, you die. Who knows?”

The cabbie waited for an answer, so Able shrugged and said, “Who knows?”

“You people. Maybe you need to get your ass kicked in. You see, it don’t matter.”

“Thanks man. I get off at the third building. Here.”

Able had been deep in a session with the doctor, asserting that when he was younger he perceived no variation between faces. He was walking through the shadowy office, footsteps heavy, rattling doorknobs and throwing pictures off the walls.

“Have you ever worked with kaolin?” he asked him, “Ever hustled oatmeal around the bottom of your bowl?”

Able dug his hands into the walls to show what he meant. Scooping out bits of plaster, making half-moon dents in the doorways.

The doctor waved for him to get to the point.

“It’s just, it’s a shame,” said Able.

“So, you feel you have an inability to be surprised at the somatic level?”

“I wish that I had paced myself.”

Able took another chunk out of the brown curtains, this time with his eyes. Then the doctor’s face; he looked and it was halfway gone.

“Do you think about how I conduct your treatment, Able?”

Able sighed.

“I thought about it once,” he said. “Then I stroked out.”

Simple Logic

You know when something happens to you and everybody starts telling you they’re sorry to hear it, but then go on to tell what they would have done? At that moment, you should think of ways of getting them into the same situation you were in.

Batka was waiting for Able in front of Cecilia’s building on First and Tenth. Able finally showed. Batka said, “Good to see you, mate. Cecilia should be ready. Let’s go.” As they entered the building, they were followed by two shuffling large men in wetsuits. Before Able knew what was happening, there was a knife at his neck. Batka, still at the entrance behind Able, managed a quick getaway.

“Gimme your money asshole! Gimme your money! I need crack! I’ll kill ya! I need money! Gimme your fuckin’ money man I’ll slit your fuckin’ throat! I’ll kill ya!”

Able did not flinch. He did not blink. As the second assailant drew closer, Able pulled out his sixty bucks. He thought “I knew I should’ve split this money up in different pockets”, and handed it to the first mugger who so desperately needed it.

As the knife was pulled away, it slashed him slightly (noticed later only by Batka). Money in hand, the man ran away right as Batka arrived with the inebriated calvary from the bar down the block.

They cornered the second mugger who had been silent until then:
“Did you see that shit! This guy just got mugged! Man you should’ve seen it. Why’dya let him do it man? Shit!”

The bar mob became confused at his purported innocent bystander status. He walked away and the mob shouted accusations, looking to Able for permission to carry out street punishment.

“Let him go. There’s nothing we can do about this shit. Street rules. Let him act like he don’t know the other guy. Screw it.”

The crowd dispersed and Able and Batka were alone.

“I’m sorry I left. You know I went to get help. Right?”

“Don’t matter. No problem. Don’t affect shit.”

Batka didn’t look Able in the eye the rest of the night.
Feb 26 2016, 12:05 AM
_ "No No Oh no."


Now that he cups her soft, wholesome flesh in his hands he means to devour her. He is greedy. His lips ski from her shoulders to her collarbone to pasture in the nape of her neck. He consumes with his hands, thumbing her ribs, dipping his index finger into her naval, feating on the sinew that tauten in her belly and her back. When he can work up the nerve_ and the appetite_ he presses his palm against the warm mound between her thighs as though testing a cake for doneness, or kneading the batter. He's hungry, wretched, in want of a taste. In need. He nips, he pushes, against her, and with her, and for her.

He shouldn't. He held her as a baby. She was the bundle in his lap, a fold in a shared genome, and now he is grazing the lips that nursed on his fingers when they were small, drinking her with that which have brushed upon each bud of her breasts.

He shouldn't. He groans, bemoans his hungriness. Breathless, wanton, he grunts softly: "No."

And "oh," and a medley of sounds that mark a good appetite, a thirst to satiate, an eager mouth to be fostered, that he fills with morsels of she.

100 words about adrian

“Watch.”

Adrian pulls his arm back and plunges his bare hand into the pot of boiling water. Goodbye anesthesia! For a fleeting moment he has a recollection of what it’s like to experience physical suffering. He can feel the surge of the burn shoot up his fingertips. He squeezes his eyes shut and he sees spiraling patches of red and yellow. He squeezes his eyes shut and he says, “this is when I really feel it.” And when he opens them, he pulls his hand out of the steaming macaroni, and he sees ribbons of his flesh bobbing alongside it.

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