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Post by annuvin on Aug 9, 2015 4:56:13 GMT -5
 James Dorian Crowe Calidor, Docks District DOB: July, 1735 A notch over six feet with a darker than olive tone, there may at one point have been a chance at real masculine beauty for James Crowe. Fate wasn't quite so kind; individual features taken separately form a surprisingly misleading charm. The pieces however fit as if poorly designed, the missed opportunity of his growth compounded upon with his hair mimicking a gigolo's hard worked brush, just above shoulder length brown curls framing his face. The jaw too angular and sharp to compliment the rest of his features, the eyes too intense and flecked with a skeptical grain to ever be comforting. It's difficult to say whether the nose is too high, or simply too straight. His build makes a lean, equally angular impression; too thin to look impressive, too full to be mistaken for malnourished. The result is a man of not-quites in appearance, with a solemn intensity that exchanges any good aspect for one of no-nonsense severity. Isaac Warren Crowe Calidor, Docks District DOB: July, 1735 A keen-eyed man said a younger Isaac Crowe would amount, at best, to kind-hearted muscle. Fortunately for the boy's longevity, the latter turned out to be untrue. Mixing a snake oil businessman and an arm-for-hire comes with unique drawbacks. A notch over six foot with an olive tone, a man set in a different life may have avoided the perpetually narrowed eyes and made better use of his broad shoulders and wide back. This one didn't. His jaw is distinctly too sharp to fit comfortably at the bottom of his much too professional expression, lips drawn taut in any mood. The nose taken to fit on someone else may be an improvement; here, it serves as an odd contrast to too many other out-of-place features. His neck is a single degree too thick for the angular shaping of his head, creating a pedestal that draws attention from it's prize. Short cropped hair finishes a portrait with a face that's ultimately too gaunt for the body it sits on, all muscle and genetics lucky draw at the size of his frame. |
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Post by andbreak12345 on Aug 9, 2015 5:14:03 GMT -5
I
“Now what did I say about that word, James?”
“That ‘ain’t’ ain’t how a gentleman speaks…”
“Precisely. And tuck your napkin in. Look at your brother’s fine example.”
From across the table, Isaac beamed … and stuck his tongue out at him.
“Yes, mother…”
“Now eat up, you two. I want my boys to grow into strong, healthy men.”
“Yes, mother,” they replied in unison.
In front of either of them lay an old, salted sardine and a half loaf of stale bread. It was a half loaf more than what was in front of mother.
When she picked up her knife and fork, they followed her graceful and poised movements - eager for her approval. When she hesitated at the edge of her meager fish, Isaac broke his bread in half and offered it.
Mother began to cry.
II
As with every time before, they hid in the corner.
“Darling…we need to talk." The voice was kind, pleading - slurred. Mother was being half-dragged across the wooden floors in Father’s vice-like grip, "Do you promise to talk this out with me?"
"Tobias, you’re drun-.” Mother was interrupted as she began levitating and clipped the corner of their only table as Father released her. A perpetually dirty glass shattered.
"Please, darling. Don't get up. Don't make me hurt you. Please… I don't want this to end badly. Please, darling, listen.
I know that what I've done, it ain’t right. I know I lost too much. Gambled it all away. But I’m sick. But…" A hiccupping laugh then emanated from Father. "…but if I'm sick, that means I can get better, doesn't it? Right?" He laughed again. "I'm not crazy. This isn’t my fault. This … this is God’s fault."
"You," began Mother, voice raspy, “what have you done?"
"They’re gonna kill me. You want me to be honest, darling? Upfront with you? I'm selfish. The most selfish person I know is talking and I want to live. Really live. What kind of life is this, stuck with two useless boys and a woman who thinks she’s high class in the fucking docks? So I made a sacrifice. I tried to win it all. And I didn’t. I'm sorry, but now it’s your turn to sacrifice.
You don't have to help me," Father said. "But help them. Really help them. Don’t you want to help them, darling? God won’t help me. God won’t help them. God ain’t been around the docks in some time. So you gotta help them, darling.”
Mother sobbed. Father placed his revolver on the table.
"Help them."
III
She wore too much make up. They almost missed it.
“Mother?”
"I… forgive me. You boys are much too young. Go on home, now."
"Mother, it’s us."
"I'm sorry," Mother said. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Mother, it’s us. You remember us, righ- what are you wearing?" Isaac asked. He glanced at James. His twin was staring straight at Mother, his jaw in a tight lock.
"Oh, you mean… this." Mother blushed, and patted down at a dressed hemmed too high. Fingered at holes in dirty, black leggings. The dimming street corner lamp flickered. Tracks marked her arms. "Well, I… I wear it for work. The first few times were painful. I… bled a lot, and I had to see a doctor. Oh! But it’s okay! I wanted to. It’s to help them.”
Issac blinked hard, fighting off a wave of nauseating lightheadedness.
"I’m going to help them," she said again, "because I… I love them. I told them that every night.”
A bright blush lit up her cheeks again. Her smile was uninhibited ecstasy. Her pupils were dilated pin drops.
"I just felt so… light. After the first time. I was elated. I think I cried a little. I mean, I was so happy I was shaking.”
Isaac was crying. James looked white as a sheet.
"Please… please don't cry. It's okay."
They did not listen. One twin was openly weeping, great wracking sobs. The other wretched. He held one hand over his mouth. His eyes were screwed tightly shut.
Mother smiled at them good-naturedly.
"Please don't cry," she said. "It's all right. I love them. That's all that matters."
Her smile never wavered.
"I’m helping them. I’m helping them."
IV
“We found Mother.”
Father didn’t look up from his place at the table and sat.
“You coward.”
Father looked up from his place at the table and stood.
“Isaac, you gonna come in here and judge me, before the grace of God, after all I’ve do-“
A loud bang and a wet snick cut through Father’s words. Replaced them with a gurgling squelch. Something wet and hot splashed his face, and Isaac half expected the floorboards to crack open as he watched Father fall away and be replaced with James, swaying like a cattail in a stiff breeze as the smoke from the revolver in his hand dimmed the room.
Isaac knelt beside Father and his sibilating breaths that staggered past his lips like crowded refugees on the docks. Watched his eyes as they desynchronized from his mind as the business of simply being expended him.
“Listen … ” Isaac had a talent for glacial edicts, inertial consonants and vowels. A finality to his words. “ … Man alone judges sin when God is dead.”
V
James shot Mother in the back of the head once, when she wasn’t looking. She collapsed faster than he thought possible. Her long hair became matted heavy with blood. She did not move.
The blood seeped down into the roadside ditch, slid into the cracks between stone and brick, and soon a long jagged red finger pointed away from the body ...
"What kind of men do people like us grow into?"
"Made men."
... twisting into the shine of the setting sun.
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Post by andbreak12345 on Aug 12, 2015 20:39:24 GMT -5
VI
It was a violin, but James asked anyways.
“What is this?”
“A gift.”
“The occasion?”
“An affable intention in making sure Mother’s instruction on you does not go to waste. We were raised to be gentlemen, after all.”
He cradled the instrument. “She always said I was the more graceful of the two.”
Isaac didn’t argue.
-
VII
“What was that?”
“A verse in E minor.”
Isaac never looked up from his reading of the Scriptures. “It’s very tragic sounding.”
“It’s supposed to be.”
-
VIII
In the room’s center was a stage.
On that stage was a violin. It spoke to James.
Come.
Play me.
In the flickering candlelight he could see its form, all curves and strength, foreign wood glistening with polished imperfections. His eyes wandered its immaculate craftsmanship strings. It defied his expectations of what he deserved. Yet here it waited, alone in shameful accomplishment, for someone to justify its existence.
He approached the stage.
The unbending bow in his hand, leading him to the violin under an enticing fascination, the instrument filling his senses and spurring a desire that left him confused; he offered a series of uncertain, fumbling bow saws. The violin issued low scratches of disapproval. He played. The violin moaned and bent under the force but withheld. It was an instrument that encouraged deviation and experimentation. Strings snapped and curled with gleeful plucked notes. The violin sang beneath his bow. The tempo increased. It burst into a shuddering crescendo as he tore the bow across the strings with a thunderous final thrust. He fought for breath, dizzy. The violin lay at his feet, its glistening curves looking up at him, letting the last note echo until it became accompaniment to the warm silence.
The bow was still in his hand.
On to the second movement.
-
James escorted her outside, with a sad smile and a handful of cash. Isaac was sitting at the table.
“That’s three times this week.”
“We all have needs.”
“At least this one didn’t look like Mother.”
James frowned; “There are some lines you don’t cross.”
Isaac played charades with money and shadows and Scriptures.
“Then don’t cross them.”
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