bella lynne fletcher

bella lynne fletcher,
ALL AROUND ME ARE FAMILIAR FACES, WORN OUT PLACES, WORN OUT FACES

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IT'S A VERY, VERY, MAD WORLD!
BRIGHT AND EARLY FOR THEIR DAILY RACES, GOING NOWHERE, GOING NOWHERE!
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WHAT IS YOUR FULL NAME?
bella lynne fletcher
DO YOU HAVE ANY NICKNAMES?
no
WHERE IS BIRTH PLACE?
I hail from the lovely city of Boston, Massachusetts, home of the Sox, Harvard, and Faneuil Hall.
THAT MAKES YOUR NATIONALITY...
English, Czech, and French.
WHEN IS YOUR BIRTH DATE
14 August, 1990
HOW OLD DOES THAT MAKE YOU?
nineteen
WHAT IS YOUR RELIGION?
Eh, depends on my mood ... and whatever I wanna do. You know, try to stay pure and all that ... o.O
WHAT IS YOUR SEXUALITY?
Well usually I lean for guys ... but you might find a girl in the mix every now and then.
WHAT GRADE ARE YOU IN?
Junior.
WHAT DO YOU OR PLAN ON MAJORING? Dancing, ballet especially, but with a bad ass twist : D
WHO DO YOU BEST RESEMBLE?
Darla Baker : ) Damn, she's hot ...

IT'S A VERY, VERY, MAD WORLD!
THEIR TEARS ARE FILLING UP THEIR GLASSES, NO EXPRESSION, NO EXPRESSION.
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WHO INSPIRES YOU THE MOST?
Might sound crazy ... but Evgeny Plushenko.
WHY DO THEY INSPIRE YOU
I know he's a figure skater and all, but that's still dancing! He's just so fast ... and his foot work *throws up hands* well now, that's just phenomenal. Such amazing moves, and really graceful and just ... ugh. Ever since the 02 Olympics, I've been in love, even if he did botch that quad triple ... Still, I love his style, it's so bad ass, and it's a lot like how I would love for my own to be. I just have to push myself harder ... even if I do have commitment issues.
WHO IS YOUR FAVORITE SUPERHERO?
Poison Ivy ... wait. She's a super hero, isn't she? I mean, she's nice to Batman. Most of the time ... sometimes ...
WHY ARE THEY YOUR FAVORITE?
She's gorgeous and bad ass, has great hair, and gets to wear clothes that show off her figure. Oh and she's really good with science too ... yeah, that.
WHAT DO YOU ENJOY?
I love to dance, though my parents don't think it's the best career choice. Eh, they have my sister though, the Harvard genius girl - so I get to go where I want. Second kid and all that. I love impossible routines, ones that are fast and are difficult to learn. When I perfect a ridiculously hard routine, I feel so wonderful - it's the best feeling in the world. I don't have time for that slow stuff ... I like hard beats and fast music, music that swells and makes you dizzy on your feet.

Boys are pretty interesting. Mitchell is sexy. He's probably my latest challenge. Some girls too ... but I'm picky there. In general, people who are artistic are the best, which is a definitely plus regarding this school. They're everywhere. Relationships seem pretty cool, but only from afar - I tend to botch those pretty easily. I love clothes - really fantastic bits that are sort of over the top, but classic and beautiful all the same. I'm not gonna lie either - I love my skin. It's dusky and pale at the same time, and I love my bones and shoulders. They poke out a bit amongst the muscle and flesh, really curvy and defined lines ...

I love being lost. I love not knowing quite where I'm going, but I love the journey - it's exhilarating. I wouldn't mind being lost with Mitchell. I lovvvve drinks. Not drinking - well I like that too. But drinks. I think it would be great to be a bar tender o.O Hmmm I just like hanging out. I don't know, it doesn't really matter what we're doing ... unless I'm really hyper and want to go out but we're sitting around playing gay ass board games ... then I'm a bit antsy. I tend to have a thing for taboos too. If it's bad, I will almost always like it. *laughs* Except like, smoking ... I don't know why, I've never really caught onto that ... Otherwise yeah. I dunno. I tend to get a lot of people in trouble, and I'm not sure why. I mean, come on, weren't grown ups kids once too? Give it a rest ... it's not even like I do anything bad ... *cue halo*

WHAT DO YOU NOT ENJOY?
I hate, I hate, I HATE schedules. Omg. When I want to do something, I want to do it - I don't like to plan ahead of time. I also hate people who push others. Like, dude, if someone doesn't want to do something, don't make them, geez. There are a lot of those fuckers out there. I hate hair spray. I REFUSE to use it, it is the fucking devil. I hate mush. Yuck, it's terrible. All that mushy love stuff - there's no need for that, I blame you for global warming. *nods*
WHAT DO YOU FEAR MOST?
Dullness. I abhor dullness. I am constantly terrified that I will have a dull life - whenever, not just now, but in future as well. That's pretty much why I 'act out' so much and all that. I just don't want to be stagnant, you know?
WHAT ARE YOUR GOALS IN LIFE?
I want to travel. I don't want a boring life. Sure, sometimes I might want a vacation, but for the most part I want to be always going. I don't know about family or husbands or whatever ... I'll deal with those when I get to them. I want to keep dancing, I think. But all in all, I want to have excitement at every turn - is that too much to ask for?
WHAT ARE YOUR FLAWS?
Uh, I'm perfect, der. ... No seriously though. Ugh. I can't keep a relationship to save my life ... I hate school work and am sooo bad at doing it. Definitely not one of those excellent procrastinators either. I'm pretty moody, and I change my mind all the time (probably one drop in the bucket for why I am not good for relationships) ... Hmmm, what else. I'm stubborn. I do things quite literally till I drop and often find myself in bed (or someone's bed anyway) without knowing how I got there, which happens more often than not. I like confrontations but at the same time I don't like to get to the point where you're laying your feelings out. I'll walk out before it comes to that. I am terrible with commitment. I do okay for a little while then I move on to something else. Hmmm ... if I think of something else to add to the 'Bash Myself' list, I'll let you know.
WHAT ARE YOUR TURN ONS?
Hands. Holy fuck I love those spiny, long sort of hands ... they're just ... idk, they're mind blowing, beautiful. Clavicles too. Omg. The ones that are really clear and stand out make me orgasm on the spot, no lie. I can't keep my eyes off them. That guy Mitchell's something else ... great fodder for when it's late at night and no one's up ... erm, yeah ... and stuffs o.O I also love people who can do really difficult things and do them well. I like catching someone staring at me - it turns me on like nothing else. *tilts head* I like forward people. Not to say I don't like shy people, just ... when someone wants something and is ready and willing to go for it, no matter what, that's the cherry, baby. Shy people, though - I like to break down barriers. I'd like to break down Mitchell's barriers. It's exhilarating, when you finally get through to someone, and when they become comfortable with you when otherwise they most normally would be shaking in their boots. It's sexy, that bit of hesitancy that comes before a plunge, you can read it all on their face, through their gestures. I like seeing that.
WHAT ARE YOUR TURN OFFS?
Ha. Idiots. People who say things without thinking. You know, bad things, common sense things. People who are going to hold me back. I don't like boring. I don't like consistency. I think if I did the same thing every day I'd kill myself.
WHAT IS YOUR BEST MEMORY?
Ha. The one time I ever saw my sister as anything other than the family angel, I went to visit her, check out Harvard and all that (my Dad's idea). We ended up staying out all night and going to see some friends of hers play on stage. It was smokey and wild and loud; we were closer that night than we've ever been, or will ever be again, I expect. It makes me feel better to know that she's not perfect - she's playing the game better than any of us. I'll never forget it, seeing her scream along to the words and shake out her hair, all in a halter and knee high boots. Best night of my life, and not for any of the normal reasons. But, erm ... don't tell anyone I said that. I hate her ... she's too perfect, it's gross - you hear?
WHAT IS YOUR WORST MEMORY?
Ugh. I got in trouble in high school, senior year. It was bad this time. I was suspended for two weeks, and my parents wouldn't let me see my friends. I had to stay home every single day and do school work and chores. It was terrible - I didn't really get any better the rest of the year, but I learned to fly beneath the radar at least. Worst thing was, I got to where I felt like I couldn't breath. It was the same thing, every day. I'd never make that mistake again. How else do I try to keep myself out of jail?
WHERE DO YOU SEE YOURSELF IN 10 YEARS?
Well, hopefully I've all ready fucked Mitchell. Oh, I mean dated. Maybe still dating but considering my past experience I wouldn't hold my breath. Also, I better've all ready traveled all over. Dancing, sure. I don't know if I'd dance for a troop though, or what. I don't like continuity, it's boring. I don't care much about being fabulously wealthy, though I would like to be living comfortably. Other than that, we'll see where the wind takes me, eh?
TELL ME ABOUT YOURSELF!
Erm. Well. I'm positively manic and I don't have much respect for personal space ... I love excitement and I love sex and I love being crazy and I love running around and ... yeah I don't know if there is much that I don't love. Anyway we've gone over all that. My favourite food changes depending on my mood, and I love beating people out for things, it makes me happy. I'm a ballerina, but I'm not very much into classical ballet. I mean, I love Bach and Mozart, but I play to the deep resounding beats more than the high notes. I am pretty tough in my own rights, but I tend to run away from things too. I can be sweet when I really want to be ... or just when I feel like it ... I'm not very bitchy and I don't do drama a lot, even though I like to let it out in screams every now and then. I don't really know what else to say ... I feel like I've said more than enough before now.

IT'S A VERY, VERY, MAD WORLD!
THE DREAMS IN WHICH IM DYING ARE THE BEST I HAVE EVER HAD.
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WHO IS YOUR MOTHER? HOW OLD IS SHE? WHAT DOES SHE DO?
Barbara Flaubert Fletcher. She's forty seven and is head of however many charity boards, historical societies and I don't know, whatever else she does. All I know is she's always the one to settle things between me and Dad, and she's the one thing that makes home bearable. And she sends me great clothes.
WHO IS YOUR FATHER? HOW OLD IS HE? WHAT DOES HE DO?
Aric Ambrose Fletcher, fifty two. He's some wanna be badass CEO who plays golf on the weekends and has about five lovers ... who knows. But he gives my mum everything she wants and free reign and all that, so she doesn't care all that much. It's not like she married him for love anyway.
DO YOU HAVE ANY BROTHERS?
Ha, no.
DO YOU HAVE ANY SISTERS?
I have one sister. Amberlee Evelyn, and she graduated from Harvard. She's some ... history buff or something, I don't know. She plays the game so well I have to remind myself she isn't actually
my dad's minion.ANY OTHER RELATIVES I SHOULD KNOW ABOUT?
My uncle William is fun ... he travels all over and does exavations and stuff and is always bringing great gifts home, along with incredible stories about close calls and destruction and wild affairs ... which he saves for later, of course o.O
DO YOU HAVE A JOB?
HAHAHAHAHA. Oh, you're serious. Well ... I'm not against getting one ... o.O Keeping one's a different story, though.
WHERE DO YOU LIVE?
In the ... dorms, yeah lol.
TELL ME ABOUT YOUR PAST!
Ugh, seriously? Well, I was actually born in Prague in Czechoslovakia, when it was still Czechoslovakia lol. Then you know, schools and whatnot, the usual. I began dancing when I was three, which was pretty much hopping around in a pink tutu while my instructor ran after me trying to get me to join back in the line. I was probably five when I began to take it seriously. I don't know why, it just clicked. And then I couldn't be bothered with much else, except perfecting things and making sure I had every little step right. Then I got what my dad calls my 'rebelious streak', and I kind of just flip flopped between things. I managed to make it through school with pretty good grades, but there were a lot of strings pulled. Now I'm at CAA, and hopefully the rest is history.

IT'S A VERY, VERY, MAD WORLD!
HIDE MY HEAD I WANT TO DROWN MY SORROWS, NO TOMORROW, NO TOMORROW
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THE ROLEPLAYER!
NAME/ALIAS
Ashton
AGE
twenty two <3>GENDER
female, definitely.
EXPERIENCE
eh, a year and a half? on 5 jan, 2008, i created my first ever char on beauxbatons academy of magic <3>CONTACT INFO
aim - lalucediamore
msn - akwait86@live.com (used most currently)
TIME ZONE
eastern

IT'S A VERY, VERY, MAD WORLD!
CHILDREN WAITING FOR THE DAY THEY FEEL GOOD, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HAPPY BIRTHDAY
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okay, here is how it goes. this application letter is made by eunicegoesRAWR! @
caustion.2! lyrics are by gary jules and tears for fear. please so do not steal or claim it as yours.
i have a short temper and if i see it and see no credit or anything like that, i will have to hurt you, biatch!

dalia evelyn smith

THE CONFIDENTIAL FILES OF:
DALIA EVELYN SMITH
twenty nine / thought police

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Dalia approached the mic, her fingers twisting nervously in her skirt, and in a meek voice, spelled out the word autochthonous. The sound of applause filled the auditorium and children lined behind her drooped their shoulders in sadness as she claimed the trophy seat for 1995. On that day, no one would have guessed at the woman she would become. No one would have thought that this smiling, shy girl, would become the hardened, all-business woman she is today. I count it my fault, that she lives as she is. But then it isn’t any more my fault as the boy who lost that last sprint for the SCRIPPS title.

It might have been after the fire. Maybe it was her mother – she didn’t emerge from the hospital the same as when she went in. Regardless of when it started, I think it took longer than expected. It just all built up. She pushed through the pain and sorrow, the rage and anxieties – stronger, she thought, than those around her who poured their grief into others’ arms. Maybe she pushed too hard. It was that battle – the battle to hold onto consciousness and not delve deeply into the ever ready cushions of depression – that sent her down a path much darker than those who suffered around her.

As I said – it took longer than expected. She shut it out, everything, everyone, finally losing contact with those she’d loved but could no longer face. And then one day I saw it. She snapped, but not as in ‘mental’. She shut down, indeterminately. Maybe one day she’ll snap out. Even so, she seems determined to keep herself to this way of living.

‘But Dalia is twenty years old’, I thought. ‘She cannot be this way forever.’

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I think I’m the only one who can get away with making Smith do things. I mean, it isn’t like I go over to her flat and make her up all pretty then drag her out to some bar where we can see and be seen. Okay, those were the old days. But these are the new days. The good days – the golden days. It’s more like I call on her for anything and she’s there, dressed for the part and everything. Like they say – she’s a tool, someone you can trust to get things done, and to get them done perfectly.

That doesn’t mean that just anyone can call her up for something, though. If you’re below her, you might get your question out, but then there’s that laugh, and then a click, because she’s just hung up on you. But for people with any bit of authority over her – she’s all you’d need, really.

I think she puts up with me because I understand her, and I don’t push her or try to talk things out with her or annoy her with questions like ‘why are you so quiet?’ and ‘why do you think things don’t upset you?’ I watch and I listen, but I don’t make her feel like she’s being evaluated either. She’d know if I was evaluating, too. I save that for later.

I’ve never seen her upset. Not really. When something happens that she doesn’t like, it doesn’t seem to affect her. She rolls with the punches. I’ve never seen her cry. She doesn’t smash things or raise her voice when she gets upset, but if she did, I promise it’d only be to scare the shit out of you. I think the only evidence I’ve ever seen of her getting upset is when she can’t get something right the first time. But she doesn’t fuss over it. She’s always calm – always. I think her way of getting upset is to push through things, and fix it until it’s perfect.

Her brows furrow a bit when she’s focusing. You’ll see it, maybe – she doesn’t mind letting it show. But when she’s done, and she’s completely focused, there you go – her skin is smooth as slate, her brows arched naturally over her catty eyes.

I remember the first time I gave her a birthday present. Only time I’ve seen her awkward. She shifted her hips a bit, then looked up at me and gave this half smile. ‘Thanks, Dobs’. That was the last I heard about it. It’s normal now, but not a ta da sort of thing, like with a lot of people. We have a routine, you could say. Give the gift over, open it. Thanks. And then it’s done. You’ll never hear about it again.

To be honest, I don’t know if I’d like to know why she’s the way she is. Someone that cold, that closed off – pretty things don’t come to mind. Maybe one day she’ll snap out of it, but I don’t think so. She’ll go on making people check their closets for her until she’s eighty-two, if she doesn’t die first.

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‘She’s perfect for it – I promise you. Nothing – nothing – gets to this girl, I swear. Like a robot. She won’t be affected – probably one of the best you’ll see for a long time. Heartless. Remember the CIA? Yeah, their poster child – no lie. Eats puppies for breakfast. Kill your grandpa without a thought. She could do it too. Clean, seamless. No mistakes. Too calm to make them. Has a great right with a .22 – left too, come to think about it. You won’t be sorry.’

The hiring manager and clerk made introductions, but Smith was silent. They were wary of her – that was obvious. They moved through the building to a windowed office. The manager settled in and looked down at the paperwork before him and smoothed down his tie. The clerk opened her paper pad and settled into the chair. Her eyes kept sliding in Smith’s direction. She looked nervous. Dalia Smith took her seat, and that was the last time she moved.

School.
Brown.
Training?
SFUA
Experience?
Corporal, US Marine Corps and SFUA completion, petty officer for the Central Intelligence Agency.
Psyche level?
Undetermined.
The man arched his brows, just the slightest, but kept scratching at his pad of paper.
Why do you think they put you up to the job?
I’m their best. I’m unaffected.
What do you know about the job?
Only that it’s along my expertise.

A knowing smile.

The woman – tall and slender, her shoulders straight like they were tied to the back of her seat – gave straight answers. No fluff, no extra. She didn’t say anything that wasn’t absolutely necessary. Her eyes, when she looked Amelie’s way, were icy and slick. They made you feel naked – like they knew everything you were thinking, every move you might make, how you felt about your carb-loaded breakfast, even. Terrible. Made you tremble.

It was clear that, even after as short a time as the interview allowed, Martin knew she could only be an asset. Her references were enough to speak for her, sight unseen, but in person – she was just scary. Made the man across from her shift uncomfortably, even as he knew that she wouldn’t be above him. Of course she’d have the job. Of course she’d be perfect, just as Amelie had said. Maybe I’d been wrong.

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She hadn’t made many friends in college. Nor in the corps or training, even the centre. She hadn’t needed them. Maybe it was my fault. I could have come forward, gotten her out. And now look at her. Smart as a whistle, yes. Eyes like a hawk. Slender enough to look good in a slinky dress, but she’s got enough stamina to take down someone twice her size. Could dance circles around her trainer. Has some sort of built in radar, too – no one’s been able to scare the shit out of her since high school. And that’s some tough shit – kids are all over that stuff.

But friends. Few get beyond that line, the one where you can just approach her and say ‘hey’ and get away without a sharp look and a smile that says ‘you’ll get it when you least expect it’. Dobs is probably most successful there.

I wonder sometimes if she knows just how well she guards herself. I can’t see her marrying. She can’t trust anyone enough. She’s not one of those girls you ask out for drinks after work. She isn’t one of those people you invite to a get together. She’s a computer – one of those people you go to to get something done, and you’ll know they’ll do it too, but then you don’t talk to them until you need them again. Sits on a shelf in between jobs.

I think she likes it that way. Or maybe she’s trained herself to like it that way. More like Big Brother’s poster child than the CIA’s. Obedient. No nonsense. Oh, she can crack a smile. She can look good doing it, too. But she never looks safe, never looks inviting, even as she’s clean and perfect and everything you need her to be. Careful? Maybe. Thoughtful – not so much. Sympathetic? Look elsewhere, mate. Again, maybe that’s my fault more than anyone else’s.

dalia's memory

Sunlight streaked through the blind slits, landing on the wall opposite. The random papering of the wall was first dark, then light, then dark – Dalia counted the stripes as voices filtered in one ear and out the other. She may be able to hear you … We can’t be sure how much longer … Dalia, do you remember that story …. Papa cracked that rainbow lolly right over her butt – she was red with spite … Dalia? Dalia? Dalia?

Dalia wasn’t listening. She stared at the wall, counting the stripes, the swatches of colour, the texture of the paper. The hand in her own was stiff, puffy. It wasn’t fine and slender anymore. It was pink, like it was under too much pressure. She ran her finger across the knuckles – they were so dry. The nails were strong and white. They’d said that was a good sign. They’d said it like it was a sign from God. And here they were. Some God.

Maybe if she’d been there all along she wouldn’t have been so shell shocked. She regretted that now. All the kid who cried wolf things and warnings and tears. They were nothing to her now. When her grandmother edged up to the bed and patted the woman’s thick black hair, she didn’t make a sound. Go to the Lord, honey. We’ll see you there.

The cries sounded fake. Everything sounded fake. How did one respond to something like this? A heady, nauseous feeling made Dalia double up. She turned to the sink and gagged, but nothing came up. Someone patted her back and hugged her, wiped at her face. Was she crying? What was the use in crying? She looked grudgingly at the form in the hospital bed. We’ll be taking her to the morgue now. She looked up at the doctor, dazed. He looked sad, sympathetic. But they were in such a hurry to clear a bed. One more bed. One more spot for someone else to take.

The light outside was too bright. The birds still whistled and fluttered, the daffodils still turned their yellow heads to the sunshine. Someone ushered her into a car. She was frozen. Her eyes were puffy, her gaze blurred – it was hard to see. Her lids closed over her empty gaze. It hadn’t happened yet. It hadn’t realized in her mind, that she was gone.

She’d never borrow her clothes again. They’d never go for doughnuts at Krispy Kreme’s. Black Friday wouldn’t be the same anymore. They wouldn’t watch the stop motion Christmas shows together. They’d never catch Bare Essentials on QVC again. It was over. Their time had passed. The only thing she had left was gone. The only person who understood her. The only person she truly, deeply loved.

Did it matter? Was it real. Now, more than ever, she had the sense that she was not really there. The leather of the seat beneath her was a mere imagination, and the people crying around her were only pigments. She was numb to it all – or maybe she wasn’t. Maybe she simply wasn’t really there.

Dalia escaped from the others, and made her way up to her room. They’d painted the hall walls yellow, two years ago – in the summer. The bathroom they’d painted blue. Robin’s egg blue. Light and airy – lively. She sunk onto her bed and pulled her knees up to her chest, heedless of how it might crinkle her dress. Everyone sounded far off. Chatter filtered up to her room, muted and monotonous.

They all watched her, like she might do something drastic. She’s been that way since Sunday. They shook their heads at her, all of them. The poor girl. She has her hair. I never noticed. Damn bastards. Shut up. They didn’t know what they were talking about – they didn’t know how they sounded.

Everything was in patches. She remembered nibbling at a watercress sandwich. This morning someone had brushed her hair. Mimi wore periwinkle. Alice wore yellow. Yellow, like the halls they’d painted that summer. Yes, everything was in patches.

She didn’t mind, though. She’d get past it. There wasn’t any call to break down. There was nothing one could do. Maybe it was better that way – maybe it was stronger. Maybe it was what she’d have wanted.

Dalia sat up. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t there anymore. She made her way over to the mirror, her hands running across her face like she might smooth it. The once olive skin was now pale and washed. She pinched her cheeks. The colour surfaced, but began to fade. No. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t there anymore.

Dalia headed out the door, down the stairs, and across the foyer. No one noticed. They were all plunged into their own grief, discussing how they were affected. Showing off. I’m worse off than you are. Yes. she thought. You are obviously worse off than me.

Dalia didn’t want to be one of them. She wouldn’t fight to show that she was worse off than any of them. It was all fake. It was terrible – traitorous. She’d always been worse off, and now she was gone, people were falling in line to take her place. Like they didn’t care. Because they’d been her best friend, always, like she’d trusted them most. They knew all the stories. They knew how she laughed and what her favourite film was. Just because they’d been there for the worst of it.

Dalia would ring true. That was the plan. She wouldn’t grieve – she was done with that. She would be strong. She would live on, unaffected for once. There would be no soiling of memory. There would be no dwelling - not for her.