Post by STEPHEN FRASIER on Sept 2, 2012 0:09:57 GMT -5
...stephen ely frasier*
* She saw something awful in the very simplicity she failed to understand. *
[/size]* She saw something awful in the very simplicity she failed to understand. *
...basics*
name...[/b][/size] Stephen Ely (like Eli, not Ellie) Frasier
nickname...[/b][/size] Always Stephen. Never Steve or Stevie or anything of the sort.
age...[/b][/size] 22
gender...[/b][/size]Male
grade...[/b][/size] N/A
occupation...[/b][/size] He’s bounced around a lot from job to job--very opposite of the normal men-want-to-bring-home-the-bacon stereotype. Stephen’s what you would call extremely lazy. Not a quite a gold digger…but he likes to live high and mighty without the elbow grease.
hometown...[/b][/size] Chicago, Illinois
sexuality...[/b][/size] Metrosexual. He’s in touch with his feminine side, definitely, but when it comes down to it, he always digs the ladies.
personification...[/b][/size] Daisy Buchanan
status...[/b][/size] Dormant
face claim...[/b][/size] Tony Oller
...appearance*
physical...[/b][/size] Stephen is tall. 6’2 to be precise. His eyes are a stormy grey, making him look a little bit discontented/disapproving despite any kind of expression on his face. His hair is dark brown, always a little tousled, but purposefully so. His face ranges from clean shaven to scruffy, depending on what kind of impression he’s going for.
clothing style...[/b][/size] Flannel, v-necks, skinny jeans, almost always a beanie or some sort of hat. He likes hats.
defining traits...[/b][/size] Stephen has quite a few tattoos, a couple designs along his shoulder, torso and back. None of them are particularly meaningful, he just felt a growing obligation to get some when he left his parents house for good. Maybe they are all the result of some sort of pent up rebellion he never admitted to himself.
Stephen has been smoking since the age of 16. In high school, he only did it from time to time, but as the pressures and realizations of adulthood began to grow on him, he started to smoke more and more. Val didn't help him kick the habit, in fact, being a bigger smoker than he, she encouraged him to continue.
Strangely enough, however, his voice hasn't really been affected. Stephen's voice, from when he was very small, has been very memorable. A slight gravel combined with a curious delicacy, and not of the feminine sort. He speaks softly, but is always heard. His voice can command attention without any kind of volume. He also has a very lovely singing voice, and has been told be several adults and peers alike that if he worked at it, he could build some sort of career in music-- but he simply soaked up the attention without the substance, never giving it much thought and far too lazy to consider working towards any kind of goal. In his mind, he's already famous. He can get attention when he wants. As long as the prospect of greatness is at his fingertips, there is no need to reach, right? [/blockquote]
...personal info*
personality...[/b][/size]
I fell in love with a wind-up souvenir.
I bought it downtown, as I was on my way to meet you.
She sounds the like the songs you used to sing to put me to sleep.
False ambition combined with a false sense of hardship: the rich kids’ smoothest cocktail. It glided down his throat and currently rests in his stomach. The normal kids dream and reach and aspire. Stephen sits, a cloud of his own apathetic smoke covering and invading his eyes and ears. Flashing lights fit him nicely. They always have. There is no reason to dream. Not tonight, not ever.
Everything is tangible, touchable, able to be owned. He is possessive. Girls are china dolls, sitting on the shelf of the toy store. Love is a heart shaped box of chocolates. Affection is draping the minx coat around her shoulders. Happiness is waking up at noon for a smoke. Ambition is a dinner tray. Money is religion, paper is God. Dreams are irrelevant.
He is used to having. He is always in the act of having. It's been no different, and he's never learned to be gracious. Normal isn't anything to be gracious for. It's familiar. Secure. Safe. Safe is happy. Happy is unafraid.
I can't be you.
I thought you might appreciate
The way that she dances,
The painted look upon her face.
She must have come from the sun.
I want to take her through the park.
Where she'd tell me I'm all that she wants,
If she could even talk.
There are only a few people that live in the city. They are young. They dress in leather jackets. The girls wear colored tights, t-shirts from concerts, expensive sweaters, Steve Madden boots. The boys wear beanies on their heads, hungry stares on their lips. They talk while together, conversations beginning and ending with themselves. Stephen smiles, big eyes staring from all sides around him like billboards.
He knows what all his friends and lovers know. He knows what is good, what is bad, what is unacceptable and expected. A master of it, really. He knows he's interesting because people wouldn't stare at him with such intensity if he wasn't. He knows.
Glances are the only entities visible and he gathers fistful after fistful, happy to be around the people that make him so rich. If they lose their value, he gently releases them to the air and they fade into the smoke. Faintly, every so often, he feels a pang in his stomach, and he takes another swig of antidotal apathy. The veil is thick, but he is not blind. He can see them, sometimes. The other people. He wonders if his friends and lovers can see them too. He never asks.
When he laughs, bells ring and heads turn. He laughs often. He doesn’t know what laughter feels like, but he knows it makes his eyes brighter.
When he kisses, he knows he’s in love. He can’t remember the details of his mother’s face when she stared at his father.
And she seems my shell,
It makes me think of you.
The way she carries the things that remind me of who
We used to be before we became antiques.
She's a lot like you.
But when I hold her too tight, I know she'll break.
She’ll just take some glue to stay.
He is the leader of followers. He is gullible. Illusions of power and personal grandeur leave him helpless and vulnerable. Walking is not walking unless he’s next to someone else, and loving is not loving unless he looks into the mirror and sees the pictures from photo booths and of shared cigarettes and coffee over vacuous conversation that eased him. No hint of fear emerges from his eyes, his heart never races, his mind never travels until he is alone, the tortuous minutes that turn to hours when the sleep refuses to come. This is why he makes a point to never be found alone.
He’s never walked a step in anyone else’s shoes. Thinking about this concept is a routine, but vocalizing it is out of the question. Guilt is the tiny flower, stepped on for growing out of the sidewalk where it never belonged in the first place.
I feel so all alone.
No one's gonna fix me when I'm broke.
How do you cry with inanimate eyes?
You're never gonna smile with the way that you are.
life until now...[/b][/size]
Stephen Ely Frasier was born into a wealthy family residing in Chicago, Illinois. He lived in a penthouse with a lovely view of the lake, his father’s extravagant recording studio a block down from his not-so-humble quarters. His father shared with Stephen his love of music, teaching him how to play piano and guitar and work the complicated drum machines and boards in the studio. But if it was said that Stephen’s father shared his love of music, then he most certainly slathered and engulfed Stephen with his love of money. Business was a family trade, passed down from generation to generation. The Frasier’s were proud of their success, of their recognizable name. He was expected to hold this in high regard.
Right in the heart of the city, he was only about an hour’s drive from his cousin, Penelope Fairchild, and made frequent visits to his Aunt Melinda and Uncle George. Both being only children, Stephen and Elle (known as “Penny” to him growing up) assumed the roles of older sister/younger brother. They didn’t have much in common, as Elle was a devoted student and recognized the important of politeness, whereas Stephen didn’t seem to put much thought into anything he did.
Thus, he was mediocre student, placed in honors classes because of his intellect but receiving average marks due to his lack of interest and work ethic. His father was furious that Stephen didn’t seem to inherit the same ambition he held so dearly.
Stephen definitely inherited his carelessness from his mother. She spent her time indulging in the earnings of the family business. She, like Stephen, didn’t seem to cultivate any passion when she was younger and opted for role of home-maker. And she was hardly. Maids and interior decorators and cooks needed jobs, too. Regardless, she had a good heart, and took raising her son seriously, if she took anything seriously at all. Misguided, but with good intentions, she managed to spoil Stephen rotten and make sure everything was handed to him on a silver platter. She liked the idea that she was making him feel well taken care of.
The summer before his freshman year, Stephen’s life was thrown for a loop. Not quite old enough to understand, Stephen gathered through many carefully executed missions of eavesdropping that something was terribly wrong. Something involving both of his parents and the embezzlement of money.
The Frasier family had no choice but to lie low until Stephen’s father could bribe off whoever was bothering them, or seek the aid of his friends in high places. Somehow, spoiled brat Stephen, accustomed to the fast, flashy life, found himself attending McDonald County high school in a tiny town of Lanagan, Missouri.
Naturally, at first, he was disgusted by the standard of living. He wasn't rude or outspoken about it, but he couldn’t shake a general feeling of arrogance, like something about the place was just far too dirty for his eyes to be set upon.
In turn, most kids at the school reciprocated his disgust—and aimed it at his nice clothes and air of money. Freshman year wasn’t easy, and Stephen was brought down to earth inch by inch after rejection after rejection. He became obsessed with fitting in, finding just the right image to project so that the other kids would like him. Soon, it became a sort of art. And he became a hell of an artist.
He met Jenna Gray by accident. She was a couple years older, but that didn’t matter. What happened he always assumed was the first beautiful thing to happen to him, and her—little did he know he was forcing her to back into a corner, pressing her against the wall until the pressure became too much.
To say she wasn’t his type was an understatement, but there was something about her that drew him in. He obviously noticed right away her physical beauty, but it was when they started talking that something snapped in Stephen. He put away his painted self and washed clean and vulnerable.
She had ambitions. Eventually she turned over to him: her emotions, anxieties, wishes, something that was never discussed in the Frasier household and something that, quite frankly, Stephen didn’t know how to react to.
But he liked it. And he liked Jenna. A lot. He liked that there was such an intangibility about her—the rush that came from touching her skin was nothing alike the warming of his entire being when she would lay on him and tell him her state of mind. At last, he’d found something he couldn’t own, something that felt perilously unstable. It made him incredibility uncomfortable; he realized that this discomfort was love.
It was with Jenna that Stephen became real, felt as if he could breathe out everything that his soft voice had wanted to gush to anyone and everyone. He took a deep breath and felt the happiest he’d ever been, genuinely so. His senses were extended from sight and touch and suddenly it didn’t even matter what Jenna looked like, what he looked like when he was with her, what the other kids thought of her or him or anything related to them. He could relax.
And just as he was finished exhaling, what he thought to be true slid between his fingers again. One night, as he and Jenna were cuddling on the steps of his porch, she jerked out of his hold, turning to face him, eyes full of hot tears. She told him everything on her mind. That’s what he loved about her. And that is what ended them. She told him she couldn’t be with him anymore. Not because of anything he’d done, or said. But because she believed she was attracted to other girls. She was confused, and couldn't stay with him.
Stephen sat in respectful silence, eyes glazing over and the corners of his lips hardening. The one thing he couldn’t own became truly that, except now differently. In all ways. And he couldn’t handle it. Jenna retreated from the porch into the night, and Stephen quietly made his way upstairs to his room, the proceeded to throw a temper tantrum like a little kid in a toy store. After the slew of tears, punches thrown (he even broke a few fingers and his hand hasn't felt quite right since) and belongings broken subsided, he packed everything away and left it all under his bed, a monster threatening to swallow him whole in the night as he lay awake. He had always had such childlike fears, and wanted to keep it that way.
This sort of betrayal didn’t make him any less trusting, it was his nature to be so, but he did get more obsessive. He had to look exactly right, act exactly right. He ignored all and any conflict, pushing it away with a smile and the throwing back of his head in laughter. He stuffed it all away and left it in the house his family owned for four short years in quaint Lanagan, Missouri. When the family business drama had cleared and it was time to head back to Chicago his senior year, Stephen didn’t breathe a word of warning to Jenna. He left, assuming she had nothing left for him: no feelings, no ties, and no sense of loss.
He didn’t allow the feelings that he believed to be one sided to continue for long. After moving back into his ritzy house in the city, Stephen began a new chapter of his life. His eyes snapped open every day with an unsettling sort of cheery apathy. Spoiled, entitled Stephen was back, and he was ready to find his equals using the technique he’d learned back in the country.
the present...[/b][/size]
Mommy and Daddy got divorced shortly after the move, when Stephen was 17. Something money related was the culprit, there was no doubt. But Stephen no longer concerned himself with conflict or calamity; he never bothered to figure out the details. He didn’t care.
His mother ended up gaining full custody, as well as the house and a fair sum of money. From then on, a battle raged. Gifts from his dad poured in, a desperate attempt to win over his son and convince him that life with Daddy was better than life with Mommy. Stephen’s mom fought back, hard, letting Stephen throw wild parties and smoke any substance he wanted in the house.
Eventually, the conflict wore Stephen down. When he turned 18, he had no plans of attending college. But he did have money, and lots of it. When he said he wished to move to New York for a change of scenery, both parents sadly obliged, each one trying to yell over the other that if he needed anything, anything at all, he could come to them.
He’d never been more relieved than he had when he started living on his own. Though change was hard on him in general, being free of his parents’ constant quarrelling and cries for favoritism opened up a whole new world. Now he could truly do whatever he wished, indulged in whatever he wished, without the echo of conflict causing his carefully constructed barriers to rattle and shake.
When Stephen met Val shortly after setting foot in New York, he wanted her so badly. Everything about her appearance screamed of what Stephen wanted (others to see) by his side. The very aura about her attracted him, he could taste it: the power, the vivacity, the money. She lived how he wished to be seen in this new place. After they were through charming each other, or themselves, it can’t really be determined which, they made the decision to make it official. They are currently the perfect match made in a plastic narcissus flower garden about a block away from hell.
other notes...[/b][/size] I'll put family stuff here.
Jeremy Frasier, 55, father- well known music producer
Alicia (Casetti) Frasier, 45, mother- homemaker/gold digger....?
Melinda (Frasier) Fairchild, 64, aunt- baker
George Fairchild, 66, uncle- real estate agent
Penelope Fairchild, 23, cousin
Now likes and dislikes!
Likes:
-Playing guitar and piano. It's relaxing, and he's pretty good at it. Many are easily impressed and charmed when he starts to play, so that's a plus.
-Singing. People tend to like when he does that, too.
-Rapping. Only alone. In his car.
-Urban outfitters. Self explanatory.
-Parties. There is always a group around him. He thrives off of social energy.
-Hats. He wears them almost everyday. He just likes them. And they allow him to still look presentable without spending the time and effort on his combing his hair.
-Tea.
-His mom. She was always so much nicer to him than her dad.
-Tattoos. Because they're rad.
-Glasses. He thinks they suit his face quite nicely, thanks.
-Cigarettes. He's an addict, and they make him look cool.
-Money. It can buy everything that's worth having in this life.
Dislikes:
-When Val starts going on a rant. He usually tunes her out, though.
-Anything that reminds him of Jenna. Whether it be movies, books, songs, anything Missouri related, or girls that resemble her-- he can't handle it.
-Anyone who pretends to know more about music than he does. He practically grew up in a recording studio, so obviously, he is more knowledgeable about that subject. Duh.
-People who don't understand the freedom of money, and have some sort of vendetta towards the wealthy or something...
-When people try to tell him he shouldn't smoke, or scoff at his tattoos. His appearance is very purposeful and he doesn't take kindly to anyone that thinks it's less than perfect.
[/blockquote]
...literature*
title... The Great Gatsby
backstory... So this guy Nick Carraway goes to visit his cousin Daisy and her husband, Tom, who live in an extremely wealthy part of the city.
Daisy is a materialistic, entitled woman who enjoys money and security over everything else. She doesn't quite know the the meaning of consequences or real, lasting love and this causes many problems for her and others within the book.
Tom cheats on her constantly; while she isn't stupid, she choses to ignore anything that isn't nice and safe and secure. She has a siren effect on people because of her carefree demeanor and silky smooth voice. Jay Gatsby is determined to win her love, and she isn't sure if she still loves him, or values the familiarity of Tom more.
...the roleplayer*
tell us about you...[/b][/size] Piper. Scout was the unicorn that led me here upon a midnight dreary last January. [/blockquote]
...writing*
writing sample/freestyle...[/b][/size] SORRY FOR THE TYPOS WHICH ARE RAMPANT AND WHY THIS APP HAS LIKE 153486413 VIEWS
GOOD DAY SIR, I SAID GOOD DAY
[/blockquote]
