Post by ren on Mar 27, 2010 0:43:09 GMT -5
...merilyn oriana spinner*
*what would you give me if i spun that straw into gold?*
[/size]*what would you give me if i spun that straw into gold?*
...basics*
name Merilyn Oriana Spinner.
nickname Mer, Meri, Lyn, the last being the most popular.
age Sixteen.
gender Female.
grade Tenth; sophomore.
hometown New York City, New York.
sexuality Heterosexual.
personification The miller's daughter [Esmeralda].
...appearance*
hair color Bright blonde.
eye color Her left eye is blue and her right is brown.
build Petite; lanky and slim.
height Five foot five.
clothing style Considering Merilyn is relatively poor, her clothing style is essentially whatever she can get. She adores going clothes shopping, but never buys anything. Usually for her birthday and Christmas she gets to pick out a dress or something, and if given the choice of what to wear, Merilyn definitely prefers skirts and dresses. She owns one pair of high heels that she wears almost every day. She's definitely a sucker for jewelry, though only has two necklaces and a bracelet. In general, Merilyn's style is whatever she can pull together. But if she can help it, it's usually dresses and skirts and high heels. If she's going out in public, she'll pull herself together more - though if she's just hiding inside her dorm and doing homework or something, she'll throw on a pair of baggy shorts and some old shirt. But whenever going out, she always makes a point to make herself look dressed up and presentable.
distinctive traits Her eyes are different colors - her right is brown and her left is blue.
...personal*
personality For one growing up so poor, one would expect Marilyn to be a tad more grateful than she is. Instead, growing up in a poor household with a ranting father has taught her that it's every man for themselves. With her survival instincts honed and at that age of social awareness, Merilyn isn't quite as... morale as she ought to be. She is a chronic liar. She has extremely low confidence and always feels self-conscious about who she is, and makes up for it through lies. Everything you've done, Merilyn's done it twice and better. Since she is not terribly talented at anything besides talking, she figures she has to make up crap to get people to like her. Merilyn is not exactly a snob or a self-centered person; she's not confident and insecure and tries to falsify who she is to make herself seem more impressive. With other people she's outlandish and brave, though when by herself or not with a close friend she's suddenly sullen and recluse. She's not an idiot; of course she realizes that her life is hollow and futureless and she's just waiting for it to catch up with her. But for the most part, Merilyn is a silver-tongued young woman who, beneath her coy and sassy shell, is actually extremely shy and self-conscious.
When not trying to impress anyone - in her extravagant way - she's actually not a bad person. She's hard-working and dedicated, and juggled several jobs through middle school to help support her family. Unfortunately, she's a bit too wrapped up in the social scene. If you catch her when she's by herself, she's a down-to-earth individual. Her personality completely shifts when she's around people she wants to impress. She essentially goes into overdrive. She's always charming and charismatic, though her boastful nature is rather irritating. Everything anyone mentions, Merilyn has to conquer it because she figures it'll make her look more "cool". She's definitely into fitting in. She has a deathly fear of being alone and being hated. She hates being by herself or being made fun of, and would prefer to hide amongst loyal friends for her entire life. Her self-consciousness makes her vulnerable when she's alone, and thus she tries as much as possible to mingle with her good friends. When it comes to actually making friends, she's quite shy. For all of her brags, she's a cautious person. If left alone, she'd stick away from anything illegal - from skipping school to smoking pot. However, if everyone else was doing it, she'd of course tag alone. Her image is very important to her, even if it's not her. I mean, as long as you're queen, who really cares how many lies it took to get there?
Merilyn's versatile. Sometimes she's generous and caring and other times she's about as deep as a piece of paper. It all depends who she's around. She cares deeply what other people think about her. In fact, she's so concerned about her outward personality that most of her decisions are based off of what everyone else is doing. She's agreeable and sides with the largest consensus on any argument, and when it comes to discussions she's a parrot and will just twist around what other people say to agree with them. Despite friends, she gets lonely easily. She's also very emotional. She's loathe to cry in front of other people, but she's the sort of person that can dish it out but can't take it back. Smart comments about her clothing especially can easily drive her to tears, and she's more likely to cave and cry than get mad and revolt. She's a smart-ass and coy, though for the most part it's a facade. She also knows how to tell people what they want to hear. If you can get past her constant lies and boasts, then she's a very agreeable person - a suck-up, really. She's always popular with the teachers and uses her social skills to elevate herself amongst her peers. So when it comes to social interaction she's a master. But on the downside, she's not particularly talented in anything else. And so long as she can cover her tracks, it'll never matter. She'd be a good politician.
past If there was one way to describe the Spinner family, it would be plain. Tasteless. Completely and utterly bland. There was nothing that set them apart from anyone else. Nothing that they were known for. They weren't rich and they weren't talented. The father of the household worked as a textile manufacturer in a smoky factory in New York City, and the frequently unemployed mother scraped by with small jobs or favors that she could do for people. Neither adult had gone to college and in fact had gotten engaged during high school. Merilyn's father was one year her mother's senior, and after her father's graduation her mother made the decision to drop out of high school so the two could get married. It was not a steadfast plan and neither of their parents were terribly supportive of this idiotic idea, but it was young love and who could argue with that. It's surprisingly powerful stuff, considering everyone was betting on when the pair were going to split or realize that no education meant no job. But they made it to the wedding ceremony, through the honeymoon, and through the first year of marriage. It was that once-in-a-blue-moon high school sweetheart stories, the rare one that doesn't follow the beaten path to divorce, regret, and heartbreak.
So they worked out. They never had a chance not to. Things began pleasantly. They rented an apartment in an unruly part of town, and lived off of borrowed money from parents until Merilyn's father found a job at the textile factory. That provided menial income but it still was some source, and through generous donations and careful planning, the two made it work. Through not so careful planning, Merilyn's mother became pregnant. It was about two years after their marriage, when her father was twenty and her mother nineteen. It was mainly through Merilyn's mothers beliefs that the baby was not aborted - because obviously they didn't have enough money to spare to raise a child - and thus they went through with the pregnancy. But as they say, an eye for an eye - Merilyn's mother suffered cardiac arrest while she was giving birth and died in labor. Unable to be revived, they were able to save the child. As the ultrasound had shown, it was a little girl - a little girl with two blue eyes and blonde fuzz on her lumpy baby head.
Merilyn's father was not terribly pleased with having the love of his life being exchanged for a baby that he was never too keen about in the first place, but it would seem disrespectful just to hand the child that his former wife loved so much off to some orphanage. And thus he took it upon himself to raise to little girl motherless. The child was named Merilyn Oriana; a name they had decided on before Merilyn's mother had died. Merilyn was their first choice for a girl's name, and Oriana was the name of Merilyn's paternal grandmother. The baby grew up quickly - and notably one of her blue eyes changed colors to brown - though usually in the hands of a daycare or her grandparents. Her father was home little and worked extra hours to provide for the newborn, and Merilyn grew up with a very close relationship with both pairs of grandparents. She was an unspoiled child. She was the type of little girl that had three baby books to read and would study them over and over until she could waddle around the house and recite them word for word. She had donated pacifiers and discounted used baby clothing. Every year for her birthday her father would take the day off of work and the two of them would go walk along the harbor and he'd get her a cupcake and let her blow the candle out.
She grew up as a relatively normal kid. Her grandparents would take her to the park and at the daycare she had some social interaction with other toddlers, but in general she remained oblivious to how different her living situation was compared to everyone else's. She grew up in that two bedroom apartment that her parents first bought, still scarcely furnished with unpacked boxes shoved in the back of some closet. When she began attending public elementary school and seeing all of the other girls in their nice clothes that she began to become more self-aware. Merilyn was never a genius. She wasn't an idiotic, but even from her elementary school years it was apparent that she wasn't terribly great at academics. There was no one field that she excelled in. Obviously she did fine; her elementary homework were just little worksheets about colors and naming animals. But as she grew into middle school, she still never stood out. She was an average student. She tried playing soccer around those years, but never seemed to grasp the concept that you're supposed to run towards the ball rather than away from it. She had no natural talent for drawing or writing or singing or acting. But she was popular. The girl was damn charismatic. She could play the part of the innocent little child or the rebellious cool classmate and had a tendency to get away with almost anything.
Backtracking a bit, within the first year of school Merilyn had a reality check. She began realizing how small their house was and how lame her clothes were. Her father did nothing to smooth over the situation and frequently would rant about their situation, or chew her out when she asked for money to buy something. Merilyn never saw herself as a liar; she simply stretched the truth. It started out with little things, like what scores she got on tests and things. But then it extended into her life. She blocked people away from her real life and fed her peers a giant lie. She lived in a giant house with her father who owned a business and a mother who baked pastries all day and she had once gotten a pony for her birthday and so on and so forth. It's natural for even little child to lie, but usually once they get older they sort of grow out of it. Merilyn never accepted reality. The school administrators knew, of course - they had her birth and financial records. But to her peers she went through life letting them think that she was something different than she actually was. She never let anyone come over to her house - their rugs were being cleaned or her father was out of town or she was simply just busy riding her horse or taking art classes - and formed her own unique style through hand-me-downs and cheap clothing.
Not to say that she was selfish - no, Merilyn is more two-faced than just plain egocentric. While maintaining her persona with her friends by day, by night she picked up random jobs around town and tried in every way possible to make extra cash. To her father she was civil and needless but obviously to everyone else it was a different story. Once you get that ball rolling, it's hard to make it stop. When you're utterly poor, average, and nothing special, it's hard to make yourself seem rich, unique, and outrageously talented. While a liar about everything else, Merilyn sure has the ability to spin words of straw into gold.
present Thanks to her father and financial aid and jars filled with loose change, Merilyn was enrolled in Frank L. Baum Academy. Though she was never very academically inclined, a handful of people from her middle school were applying - and besides, it wasn't that Merilyn was flunking, it was just that she wasn't excelling. Her father approved of the dorms; one solid cost supplied her with housing and food, and if she got a job there everything else would be taken care of. And thus Merilyn was shipped off to Frank L. Baum for her freshman year of high school. She excelled - at least socially. There was little change in her grades though she maintained A's and B's. She's really just trying to live each day, month, and year at a time; the future's a little fuzzy. College seems out of the question unless she can score a scholarship or financial aid, and sickeningly waits for the day it's going to become apparent that the only college she'll be able to attend is the local community college. From there, Merilyn has no idea what she wants to major in. She'll toss around a few ideas that are in compliance with her friends', but overall, she doesn't know how her future is going to turn out.
family Mitchell Caine Spinner, father, age thirty-eight, textile manufacturer; Emily Grace Cowell Spinner, mother, age thirty-seven, deceased.
likes Hanging with friends, talking on the phone, seeing movies, Italian food, the color green, pastries, going shopping, necklaces and bracelets, living in a dorm, snow, getting up early, stretching the truth, organization, hard candy, painted nails, driving, taking baths, oranges, boys with shaggy hair, skirts and dresses, wearing high heels, chipping off nail polish, night time, fall, coconuts, romantic comedies, marshmallows, swing sets, trampolines, swimming in rivers, the beach, frozen yogurt, being praised, impressing people, saving money.
dislikes Nosy people, being alone, Sour Patch Kids, the color yellow, loud noises, large dogs, pouring rain, country music, rotten fruit, mosquitos, split ends, pigtails, almonds, know-it-all people, the smell of axe, needles and sharp objects, missing strips of hair when shaving, bright red lipstick, math class, gym class, maybe just school in general, playing sports, crocs, Indian food, first person shooter video games, police sirens, clumpy mascara, hangnails, static electricity, hot glue guns, band aids, being caught lying.
other notes I left out anything that would involve Rumpelstiltskin, but I'd love to plot with them if we ever get one~.
...literature*
book title Rumpelstiltskin.
backstory A poor miller, in an attempt to make himself seem better, made a boast to the king that his beautiful daughter Esmeralda could spin straw into gold. Intrigued, the king took the miller's daughter and locked her within a chamber in the castle which was filled with straw, telling her to spin it all into gold and he would check back in the morning. The miller's daughter, who obviously did not know how to spin straw into gold, simply began to weep. It was then a short man suddenly appeared in the room and said that he could spin straw into gold, if only she would give him something in return. The miller's daughter agreed and gave the man her ring, and that night he spun all of the straw into gold. The king returned and was pleased, and locked the miller's daughter into a larger room filled with even more straw. Again the girl began to weep, and again the short man appeared. He offered her the same deal, and the girl gave him her necklace. He spun all of the straw into gold by the next morning and again the king returned, amazed, and locked her within a huge room filled completely with straw. That night again the girl began to cry, and again the short man was back. However, the miller's daughter had nothing left to offer. The short man said that he would take the girl's first born child, to which the miller's daughter agreed and all of the straw was spun into gold.
The king returned for the last time and was so astounded by the girl's abilities that he married her. The two together had a child, and one night the short man returned to claim his prize. The miller's daughter - now queen, of course - panicked and the short man said that if she could guess his name then he would revoke the deal. She got three guesses each night, and three nights. For the first two nights she guessed common names such as Henry or Richard, all of which were incorrect. Before the last night the queen's messenger was out in the woods, and happened to spot the short man dancing around a fire and singing a song about how his name was "Rumpelstiltskin". The messenger reported back to the delighted queen, who revealed the short man's name when he returned for the last night. The short man was furious at having been tricked. He drove one foot into the ground and pulled the other above his head, splitting himself in two.
And they all lived happily ever after. :]
...roleplayer*
name Ren.
age Sixteen.
gender Female.
rp experience Uh. A lot. A few years?
how you found ouac Dani~.
rp sample [ this is more of a section from a story thing, but it's all i had saved. D; let me know if you want a sample from an actual roleplay. ]
Mum?
The words had echoed again and again in his head and it was just a matter of time before he decided to say them. They stopped short on his tongue until he culled enough bravery and dismissed enough pride to finally force them out. The tall woman paused in the doorway and tilted her head back towards the small child standing beside the bed.
About the dog and the boy... that wasn't real, was it?
His words were so hollow, catching in the back of his throat. His mother observed his watery blue eyes and a wary smile flickered across her features. She turned and stared at him for a moment, an undistinguishable emotion flashing over her face. She stepped gracefully back towards him and her spidery fingers swept through his locks of hair and she knelt to his level. Up close he could see the powder that lathered her face, her brown eyes framed by thick mascara, her taught lips stained a pompous red. The edges of her fingers trailed down the side of his face and cupped beneath his chin. Up close he could see the wrinkles she struggled to disguise, the clumps of mascara clinging to the ends of her lashes, the dry cracks running beneath the surface of her lips.
It was just a story. He made it up. A boy couldn't become a dog, sweetheart. It's fiction.
It was not above a whisper, the last two words uncharacteristically dull. The boy dug to find comfort in her statement though her words were uncertain, cold, and he recoiled and shied back towards his bed. He bobbed his head obediently as she dragged him back towards her by the crook of his arm and graced his forehead with pursed lips. Softly entreating him a good night, she straightened and abandoned the room. Abruptly alone, the child blinked and stared at the empty space after her. He inhaled. He could not find a plausible reason why the story was so chilling; he supposed it was the storyteller rather than the story that made it creepy. Squinting, he sat feebly atop his bed, pausing before pulling his skinny legs off the ground and crossing them on the mattress.
It's fiction.
He repeated hoarsely, squinting more fiercely. He had read sillier things in his books. A mouse eating cookies, a boy's bedroom transforming into a jungle, a bat that thought it was a bird.
Every piece of fiction has a drop of truth.
Delight dripped from the hiss. The auburn-haired boy visibly jumped and his mouth popped open as if to utter a gasp. The words were without a body; the room was bare. Years ago he had asked his father if hearing voices was normal. The fool had chuckled and responded that that was called "thinking". As time progressed the child realized it was not the same - his friend was like a butterfly trapped within his head that whispered when it saw it fit. If the boy's body was a house then the voice was the watchdog at the gate. It bit and snarled at his peers when they came near and isolated the child until the prodding voice became his only friend. It would tell him the answers on tests or give him advice or praise him when he was down. The boy would confide in it and would ask it questions, such as its name or how old it was or how it had gotten inside of his head. The voice simply laughed. It laughed a lot.
Not everything.
The boy replied airily, again relaxing and falling back on the bed. There was something comforting about it, about never being alone. The voice seemed to flit in and out of his head; sometimes it would be there to mock and shriek with laughter, and other times his mind would be completely silent and bare. But it spoke to him with such sultry words that could not match even the honey-tongue of his mother. It cooed to him with an eerie sweetness, provoked him to lie and cheat and steal and other things the voice deemed "fun". It was silent now, thinking. Sometimes it did that. Usually it was loud and boisterous and would make itself known with crude comments or judgments, but occasionally it became thoughtful and quiet. It would nudge him with questions he did not know the answer to, then laugh and disappear. He felt lonely when it was gone. It took with it the boy's courage and pride and left a shell behind when it left.
Am I fiction?
It said now, amusement peppering the question. The boy's face tightened. That had never occurred to him; if something could be heard, then it was real. He did not know why the voice would not be real. It was a trick question, he supposed. The child's eyes flickered about the patterns on the ceiling. Since the time when he could remember and comprehend, the voice had been there. On the occasion that it was gone, sometimes at night he would lie on his back and try to find faces in the patterns of the plaster on the ceiling. He took a pen and played connect-the-dots one day, though his parents were furious to find him drawing on the walls. The voice had snickered as they washed the pen away and supplied him with paper. He could not draw on paper; there was nothing there. It was just white.
... No.
He said finally. His response was met with a light laugh. More often, when the voice filled the gaps in his mind, he would talk to it. People looked at him odd when he spoke to it out loud, but within the safety of his room he could speak as freely as he wished. The voice seemed to enjoy being talked to. The boy supposed it must be lonely also, trapped inside a person's mind.
And why not?
The voice teased. The boy's forehead wrinkled.
Because... because I can hear you.
He responded simply, it was an obvious answer. So obvious that it was surprising that the voice did not realize it itself. Fiction was things like unicorns and fairies, things that people wrote about and never saw. Fiction was men riding on the backs of dragons, men casting fiery spells, men transforming into hounds in the night. Everything in the world around him was real. If it was fiction it wouldn't exist and then obviously it wouldn't be on the earth.
But can anyone else?
It sounded taunting, the child's eyebrows arching at the question. True, nobody else could - but that was because the voice was within his mind. It was his voice and his alone, though once the boy had asked the voice where it went when it was not within its head. The voice had replied that it had more children to accompany and talk to, which made the boy sad because he had thought that the voice was his, and he didn't have to share. Sensing his disappointment the voice continued that out of everyone that it spoke to, the auburn-haired child was its favorite. Which of course made the boy happy again, for while at the will of the voice he told many lies he still could not recognize one.
You're too serious for a boy. You need to imagine more. Look outside. I believe a boy could become a dog, don't you?
The curtains across from his bed were parted and the window open just a crack, exposing the dark fingers of branches sagging beneath the weight of fresh-fallen snow. Somewhere above the wintery horizon, strung like a mottled pearl in the dark sky, was the moon, its bottom obscured by ribbons of clouds. The boy tasted his lips as numbness curled over his mind. The mattress began to slip from beneath him and he felt dizzy, his tiny fingers grasping the oak bed knob beside him to steady himself. Laughter pelted his subconscious like hail and he stared at the moon outside, branches running like cracks before it. The sightly dazed feeling and the familiar laughing shaking his mind made his cheeks upturn into a smile, his hand twisting on the bed knob in good humor.
Maybe.
The child admitted, his blue eyes hovering on the moon like moths flitting about a light. His petty smile had blossomed into a lop-sided cherub grin. In truth he did not believe that anything could become something different than what it was born as, but the voice always won their arguments and it seemed much easier to comply to its gentle mockery than fight it.
Maybe? You should listen to your uncle more. If insanity was the belief in things that no one else thought were real, then you'd be labeled insane as well.
The boy was confused. His lips parted as he searched for words, brows furrowed. He was not insane, though. Those who were insane must have an inkling of their insanity; the boy's great uncle had to understand that his stories were fake and that he was slowly slipping off the slope of reality. The boy himself, however - he was as sane as they came, truly. Comparing him and his great uncle was to be compare apples and oranges. No, even that was too similar. To compare apples and elephants, really.
You really think he danced with the queen? Courted a mermaid? Tamed a tiger?
He finally asked slowly, recounting several of the tales the elderly man had loonily spouted. The time when his great uncle was invited to the palace and danced quadrille, or when he fell in love with a maiden only to find she had a fish tail, or when he had subdued and tamed a fearsome tiger in the stretches of India. The boy's father had snipped that the old man had never been outside the country, but obviously the senior himself disagreed. Like thunder the voice rumbled with laughter. It was surprisingly tranquil this evening; typically the voice would not humor his naivety for this long. But now it whispered in lucid tones, alluring and brimmed with mockery.
If fiction is not seeing, then would you have to see him never dancing with the queen in order for it to be non-fiction?
He did not understand. Double negatives twisted in his head and the child squinted, his eyes still upon the moon outside. In mild frustration his grip tightened on the bed knob, but he said nothing. The voice had paused, taking a moment to shed its ridiculing air.
Other people cannot hear me, but just because they cannot doesn't mean I don't exist.
It sounded more wistful, a profound statement rather than a poke at the child's intelligence. The boy was trying to unearth the reason behind the voice's odd patience. He had his schooling tomorrow - which the voice always reminded him was dumb, that he didn't need to know how to multiply six by twelve, or recite Annabel Lee - though save for that there was nothing different about tonight than say, last night, when the voice had manifested just to urge him to clamor about on the roof. Uncomprehending, he gave a little groan and tore himself from his daze, rolling onto his side. Nausea throbbed and the child wove both his arms around his stomach.
I'm tired.
He murmured. Like a watchful parent, the voice suddenly rang with gentle laughter. The child had not been tired moments ago but now seemed purged of all energy. Something had slipped inside of him and was slowly beginning to quell his body; slow his heartbeat, shallow his breathing, relax his limbs, calm his mind. His room was plunged into darkness except for a snake of light from some room down the hall and the moonlight that splashed like rain across his bed.
Sleep.
It hummed in return. The child's eyelids had clasped themselves closed and he curled his knees closer to his stomach. His hands grasped at the pillow beneath his head.
G'night.
He muttered half-heartedly, his words slurred. If the voice had had a face, it would have grinned, its low words spoken like silk.
Good night.
