a_false_creation: (1)

Watch what you say or
They'll be calling you a radical,
Liberal, fanatical, a criminal.

Won't you sign up your name?
We'd like to feel you're acceptable,
Respectable, presentable, a vegetable...

They call it cruelty. Not the sadism that accompanies the knowing infliction of pain and suffering. Not the heartless indifference that numbs those purposefully causing distress. They do not mean it in the usual sense of the word – the mournful death-keening, helplessly accusing, ugly, violent sense. It is not the same, but it is still physical, mental, torturous. They mean it is cruel to reveal truth.

There are some who preach that our perceptions are colored and clouded. That we exist in a constant dream-state, on secondary images of how things are, and that this false reality shrouds what we do not want to acknowledge. A thousand worlds created and destroyed in our minds, a thousand interpretations of hard fact skewed and skewered when subjectivity is a sin.

Bias is inescapable and it taints a haloed and pure objective point-of-view. There is nothing to be done about this but to amp up the skepticism, the cynicism, the pragmatism. Scientific methods hammered and etched raw into every new brain, soft and unmolded. Every year. Every one. Repeat repeat repeat.

Only some dreams ought to come true.

We look to our artists and writers and musicians, our painters and poets, to shape our comprehension into neat little boxes, to reword reality. To sugar-coat our bitter impossibles or uncover our half-burried miracles. We ask them to create the lies we need, to shield us from the truths that are also their workings, to show us who we want to be and tell us it is who we are. Give us delusion and denial and all we need to stay sane! But there is a need to shatter and break. Sometimes, what we need is to have our illusions torn apart, daily masks shredded to scrapes of junk. We have to brandish dreamy abstract in the open air until it dissipates, too frail, too fragile to stand even the harsh lights of an examiner’s cold steel table. We will risk our sanity for what is right and do what we must while we still can. They call it cruelty. It can be cruel.
a_false_creation: (6)
Glass Ceiling
by Metric

Only know what I'm told, only know what I'm told
Fast asleep daydreaming
Start to push, break your own glass ceiling
Can't count, can't catch the pieces falling

Who let it end up on the ground
How am I gonna know you're letting me down
How did I end up on the ground

Only do what I'm told, only do what I'm told
Last to leave cold calling
You're gonna lose your arms, amputate plasticine
There's no knight in silver armor shining

Who let it end up on the ground
How am I gonna know I'm letting you down
Who let it end up on the ground
How did he end up on the ground
Face down on the ground

Only go where I'm told, only know what I'm told
Inch to inches crowding
We can't leave, it's the last road open
Every speed on our knees is crawling


Sep. 9th, 2007 07:23 pm
a_false_creation: (5)

by Sara Teasdale

Remember me as I was then;
Turn from me now, but always see
The laughing shadowy girl who stood
At midnight by the flowering tree,
With eyes that love had made as bright
As the trembling stars of the summer night.

Turn from me now, but always hear
The muted laughter in the dew
Of that one year of youth we had,
The only youth we ever knew --
Turn from me now, or you will see
What other years have done to me. 


Sep. 7th, 2007 11:23 pm
a_false_creation: (2)
Is this a dagger which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling as to sight? or art thou but
A dagger of the mind, a false creation,
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain? 

William Shakespeare, "Macbeth", Act 2 scene 1
a_false_creation: (Default)
Name: Wren Fletcher
Age: 21
Gender: Female
Birthday: April 9, 1986
Preferred PB: Renata Maciel
Occupation: Formerly student at Kiev International University and part-time intern in Sevastopol for marine biology over weekends. She also works part-time during the week in order to support her education. She sends home any extra money she can earn.

Appearance: Since middle school, Wren has been considered very pretty. Beautiful, even. Not quite a Barbie doll, but slim build, good proportions, and dark hair and eyes that were enough to get a few second looks or even a free drink. She still has all these things, but toward the end of her second year in college, her infection began to manifest as a skin disease. More on that under Defect.

Nowadays, she wears a lot of covering clothes and make-up in weird places. The Others will be the only ones she's comfortable being exposed with.

Personality: Not exactly studious, Wren still sees education as important. She is a mediocre student, but a passionate artist and activist. Her belief in animal rights turned her vegetarian; her environmentalist tendencies led to her marine biology major. She values will-power, and sees self-control as essential part of her identity, but is irrationally drawn to exciting and dangerous things. She likes know that whatever she's doing is ethically correct, and is willing to make sacrifices so that the Good Thing gets done. Wren isn't especially religious, but she's highly moral with a strong (sometimes blinding) sense of ethics.

Wren comes from Toronto, Canada, one of the few major cities in North America still relatively untouched by the first plague. Her mother is an artist herself, and supportive of her oldest daughter's decision to go to school so very far away. Her father lives apart from the rest of the family due to his work, but Wren saw a great deal of him while growing up, and looks up to him. He and her mother are still very much in live in spite of their distance, but his relationship with Wren's two younger siblings is not so close. Wren's sister Robin (12) and brother Jay (14) are her joy, and when she follows her father's example of writing home regularly, she's usually thinking of them. However, also like her father, she rarely calls and never visits.

Ready to be independent, Wren's decision to go to Kiev International University was based as much on its exotic appeal as practical reasons. Although Kiev was far, by the time Wren was applying for schools, she wanted to be off and away. A family friend helped secure her a waiting internship just to the south of the city, in Sevastopol. She was likely infected while working there, exposed to a series of unknown pollutants.

Her social life at the new school wasn't as booming as back at home, but she made friends with a number of artist-types and got along fine. When her disease began to manifest, her impromptu solution was to wear more covering clothes and find less public work. It's probably a character note that it doesn't even occur to her to tell her family; her letters are still truthful, but now they omit daily details. To her father, she has mentioned a few things, but still not everything.

Wren's defect has given her a new appreciation for her sense of touch, and also a strong sense of body-consciousness. She's also developed an instinctive mistrust of sunlight. Lurking is now the thing to do, and is only willing to step into metaphorical (and literal) spotlights in order to push for her causes. .... Randomly, she's also gotten really good at painting flesh-tones, and she will continue her art, even as she takes some time off from school.

Wren has never needed to know how to use a weapon before, and the closest she’s ever gotten to handling a real gun was a paintball-gatling four years ago. She was decent as far as aim went, so long as she remembered not to get too excited. (Assume that in the case of an attack where she actually has access to a firearm, she will be rather excited.) She has a pocket knife which pretty useless, except maybe for sharpening pencils, but in elementary school she once stabbed a boy with a pencil.

Her infection provides her with natural defenses in the form of quick healing/regeneration (if she's eaten) and unusually resilient skin. Usually, cuts won’t hurt or bleed, but if they’re deep enough or if she’s sensitive at the moment, it's not a good thing.

Alliance: Wren is an Other but she’s new to the business. No information yet as to where she will fit, but based on her personality and convictions, she might end up as a moral compass and/or propagandist. If she ever gets over the murder thing, I see a future Reg Shoe in her. (:

Extra: IDK.

Physical/Mental Defect:
Under direct light, especially sunlight, Wren's skin gives off an unnatural waxy sheen similar to the sort of shine you get off of plastics or resin. It grows stiff and numb and cold. Around the joints, there are sometimes tiny fissures or even chips, like minute cracks in an old painted wall.

If she eats properly, these tiny wounds bleed but then heal remarkably fast. If she doesn't, they just keep spreading until whole chunks of her are falling off like a drying clay figurine. She's usually hard and dry to the touch, but under certain conditions, her pores will ooze a clear mucus film that is protective and physically a relief, but still pretty disgusting.

I mean, unless you're into that kind of thing.


a_false_creation: (Default)

December 2007



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