Post by sevi on Mar 18, 2010 16:07:34 GMT -5
COURTNEY ALBANY KEYS
"Right, erm, so... Interview, eh? I've never really been good with interviews. I mean, why would anyone want to sit there and listen to me ramble on about Scotland and when I used to play football? It just seems boring, to be honest. But, you know, you seem pretty incessant so fine... My name's Courtney, but I bet you already knew that. The name's far more common for men than women in the UK so, that's that. Oh you want to know the rest of it? Well, it's Courtney Albany Keys, and no, I don't know where the surname came from. I'm just Scottish, though my mum was brought up in Northern Ireland. And I was born on the 4th of May, 1980 making me twenty-nine, and I'm clinging on to that age. I mean, I don't exactly have a problem with getting older, it's just... Well, I don't know what it is really, I guess it's just that I don't like how time passes and I have no control over it. Some people say I'm a control freak, I'm not really, I'm just sort of paranoid. I do worry a lot. Anyway, I'm a counsellor here and do rather enjoy it. I wasn't always employed here, though, as I sure you can imagine, with me being from Scotland. I used to be a school teacher, a science teacher, at that. And before that, when I was in University, I would give private piano lessons. Don't get all excited just yet though, I'm not strictly stuck to piano, I'm sort of a Jack of all trades. Though, piano is my favourite, and I dare say I am quite good. Like, kind of silly good. But I don't really like seeming arrogant. Anyway, I also dabble in the violin, flute, drums, guitar, and harp, however those are all just theoretic skills, and I wouldn't say I have any kind of talent there. But I can teach them, if I want to, though I don't generally want to. Though I suppose you want a more detailed history than that. Right... Well... I'm really no good at talking about myself, you know. All right, all right, no need to get pushy... Anyway, I was born in Scotland, and it was pretty uneventful. We lived out in the middle of nowhere where it was really pretty and rained a lot but it also meant I was rather lonely. I mean, I managed, like every only child manages, but my only contact with the outside world was school. Which was fine, I guess, all it really made me do was love school, which is kind of weird, but I managed with that too. After school I'd have to wait around for my dad to get off work (he was a dentist) and take me home. So, I'd generally hang around and play football, you know, like I was normal. It was sort of strange, how normal I was in school compared to at home. I was a strange kid at heart, I really loved science, and doing my homework, and piano. Generally, I also liked being alone. Though I think that was mostly because my mother was a drunk and her and dad would fight all the time. So, yeah, I'd just sort of lock myself away and play with my chemistry sets and play my piano. Anyway, my family was never hard up for cash so when it came time for me to go to high school they sent me to a boarding school. Trust me, it sounds a hell of a lot more harsh than it is. I actually really liked it there, and it was coed, so I didn't feel like I was in a prison. I mean... I'm not implying... I'm really not a sexual person, that's not what I meant... But you know, when you're stuck with one gender, it's sort of like the prison system so... Yeah, whatever. Anyway, that's why my accent is sort of weird now, because my parents sent me to an English school. And then I went to an English college and University, so my accent sort of softened up. Which is probably good, otherwise I don't think everyone would be able to understand me now. But yeah, anyway, in high school I met my best friend. Her name is Lizz. Well, okay, it's Elizabeth but she hates that name so she's just Lizz, or Lizzy, or any other weird sounding word I decide to substitute for her. My life must sound incredibly boring right now, I know I'm getting bored talking about it. No, really, you don't want to hear any more. How about I just tell you that my favourite colour is blue and that I prefer whiskey to gin and that I have a dog named Mollee and she's a St. Bernard. No? You really want me to go on? What if I told you that I've written seventeen piano compositions and used to breed guppy fish? No, still not distracting you? Oh! But! What if I tell you I'm a virgin? Yeah, that did it, didn't it? Yeah, well, I am. I told, you I'm just not a sexual person. It just hasn't happened. No, I really don't want to go on about my history. No, seriously... Come on... Give a guy a break. This is cruel you know, insisting on me telling you. But fine, Lizzy and I went to the same college, and that's when she told me she's a lesbian. Her family, I knew them, they were all very Catholic, and Irish, and would never approve. So it was just our little secrets, her's and I's and we kept it very quiet. In University, her parents started to pester her, 'When are you giving us grandchildren?' they'd say. It got very old. So, her and I, we sort of... Lied to everyone. We're married, Lizzy and I. Yeah, I'm married, she's my wife but it's not like that... It completely open but only we know that. Because it's all just a cover up, you see, so her parents don't find out she loves women. We've told them that I have a medical problem and can't have children, and we even had a wedding. After University, her and I moved to Ireland, near her family, and that's where I was a school teacher. But Lizzy couldn't handle being so close. It ate away at her, the constant fear of being found out. So, after only a few years, we moved, to America. My teaching credentials don't qualify here, so here I am, a counsellor at this camp with a lesbian wife and severe fear of public speaking. Happy now? ...Somebody get me some whiskey."
hello, i'm sevi, and i'm older than sixteen, younger than courtney years old.
i've been roleplay for ten years. i'm using david tennant.
he would be filed under a counsellor and his main instrument is the piano.
i found JBC through CAUTION 2.0.
"This is your pilot speaking, we are beginning our final descent. Please remain seated, in the full, upright position, with your seatbelts securely fastened. We'll be arriving at 7.35pm local time."
He'd never liked flying. You could call him a white knuckle flyer. The nineteen year old just couldn't handle it. Sure, he'd heard the statistics a million times, knew that you had a "better chance of dying in a car than an airplane," he didn't care. Unlike most of his generation, even his twin bother, the brunette actually enjoyed living. That may have been hard to believe, but it was true. It was just wiser to get him completely inebriated and toss him like a rag doll onto an airplane if you wanted him to fly, because the mere notion of him stepping foot onto a plane sent him into a panic attack. Well, it would at least be easier than having to carry him, kicking and screaming, onto the aircraft. That was what had happened last time, anyway. This time, he'd been a little more cooperative, only because he and his best friend had went drinking one last time before he left. Oh, he was going to miss the glories of Amsterdam.
Vibrantly green eyes gazed out the window as he clung to the armrests. Flying was insane, when you really thought about it. In essence, they were plummeting toward the Earth, eleven kilometres below, at speeds somewhere around eight-hundred-seventy kilometres per hour. Then there was the weight behind it all. If the average weight of a passenger was seventy-eight kilograms, and there were one-hundred-twenty passengers, that was about nine-thousand-three-hundred-sixty kilograms just in the passengers alone. Then, if each passenger checked forty-five kilograms worth of luggage, that was an extra five-thousand-four-hundred kilograms. On top of each passenger having a four kilogram carry-on, for another four-hundred-eighty kilograms. So, that all came to a total of fifteen-thousand-two-hundred-forty kilograms. Mind you, that was just the passengers and their luggage alone. Add in the weight of the aircraft itself, and well...it was a staggering figure. In his mind, it just seemed stupid to even try to keep something that heavy in the air, and even less intelligent when you sent it hurtling downwards. Call him paranoid, but he concerned himself with details. As their were a lot of small details to flight, you could only imagine how much he had to mull over, it was stressful.
As the plane closed in on the ground below, the Dutchman couldn't watch any longer. Pale, thin fingers grasping on the armrests until the knuckles paled further, the youth bit his fleshy lip. Prayers to Gods he didn't believe in were muttered under his breath. His eyes were closed tight, and his heart was pounding hard enough to crack a rib. Honestly, he was surprised the woman beside him couldn't hear the frantic beat. And then there was that stomach-turning lurch. Oh, how he hated that lurch. The sudden impact of the landing gear on the runway, it got him every time. Instantly, his green eyes had snapped open, and he'd let out a huge sigh. It seemed today was not the day that flying would take his life. At least he had that relief.
"Welcome to New York, and thank you for flying British Air. The current time is 7.37pm, American Eastern Time."
Two minutes late, not bad. Anyway, this man...or boy, was Fahymin Richard Nova, and he was far from your average nineteen year old. For as long as he could clearly remember, he'd believed he'd been born forty years too late. In his personal opinion, 1948 would have been a better year for him to have been born. Eighteen years old at Shea Stadium, twenty the day MLK died, how amazing would that have been? In the sixties, Fahy would have been a radical, the man with the megaphone. But no, he'd been born in the late eighties, and there was nothing he could change that. But it seemed this generation had killed the radical part of his soul. Sure, he was still what you could call a "neohippie", with his longer hair, and vegan tendencies, but he was very quiet. It was a stretch to imagine Fahymin organising a rally or making a speech. It wasn't who the years had turned him into, even if that was the type of soul he had. Though, maybe that was just because he was so socially awkward. Fahymin hadn't been blessed with grace, and he wasn't very worldly, his brother seemed to have gotten those genes. Along with charm, and a need to cause mischief. Fahymin was never that sort. Intelligent he was, yes, but the title "klutz" was the understatement of the century. Not to mention the fact that he was no good with the words unless they were written out and he often let his emotions get the best of him. Of course, Fahy wasn't exactly as brave as a lion, either.
Even his looks were rather awkward. His hair was a dark brown, that was almost a black, and was rather lacklustre. It tangled too easily, and had an odd, unruly curl. Far too pale for his own good, the boy looked almost sickly. His facial features still held the look of adolescence, and were rather plain. He wasn't bad-looking, really...just plain. He was far too tall, at 1.8 metres, he really should have weighed more than sixty-six kilograms. But his metabolism was too fast for any type of weight gain. But, as he quickly exited from the plane, the most awkward thing about Fahymin's appearance, was his attire. A blue suit hung unbecomingly from frame. It was not the type of suit that a boy his age should have ben wearing. In fact, it was the type of suit that a mother bought her "baby boy" on his eighteenth birthday, saying that one day "he'll grow into it." But, it appeared that the day which she had spoken had not yet come for Fahy. But he couldn't change now, he was in New York, walking out onto to the terminal, hoping this detective wouldn't be too terribly hard to find.
He'd never liked flying. You could call him a white knuckle flyer. The nineteen year old just couldn't handle it. Sure, he'd heard the statistics a million times, knew that you had a "better chance of dying in a car than an airplane," he didn't care. Unlike most of his generation, even his twin bother, the brunette actually enjoyed living. That may have been hard to believe, but it was true. It was just wiser to get him completely inebriated and toss him like a rag doll onto an airplane if you wanted him to fly, because the mere notion of him stepping foot onto a plane sent him into a panic attack. Well, it would at least be easier than having to carry him, kicking and screaming, onto the aircraft. That was what had happened last time, anyway. This time, he'd been a little more cooperative, only because he and his best friend had went drinking one last time before he left. Oh, he was going to miss the glories of Amsterdam.
Vibrantly green eyes gazed out the window as he clung to the armrests. Flying was insane, when you really thought about it. In essence, they were plummeting toward the Earth, eleven kilometres below, at speeds somewhere around eight-hundred-seventy kilometres per hour. Then there was the weight behind it all. If the average weight of a passenger was seventy-eight kilograms, and there were one-hundred-twenty passengers, that was about nine-thousand-three-hundred-sixty kilograms just in the passengers alone. Then, if each passenger checked forty-five kilograms worth of luggage, that was an extra five-thousand-four-hundred kilograms. On top of each passenger having a four kilogram carry-on, for another four-hundred-eighty kilograms. So, that all came to a total of fifteen-thousand-two-hundred-forty kilograms. Mind you, that was just the passengers and their luggage alone. Add in the weight of the aircraft itself, and well...it was a staggering figure. In his mind, it just seemed stupid to even try to keep something that heavy in the air, and even less intelligent when you sent it hurtling downwards. Call him paranoid, but he concerned himself with details. As their were a lot of small details to flight, you could only imagine how much he had to mull over, it was stressful.
As the plane closed in on the ground below, the Dutchman couldn't watch any longer. Pale, thin fingers grasping on the armrests until the knuckles paled further, the youth bit his fleshy lip. Prayers to Gods he didn't believe in were muttered under his breath. His eyes were closed tight, and his heart was pounding hard enough to crack a rib. Honestly, he was surprised the woman beside him couldn't hear the frantic beat. And then there was that stomach-turning lurch. Oh, how he hated that lurch. The sudden impact of the landing gear on the runway, it got him every time. Instantly, his green eyes had snapped open, and he'd let out a huge sigh. It seemed today was not the day that flying would take his life. At least he had that relief.
"Welcome to New York, and thank you for flying British Air. The current time is 7.37pm, American Eastern Time."
Two minutes late, not bad. Anyway, this man...or boy, was Fahymin Richard Nova, and he was far from your average nineteen year old. For as long as he could clearly remember, he'd believed he'd been born forty years too late. In his personal opinion, 1948 would have been a better year for him to have been born. Eighteen years old at Shea Stadium, twenty the day MLK died, how amazing would that have been? In the sixties, Fahy would have been a radical, the man with the megaphone. But no, he'd been born in the late eighties, and there was nothing he could change that. But it seemed this generation had killed the radical part of his soul. Sure, he was still what you could call a "neohippie", with his longer hair, and vegan tendencies, but he was very quiet. It was a stretch to imagine Fahymin organising a rally or making a speech. It wasn't who the years had turned him into, even if that was the type of soul he had. Though, maybe that was just because he was so socially awkward. Fahymin hadn't been blessed with grace, and he wasn't very worldly, his brother seemed to have gotten those genes. Along with charm, and a need to cause mischief. Fahymin was never that sort. Intelligent he was, yes, but the title "klutz" was the understatement of the century. Not to mention the fact that he was no good with the words unless they were written out and he often let his emotions get the best of him. Of course, Fahy wasn't exactly as brave as a lion, either.
Even his looks were rather awkward. His hair was a dark brown, that was almost a black, and was rather lacklustre. It tangled too easily, and had an odd, unruly curl. Far too pale for his own good, the boy looked almost sickly. His facial features still held the look of adolescence, and were rather plain. He wasn't bad-looking, really...just plain. He was far too tall, at 1.8 metres, he really should have weighed more than sixty-six kilograms. But his metabolism was too fast for any type of weight gain. But, as he quickly exited from the plane, the most awkward thing about Fahymin's appearance, was his attire. A blue suit hung unbecomingly from frame. It was not the type of suit that a boy his age should have ben wearing. In fact, it was the type of suit that a mother bought her "baby boy" on his eighteenth birthday, saying that one day "he'll grow into it." But, it appeared that the day which she had spoken had not yet come for Fahy. But he couldn't change now, he was in New York, walking out onto to the terminal, hoping this detective wouldn't be too terribly hard to find.