I've got an attitude that makes the sky drop
And the waves buzz
But i'm still stuck
Username: Aysan1
Name: Bellekino Cherenobyl Conner Sevim
[Bell-Eh-Key-No Share-Eh-No-Bel --- Con-Er- Se-Vim]
Nickname/s: Belle, Keen-o, Connie, Con, Cherry
Gender: Male
Personality:
You are a writer, you like to walk in the snow, watch the birds fly by, and sip tea by the window
"A flower doesn't grow here, a flower doesn't grow anywhere that weeds have infested.."
Being "different" just befits Belle. He is the loner type that you, or most anyone, can not understand. He's a mysterious soul with a lot to him, a lot of secrets and a shadowed over past. A life not like most individuals and a personality that reflects that. A foriegn and indivdualistic personality. He is a story unheard, he doesn't like change but is used to it. He doesn't like when others listen but feels so unimportant if they don't.
He is messy, a quiet one, odd, and has an interesting and wierd way of looking at the world.
A solitud of mind.
A solitud of individual.
A creative character. A silent demenour. I'd rather be to myself.
Tries hard not to advocate too much of a change from his natural life.
Yet he can't stand not having interesting days within his routine.
Intro:
Belle is a writer who, like many others, throws out his feelings into each printed word, and creates a masterpeice. It is what he's good at and what he had always been good at. His life experiences all written in fables and stories, with words that could create a picture. A picture that was almost better than an actual photo, as close to natural as he could feel, smell, touch, see and.. hear.
He has a habit of saying that everything he writes is fictional and will not connect it to his life, this habit is a strong one, he weers around any talk of the whole context and will not relate any of his words to his life no matter what it is.
His life is a mystery, the stories he's written are memories, and he won't tell anyone of his life. From day one only he knows what has happened and though he writes of them at every free chance he has, he is not willing to entrust the truth to anyone so it stays a mystery, never told if true or false, if real or fake. No matter who he is talking to, no matter, however you say it he won't admit it. His stories, his papers are his to keep.
He is that sort of writer that will be sitting there one moment then will be struck with one brilliant, very brilliant, line, an idea, and will instantly pull out a hoard of paper from his bag and a long pencil, from a large collection, and begin writing wherever he may be. He's writen in the oddest of places. Sitting in a crowded train, outside at the park wile he was still walking, up on top of tree branches, the steps in front of large buildings... anywhere is fine for him to write his word. These places may not be so odd but what makes them odd is the fact that he just stops whatever he was doing and begins writing, all so abruptly. Because of his random behaviour he has acquired a good bunch of papers with words on them, unorganized but good enough for him, in no particular order. He does not own a notebook so all his stories are written on normal pages of paper and taken care of. He is mideocer at taking care of his papers, though if he could swear on anything it's that he thinks of them as his precious tresures. They must be kept safe and readable. But he must also be able to go to the next page as soon as possible to keep his idea sparking, so stuffing his papers into his bag is his easiest, and mostly repeated, choice.
Most do not know his at a first name basis. Belle is only for his family to ever really know. Others call him by the irritating nickname of "Connie" because most know him, if they know him, as Conner. Mostly he tells acquintances of his most usual sounding last name, Conner rather than his first name, or anything inbetween.
--
How it all begins.
"I've had deep dark days
My life's so messed up
I can't be condisending
I can't be catching
Because I just can't stick to this idea
With my crazy life
I can't be catchy"
A small booklet sat on his table, the male ran through to the bathroom glanced at himself in the mirror and quickly walked out of the house, leaving the peaceful old booklet sitting there, letting its pages blow around in the wind. It was all bundled together with a silver paperclip that reflected against the sun, the pale wight pages organized as best as they could be, fluttering in the breeze. Each one was numbered off and given a bolded out title, left there on that table, lonely and filled with adventures and stories. They are not cleverly linked yet put in some order anyhow. On top was a page reading "Volume one" A huge bunch of scribbled out black lines that if read said "True stories", now too covered up to even be read. And in wobbly quick writing underneath the scirbbles "Stories by Bellekino Cherenobyl Conner Sevdim - Fictional works".
Stories:
1-
People in my memories
I came from Spain, and Greece and Azerbijan and talk like no fluent word is in me. I was almost lost. Adventure took me to Canada and to cold, snowy towns. They would be hubs of movement and there I stayed, for months that seamed like year and years that seamed like months, my life was tacken over by the cities coldness and it's people, all moving around as if they knew just what to do. I lived with my uncle for as long as I could remember. He didn't become my first papa, there was a line drawn and it very seriously scripted him with the name and title of "uncle" and nothing else. He took care of me, since I was four; he said, and all I had were misty memories of people calling my name. "Belle, Belle my darling, come here," the memories showed me themselves as pictures in my mind, so blurry and lost that I could not make out the faces at the other end. He'd ask me if I remembered my papa and mama when we did something, he'd stop and stare out then say "Belle. Belle do you remember when you, and mama and papa used to play like this?" He'd just stop and stare into space, with something in his eyes that I could not tell. "Do you remember when you used to run like this with mama and papa?" And I'd shake my head at him, all I remembered were blurry faces that played with me and all I could recall was their long lost voices that called for me. I'd dream of them sometimes, but I did not know them to be mama and papa, at least not anymore. That, I had forgotten.
They were people in my meories with no name to them and I could never describe them and their blurry silloetes, so people in my memories, and nothing else, they stayed.
2-
Remembering
He took me to a building that was old and dead and smiled at me, kneeling down with his hands on my shoulders. Something big was happening. "Belle, you remember mama and papa, do you not?" His vocie was mature as he spoke. I had nodded, I don't remember why, it made no sence to me though maybe it was just my instincts, my mind yelling "just nod, just nod! Agree to him... ". It had felt right to do so at that moment at least. He took me around the building and I took his hand, it was something anyone could have remembered clearly, he almost gave it to me, willingly wile knowing that I was nervous about such ordeals. I was only eight years at the time. I had been to so many places I had lost count and yet none of those places scared my like that moment. I was born in Azerbijan, you mite have herd of it, it's like the region of Turkey, and yet barely knew anything about the place. My uncle told me it was nice, beautiful... but then stoped all talk of it, he'd say "it's for mama and papa to tell." And mama and papa were there to meet me there
to tell.
My parents reaction to me was every good parents reaction, they were content, not seeking more or less after I became theirs. Of course the moment I met, or rather re-met, them it was a rather exciting time of movement and hugs, emotions all over the place, the air flittering around with comfort and awkward and a used to sense of feeling, as if I had once been very used to this. My mama had hugged be with a great force, I think she was releasing all her emotions when she had hugged me because I almost lost breath. She had faint tears going down her cheeks and when I feigned a look up and over wile catching my little breath I saw a big figure that smiled, grinned widely and patted my uncle on the back with a lot of lovely, loving force. I had looked at the two with a confused, dazed stare... as would any eight year old with all this excitment thrown at them. But soft everything was coming back, their faces, how their voices and laughter sounded just like those people in my memories, those nameless people. "Mama.." and "Papa.." My uncle sliped a smile at me and I felt like he had thrown me the biggest hard ball there had ever been, I swallowed and smiled back.
It took a wile to remember I must admit but when she grabbed my hand and kept softly chanting "Belle, Belle.." over and over so many times that I wanted to run away from all the antsy emotions within me, and wile she chanted both uncle and him stared down at me with their big sizes, tall and thin and big beyond all compare to my little eight year old self, I did remember. I remembered when they had walked me to daycare and clapped when I made an, almost falling, castle from wooden blocks and tacken me on picnics wich were less about eating and relaxing and most about running around playing chase until we fell down from exaustion, panting and giggling wile they still tried to grab me and tickle my tummy. Four years, it was not much, and it was not little but it was something of a wait.. to reunite.
2-
Strolls in October Snow
I died in the snow. Yes, it was an Octobers day, dreary with coldness and I died within the snow. The snow flakes fell onto me like raindrops and melted onto my skin, they drummed a beat that only I could hear into the earth, already covered in frost. The sky was wight, the ground was wight and I was wight, laying there and staring up. The flakes covered me and for many moments I was silent and still... dead. My heart had become numbed and blackened until it crumbled into tiny peices and toppled into my stomach with sharp pangs and stabs into my skin as it went. The world had stoped. I was too numb to do anything but be sad and yet tears rocked down my cheeks in that lonely snow field, sarounded by no one, just trees and fences.
I knew who I was, I was a young boy, thirteen and lively... and dead. Most called me Bellekino, Belle for short, some didn't know me, some talked to me everyday, some would rather dislike me. A note, a small note had come to us, for me. They wanted me, they asked for me, yet I didn't feel loved. "Your son is young and still needs many resources in his life and for that reason child services has decided that he should, and will be, going to an adoptive family that can care for him in a better way." They hadn't told me, it was hidden beneath mama's pillow, right beneath her head when she slept. I could only imagine her laying there, crying with her hands touching the sharp thin paper, beneath her pillow, asking for her baby boy that was once so far away from her, that she had worked so hard to get back, that was once again going to be lost to her.
I wasn't supposed to find it, it was a secret better kept hidden, better never made. I had been running to get them something and I was grinning, happy, not realizing what the world had in store for me. But then that paper had caught my bright eyes and my mind just kept saying "No, no, no.. it can't be true." But it had been. I wasn't supposed supposed to find it, it was hidden beneath my mama's pillow. I could only imagine her laying there with this paper under her head, touching the folds of it with thoughts of silence. They had worked so hard to get me here, to let go of me, then search for me, find me and begin this life. And every day they came to me with those ungodly smiles, so loving and warm, wile this stayed in their minds. I wanted to hate them for it, the fact that they hadn't said a thing, and the fact that I knew there was nothing they could do. There was nothing I could do, nothing anyone could do. And today I was not there's. today at six pm I belonged to a new family, a new mama and papa. Though I can't call them that. The next family is not a pair of mama and papa, no, they had to be called something else.
Can I be robbed of the moments that bring me to this? These sad thoughts of being taken away. It is not a fond moment when you feel your world rippling away.
3-
Letters to forget
I had two families, two daddies and two mommies and I had them all at the age of new, just a small pup not knowing what was in store. A family with magic and a family with color, all of them were so hard to understand. I also had an uncle. If I wrote a letter to my mommy and daddy; from both sides, I wonder what I would say. Would I tell them to relax, to smile or to forget everything that ever happened? Maybe I could tell them to chase butterflies and fallow all those midnight dreams, or maybe I could leave the paper blank, no return adress, just an "I'm here" on the old wight cover of the letter. I could send them my stories, works of carefree days and works of emotions when I was too sad to move, or happy, and too gone to even feel alone. I called them mama and papa, and then came mommy and daddy, when I grew I called them mother and father. I can't help wondering how everything can change so fast.
I liked to sip tea as I stared out at the city. Whenever I had my first chance to do it, I fell in love with the lights and the colors. They all sparkled and glowed. As much as I liked the sight of it what I liked more was the feeling, I always forgot what I was doing staring out at the window and the streets, all the movement. It always made me feel all empty, no sadness, no happiness, just soft hushed feelings, sent to me in the softest of forms.
Papa told me he had a secret power, he told me he could see things without seeing them like I did. Not through his eyes. My papa had magic eyes, gray and shiny and lifeless and full of amazing magic all wrapped up together. My papa was so very hard to understand. He told me he could see me, but there were no colors, just black and wight. I almost didn't believe him.
Daddy said that sometimes he gave up, mommy said she felt too bleak at times. I had learned from them, both. And I had learned from mama and papa. Somedays I wondered why I was even okay, or if they ever were. It wasn't that I was sad, more often than not I was okay. I had reason to be okay. I'd listen to their stories, play in their parks, and watch them laugh and dance and cry. Sometimes I was within the picture with them, and sometimes I was so far away from it it seamed I was at a meseum window staring in.
I could wright to them about so much, all those things I think about... all those things they might have forgotten, yet remeness about if remembered. I could show them a few things I had writen when I once lived with them.
"And so I realized being alive made it so hard to be colorful. Living was something that loved to push you through the processes, something that made you do what everyone else did, in such a cookie cutter society that lacked color." After I talked to my daddy, after so many years with him, I wrote these words in a notebook.
Mama always said to me; "Everything will come to it's path." And those were the words I had written over everything when I could not think, when nothing came to my mind except notes and notes of "Everything will come to it's path. Everything will- everything will---"
I'd always watch the birds fly when the fog was too thick over the street. And when I did i'd wonder what to write. Now, every time I watch the birds fly up in the sky, I wonder everything that I could tell them, send to them and why. How?
4-
Soft feathers
When I left my mother gave me one lone feather, it was soft, large and plummy, and she told me to put it on when I reached of age.
As I walked out of that house that I knew so well something flew on the wind and slid under my feet, a small feather that was so alike to my mothers. It was small and ruffled but it was mine for later on.
A few years went by and when my mother, my second one, saw the two feathers I had saved in my room she and my father went out searching, trying to find ones just like them. They sucseeded, at least as much as possible. They brought me two puffy feathers similar to my own two and gave them to me when I turned of age. One rests on my chest, one on my ear, and two on my tail.
It must be good to be rich. Mama and papa needed to be just a little bit richer. So that they could keep me. Mother and father were rich, they were so different. One of colour and one of magic. It didn't stop them, they both had problems.
There is a reason my feathers are where they are. They have their places. As do my families. My first feather, my mama's feather went around my throat and on my chest. Cliche, to say, that it wasto keep them close to my heart. But it was not cliche to say, it was like a noose of a reminder, always there wrapped around my throat. My second feather pinned to my ear, it came from the wind and always will. It's like a shell, where you can hear the ocean, I can hear the wind on that feather. And my last two strung around my tail. One for mother and one for father, they worked hard for them to be there. To get me those feathers, no matter how many times they say; "Aww, it was easy! Don't worry about it." Or "We know people. We're just glad to do it."
5-
A second family life
Wind chimes rang in the air, the sun setting such soft, vivid colors into the sky that all thoughts would be abandoned for this sight. The air blew cooly but this sight with its mix of autumn sunlight, yellow and green and misty orange, it made the scraggily wavering branches of the trees, so easily breakable, feel gentle. Or at least look gentle. You see the days start off as they always did, dreary with color and lacking no luster except for the living beings that went through the process of each of these days. Because, each and every day was tiring.
Daddy loved mommy, daddy was faithful and daddy could never hurt her. Daddy was always taking her on grand adventures, lifting her up, in his arms. But daddy wasn't faithful. No, daddy led one troubled track. One very troubled track and as he went through the potholes we fallowed his path, in the dark. Tripping over every little mistake he made, every dent that was put in front of us we felt worse than him, a twister reigned in front of daddy. And a storm covered us. Of course, not all days were twisters, not for daddy, some days were sandstorms, hurricanes, tsunamis, all spinning around him. Covering him with everything he did, so diligently, so lustily that he couldn't see the pictures spinning around his head. The images circling around his very life as he did all the things he did, as he became sarounded by these disasters and fell into desires not on the path we led, not on the path we were on, we lost him.
The pictures of a family standing together... They were forgotten. Covered with ink of thoughts of not wanting to remember. Blank thoughts that soon turned black and we're forgotten with force. Things I didn't remember because I didn't like to, I didn't want to remember. One day, through the crevice of daddies open door I saw him dancing. It was lively, he seamed on fire, his body bopped and how alive he was made him colorful. These days were caught by my father, when he became so full of color, so dreary with it that it seamed he was drunk on it. It amazed me, how someone with such an inhabitian to be living normal and secret could be able to fit into the vivid colors of the outside world, so different from his said desires. Not the dark figure sarounded by a coverage of color, bright and living, not the darkness that we all seamed to be compared to each beautiful day. No, at that moment I saw someone who was part of that color, someone who was living within those beautiful days, not beside them. Not like everyone else who never changed, never let the days touch them, all stayed gray, he was something different. At least for that moment.
6-
A second family life; Part 2
"Passion, hope, warmth... Caring for someone else. Let me tell you kid, that won't get you anywhere." He swished his cup, mixing up the things that couldn't be with such a force that you almost thought there was something else in that cup, something, that could actually mix into the drink. Something like old hope, now dieing, it seamed. I imagined my fathers dreams to be a burning piece of paper, lit afire and thrown into a trash heap of other destitute ideas. Each one as "not good enough" as the other. And I imagined his feet to be covered in dirt, as if he has walked through that heap. Now, all that had made him alive, free and colorful had taken his color away. And I saw the pants of his legs moistened through all this darkness he walked through, and it made me want to run away. My gaze led to his pant legs, Wich were, undoubtably, clean in appearance. But I couldn't tell if that was real, what I was really seeing was true or not. And I couldn't tell if the brightness, the sparkle in his eyes were still there... Or not.
He stared at me with a seriouse gaze, eyes pent down and striking like two arrows that aimed for my face. And I swear I herd the music in the old family room close by, music that veered out in such a lonely way as I stared out at my father. And there and then I felt like nobody, yet like everybody. I felt like all of them, all of them that stared at their daddies eyes just like I did, and so I stood there, staring into my daddies eyes and listening to his brutalizing words. "Love, it killed me," he said with a sip of his poison, a concoction that made him crazy. But, a concoction he swore made him happy.
--
Stapled to the back is a small note with writing that would fit only a young child. A young child old enough to write such big words.
Shattered windows
Picture frames
Arms around me
Panic pains
Please don't find me
You're too mean
You're too cruel
Too obscene
I've been hiding far too long
But your strikes are likely
Way too strong
I've been thrown around
And I've been hurt
bruises cover all of me
Please don't come back
Don't find me
Stay away from my memories
Exclusion:
In soft writing at the back, of the little odd booklet had these words written on them.
"These are fictional works of writing, there is nothing to them that is real." And towards the right in soft, almost unoticable text, "Possibly. They could be real."
