#dkaccepted

[devilsknotrp]

Congratulations, Marie! You have been accepted for the role of Julie West (FC: Elle Fanning). This was such an unbelievably hard decision. Both applications for Julie were amazing, and each one touched on different aspects of her as a character. Unfortunately we could only choose one. Marie, I absolutely adore how you’ve portrayed our sweet little sociopath, from her religious near-masochism to her penchant for fragile and meek things. She will be a joy to have on the dash. Please have a look at this page prior to sending in your account.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Name: Marie Age: 22 Pronouns: She/her/hers Timezone: GMT+1 (summertime) Activity estimation: Fairly active. I can be online most of the day even if I’m not always writing. My roleplaying is usually really writing heavy so it’s obviously impossible for me to churn out 3+ replies every day but it’s not impossible, depending on my muse + real life commitments, which I have a few, but I believe communication is key so I’ll always let the admins and the group know. Your current activity requirements is perfect to me. Triggers: REDACTED

IN CHARACTER

Full name: Julie Middle West Age (DD/MM/YYY): Eighteen (b. 07/09/1978) Gender: Cisgender female Pronouns: She/her/hers Sexuality: Undefined. It’s not something Julie has quite explored and labels aren’t something she’s familiar with. Her family was never one to discuss sexuality any more than they had to (like the very awkward ‘sex’ talk they had on Julie’s sixteenth birthday) so her knowledge is fairly limited. I feel like it’s very likely she’s aromantic: whatever she feels isn’t love, even if she doesn’t know it. The same could apply to sexuality but she does find both boys and girls attractive… or, as attractive as someone can be. Occupation: High school student, babysitter & active member of the community. Connection to Victim: Julie likes to be friendly and when the Goode family moved to town, she was one of the first people to bake some cookies (slightly undercooked, with too much sugar and a taste no one is quite sure what it was) and welcome them to Devil’s Knot. Brian was the one to open the door, all polite smiles and thank yous. She wanted to pinch his little cheeks. She has a special fondness for meek, fragile little things. Brian was exactly that. She also volunteered to babysit. Alibi: “I was at church.” Julie had the capacity to mold herself into whatever anyone wanted her to be. Devil’s Knot is a small town and everyone knows each other, she knows the officer asking this question is doing it merely because he needs to. Surely he doesn’t think Julie West had anything to do with it. Her voice is sickening sweet and she wets her lips a bit more, hiding the chapness that constantly plagues her, before continuing. “I was helping my uncle setting things up for the gathering that was supposed to take place before. well…” she lowered her voice in a conspiratorial tone, as if what she was about to say was a secret “...the tragedy.” She shook her head as if to say “terrible thing” “poor child”. Then, she turned her eyes to the officer and while her lips didn’t move, there was something about her demeanour that felt like a smile, peaceful and concrete. I’m sure they believed her. Faceclaim: Elle Fanning

WRITING SAMPLE

Interlude: one day after Brian Goode’s disappearance.

This has become a ritual: clothes splayed on her bed, Julie is not one to lose too much time figuring out what to wear; it’s a no-brainer, the same variations of the same clothes always on hand but if there’s one thing her mother cherishes is her daughter and how thoroughly wrong she is about her: ‘my little doll’, ‘peach’, ‘darling’, ‘dearest’, all words so sweet with affection they almost make Julie cringe but that alone proves too much for her complexion.

It is Summer and outside the sun shines hot, an unrelenting heat shuning away any possible breeze. It is at such moments the name of the town makes more sense: this is Hell, this is Devil’s Knot. Julie giggles to herself without making a sound, congratulating herself on her good humour. Her mother stands behind her, unknotting her hair from the turbulence of her afternoon, twisting and pulling away any imperfections from her daughter’s mane. “You should wear the white one.” Of course, it’s always the white one, pointless to ever bring out any of the other possibilities out of the closet, but Julie likes to give her the illusion of choice. She knows what’s coming next, too: one of her mother’s tear-eyed monologue, the one time of the week she allows herself to wallow, the one time she contemplates the possibility that maybe her daughter isn’t as darling as she likes to think she is. “Your father and I often found you in the most inconspicuous places, you were always scaring us.” There it is, Julie thinks, her demeanour unchanged. “We never knew where you were, outside in the garden or roaming around the house, alone, always alone, the other kids begging you to play with them but you weren’t interested,” she continues to comb her hair, relinquishing the comb for her fingers, hacking at the knots as if they were patches of wilderness. “One day, we couldn’t find you for hours. We called you and you just wouldn’t answer, wouldn’t appear out of whatever spot you were hiding. We were so worried.” Mother’s voice starts to crack a bit, a pause to clear her throat and hold back the tears. “When you finally appeared, out of the woods, I didn’t recognize you at first. You looked so…” she didn’t finish, unable to find the proper words, perhaps too scared to say them aloud. “In your hands, there was a little bird and you smiled so wide when you saw us, despite the frown in our faces and your father’s quick-temper, already yelling at you. The bird was cupped in your hand, like a cage around it, so protective you were. Such a good girl,” she cut off mid sentence to add that last bit, the fingers that were until then combing the hair slowly stopping midway through, blonde locks tangled around them. “And then the bird started to beat its wings and the chirping, it was so loud, but still you wouldn’t let go. We tried to take it away from you but you held your ground, and the bird wouldn’t stop… until it did.” Mother wouldn’t utter the obvious, didn’t dare ask Do you remember? “Then you said, with a seriously injured voice, as if the bird had hurt you. The bird. I loved it. You always had a way about it, with love. It is suffocating.” 

She stayed in silence, still not facing her daughter, letting the story soak into the walls. Her bony hands finally let go of the hair and she took a step back, face twisting into her normal self. “Yes, the white… wear the white one.”

----

There was something in the hair, besides the excruciating heat. It was the weight of possible loss, the murmurs that became louder and louder and the gossip that started to gather around the church, little groups of people whispering in a false modesty, their practioned mournful looks of pity in their faces. Secretly, they were enjoying it. You could hear it in their voices, how despite the awful things they were saying, there was a kind of joy, electric and pulsing, to their voices. ‘What a tragedy, poor mother.’ ‘Poor boy, all alone out there, god knows where.’ ‘Who would want to do this to a child?’ ‘It’s just like twelve years ago…’ Of course, the story was still about a missing boy but already everyone was predicting the worse, the image of Phillip’s Silverman’s body hanging from a tree conjuring in their mind’s eye. Already, only a day after the boy’s disappearance, less pleasant voices started to rise.  ‘If you ask me, how come she didn’t notice her son being taken? She was right there’ ‘A single mother, with all these kids, what was she thinking?’ ‘That’s what you get for not having a man in the house’. Nevermind that twelve years ago it was the man of the house that went missing, and killed.

As Julie approaches the church, her beautiful white hair matching the prestiness of her dress, a tray of wrapped up heart-shaped cookies in her hand, the murmurs suddenly subside, everyone becoming silent for a moment before they see it is her arriving, and not the mother of the boy. “Good afternoon,” she says in the voice she has reserved especially for the church people, for the grown ups. They all smile wide, a little less fake than before and answer her in a chorus, like they’re one entity. Hello, Julie.

She goes inside. The church is mostly empty save for the widows dressed in black that practically live there. She walks to the altar, facing the sign of the cross with a defiant look, her heart beating slightly faster. She’s a holy thing, all white purity and her hands are clean, veins see-through and clear, but behind her eyes there’s something that makes everyone else avert their gaze. While the men are out in the woods looking for Brian, the woman gather in here, asking for help from above. Julie places the tray down on the table, set with a few other plates already. 

She’s been coming to this church since she was a little girl: she grew up under His watchful eye, looking down on her bruised knees from so much praying. When she arrives at the altar she makes the sign of the cross and murmurs something under her breath, presumedly ‘amen’ but it’s impossible to be sure. She goes down on her knees and claps her hands in front of her, blue eyes and swollen lips looking to the sky. Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. She thinks in her head. The hard wood makes her uncomfortable, but she thinks that’s part of what the church is, what religion feels like: uncomfortable, unsettling. She pushes herself harder into it, hoping it leaves a bruise on her knees.

ANYTHING ELSE?

The Wests are a staple of tradition… and boredom. They live in a house by the side of the road with a white picket fence, Mrs. West spends her days at the nail salon catching up on the latest and Mr. West is a generic white middle-aged man who wants to please his ageing house wife. They go to church every sunday and buy everything at the local mall. Julie’s education belonged solely to her mother, who dreamed of her babydoll daughter since she was sixteen. She raised Julie to be feminine: to tidy up the house, to learn how to cook. That last one proved to be one of Julie’s favourite things. She likes to do something from scratch, and the notion that she could put anything in there and no one would know is thrilling. “Oh honey, what is that? Tastes like lemon!”

Mrs. West also paid someone to teach Julie piano lessons. No one in Devil’s Knot knew how to do it so they went to the nearest city every Saturday. Eventually, Julie grew bored of it and, especially, of the teacher, a 20-something year old plump woman who treated her as if she was a child. Of course, the woman couldn’t have known that a mere couple of lessons would be enough for Julie to understand everything she was trying to teach her.

Julie’s performance at school is average. She doesn’t display too much interest in anything, fades into the background with her barely-passing-by grades at the end of the school. It’s not because she doesn’t have the brains: indeed, Julie’s IQ is way above average, bordering on genius, she just doesn’t like to stand out… in any way.

She is the neighbourhood’s resident babysitter ever since she was old enough to take care of herself and someone else. Julie loves children and she will tell you so… and if you ever hear your child crying from the other room while Julie is in there, not to worry… I’m sure she’s taking good care of him.

Her reputation as a responsible and trustworthy teenager is a reputation that means a lot more to her than any level of popularity that she could have longed for at school. Julie is not interested in the social hierarchy of such a meaningless place, laughs behinds the backs of every popular kid and feels a deep satisfaction whenever she remembers how she turned down the direct invitation from the cheerleading squad to join them.

Julie’s family is a very religious one. One of her earliest memories is going to the church, only three or four years old and dressed in pristine white (a ‘tradition’ her mother holds to this day). She never doubted there’s a bigger and stronger presence in the world, bigger than the town and the world but, as she grows older, she’s wondering if that’s Jesus or… someone else. She’s drawn to the old testament God, the ruthless entity who does not forget nor forgive. And, of course, ever since she’s old enough to understand, she’s drawn to… “the other side”. Not that she would ever say anything about it, not that she dared to investigate any further (yet). But there’s no denying the weight she feels in her chest, and how dark it is.

The woods is one of her favourite places in Devil’s Knot. Julie likes to be surrounded by the immensity of it, appreciates how someone can easily get lost and swallowed up by something so beautiful, seemingly harmless. She likes to wander about and there’s a special place by the creek that calms her; she likes to bathe there, feel the ice-cold water against her bare back.

Julie collects things: little things, meaningless things. Dried leaves, old books, dead bugs. She keeps them hidden in a box under the bed. It’s mostly things she finds in the woods… and some things she knows she probably shouldn’t have but the cops never came looking for...

Media inspiration:

Lizzie (2018)

Midsommar (2019)

Gone Girl (2014)

Neon Demon (2016)

Raw (2016)

Killing Eve (tv show)

Sharp Objects (tv show)

#dkaccepted #accepted #julie west

[devilsknotrp]

Congratulations, Maria! You have been accepted for the role of Abel Hawker (FC Change: Jeremy Irons). Woah. I may be biased, but I was blown away by your interpretation of Abel. He’s a human being made up of dichotomies and you found such a beautiful way to write him. His gentle yet terrifyingly stern manner of speaking, his war hero past, everything is perfect. We cannot wait to see what kind of Mayor your Abel will turn out to be! Please have a look at this page prior to sending in your account.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Name: Maria Age: 23 Pronouns: She/her Timezone: GMT Activity estimation: Every other day Triggers: REDACTED

IN CHARACTER

Full name: Abel Byron Hawker Age : 05/08/1923 Gender: Male Pronouns: Him/Her Sexuality: Straighter than the Tennessee Line Occupation: Mayor of Devil’s Knot Connection to Victim: Abel Hawker knows pretty much everyone in Devil’s Knot, whether they realise it or not. The same could be said for the Goode’s. Though he never personally interacted much with Brian, Abel certainly positioned himself at the forefront of the search. After all, a Mayor has to take responsibility for the safety of his citizenry. In Abel’s case, he does so by putting pressure on the police on Ms Goode’s behalf. Not that she asked him to, of course. Alibi: According to Abel and members of the Chapter, he attended his regular meeting after church but left early due to a headache and went home. It was, like many evenings, the usual for the Mayor. Faceclaim: Jeremy Irons

WRITING SAMPLE

The Michigan sun poked through the veranda, the soft, not too warm glow basked Mayor Hawker’s face in its orange hue. A curl of smoke cut through the clear blue skies as it wafted from the end of his thickly rolled cigar. He remained like that, leaning on his rocking chair, its long swinging creeks creating a lulling song that he could and had listened to most of his life.

It was his father’s chair, and his father’s father likely sat on something not too dissimilar. Carved from the wood of one of the many red oaks that lined the property, it represented everything the Hawker’s were about. Longevity, home-grown and standing the test of time. He fingers, rough and coarse from the years, ran over the expertly polished arms, just appreciating the craftsmanship as well as the weather.

As he sat, relaxing and looking out, a little song crept into his mind. It drew a slow forming, gentle smile on his lips, his crisp paper-like skin pulling with it. There was no one around, and that was just how he liked it in long afternoons like this. For a moment, he let his eyes closed, heeled shoe clicking against the hardwood of the patio, drumming the beat for an old ditty.

“I loved a girl in Saginaw, Michigan…” His voice was underlined with a faint croak that matched the eek of his chair, the tune rumbling deep in his chest to produce the consummate voice of an older singer.

An image began to form in his mind as he took another deep intake of his cigar. Him and his boys in the brushy fields of Pyongtaek, the beginning to the Korean war stretching out ahead of them. Benny banged his metal mug against the table with all the enthusiasm of Buddy Rich reborn, and Tony clapped completely offbeat as Abel and Ryan started up a song. It wasn’t this one, but that didn’t matter. He could still see them now, their eyes bright and ready to return home as heroes. It wouldn’t take long, after all, it was just some country folks who had caught up with the Russian’s red curtain, that’s what they thought. “The daughter of a wealthy, wealthy man…”

The image of Benny sprawled across the dirt floated up in Abel’s mind as the song continued. His guts had been a pollock-esque splash of reds and browns, glistening in the summer heat. Next to him, Tony was slumped with a bullet hole in the centre of his head.

“But he called me, that son of a Saginaw fisherman…”

And Ryan? Well, Ryan never quite came back right. They found him drowned in the river just two months before the end.

“And not good enough, to claim his daughter’s hand…”

The front gate creaked down the long garden path that led up to the porch, causing Abel to crack an eye open. He pulled the cigar reluctantly from his lips, licking the spot that it had sat on, its warm presence still a ghost against the skin.

“Now I’m up here in Alaska, looking around for gold…”

He continued, a little louder, letting the words drift towards his new guest. The flash of the Sherrif office’s brown uniform was all he needed to see, continuing to idly rock as if he hadn’t noticed anything at all. Only once the visitor was climbing the porch steps did he deign to speak rather than sing away.

“I was startin’ to wonder if you were gonna turn up, my boy.”

The youth was a rookie; it only took one glance to tell. Blonde hair and greener than the fields, the 20-something kid awkwardly grasped his belt and tried to stand straight, but it was evident with the uncertain flicker of his eyes around the large Hawker estate that it was all for show. Abel thought he recognised him, one of those good for nothing kids that got raised on the poorer side of town. Typical that George Adam would give these economic rejects a chance. “Urm…ur…Mayor Hawker, sorry to bother you sir but-”

“Aye, aye, I’m aware boy, you gotta do your due diligence and get the story of what I was doing that night.”

Abel slowly pulled himself off his chair, with all the speed of a seaswept turtle, which was entirely on purpose, as anyone who knew Hawker knows that the Mayor kept himself in good health. He gave the standard ‘ah’ that an old person was expected to give after completing menial physical tasks as if they had climbed the summit of Everest. With a wave, he gestured the kid officer to follow, pushing open his ornately carved front door and shuffling into the Hawker estate.

Estate was a polite word for it. It was a mansion in pretty much every regard, an ancestral home that would immediately put anyone at unease. There was just a vastness to it that put one on the back foot, as they look up at the ceiling that seemed almost as far as the moon, it’s large traditional beamed structure overlaying a pure white paint job. The walls were a half mix of beaming, polished to a shine, wooden panelling and delicate fleur-de-lis sprouting wallpaper that made it feel akin to a royal’s home.

Confronted by a large hallway that could easily fit three people shoulder to shoulder and a long, winding staircase that enticed one to see what the three upper floors held, the rookie police officer did what anyone would have - he froze.

Abel for his part kept walking a little down the way until he glanced over he shoulder, that grin coming out again. It was the full simper that belonged to a man a few decades his junior, but he wore it now just as he had in his youth, the life in it flashing in his eyes like claps of thunder. It that moment, it was as if he filled the space of the whole house, as grand and extensive as it was. “Come on boy, ain’t time for slack jaws, your boss will have your ass if you take too long.”

The cop shook his head free, quickly stepping after his guide. The house on its part kept an eye on the visitor, the walls lined with sprawling quantities of photos, whose subjects stared out to those passing. It went from old sepia constructs that desperately tried to fight the effects of ageing behind their glass windows to much more recent copies, showing the Mayor, his own children and a plethora of grandchildren.

Eventually, they turned into one of the adjourning rooms, revealing a parlour lounge. Abel didn’t waste a moment, his body immediately cut to the side of the room where a tray sat with a collection of alcohol, whiskey duly placed in a decanter. The rookie didn’t even have a chance to speak before the older man was thrusting a delicate crystal tumbler with the perfect amount of ice and bourbon in it.

“Ah..” The officer blinked after what seemed like an age, finally processing what was being offered and responding to it with a gentle shake of his head.

“I’m flattered sir, but I’m duty I can-”

“Hogwash.” Abel cut in. His voice had a sense of power to it, a thick with husky confidence that was at once both honeyed in Michiganian drawl and intense in its strength. It was almost like being hugged and punched at the exact same moment, it winded you, and you found yourself wondering what exactly happened.

“Ain’t your ma told you that it’s rude to refuse what is offered in a man’s home? It’s just one glass, ain’t no one gonna know.” He pressed the glass into the boy’s chest, and let it go, forcing the poor chap to hold it to avoid it following.

Abel turned around to sit on one of his lounge chairs, the movement hiding the sly smirk that drew across his lips. It always was so easy to play people to a fiddle. More often than not, all it took was a level of firmness, confidence that just begged people to question you and say no. Most people fold because humans, by nature, try to escape conflict. It only took fighters like the Hawker patriarch to know how to only bend to your own will.

“Aren’t you having some as well, sir?”

Perched on his old leather chair, Abel gestured at the boy again, his old veiny fingers beckoning him like a lazy puppeteer. He seemed almost like a relaxed king, his chin lifted in what could be confused for an old man trying to adjust his sight but was, in fact, concealed contempt. “Me? Oh no, I’m going on eighty, son, I gotta pick my battles with the booze. So, whatcha gonna ask me?”

Deputy took a sip of the bourbon likely to try to avoid causing offence and cleared his throat awkwardly before drawing closer to the Mayor. “Well sir, I just need to know your whereabouts and actions on the night of Saturday, 5th October.”

“Boy, if I told you about my whole day, we’re gonna be here till morn, how about you just give me some times to work with eh?”

A blush drew across the officer’s cheek, and he took a longer sip of the bourbon, trying to drown out the embarrassment. It was quite the social awkwardness to waste the Mayor’s time after all. “Ah yes well, any time in the afternoon would be helpful, urm, sir.”

“Well, I spend most of my evenings by the church, meetings and such with the local community. Wasn’t any different that way. I was doing an after prayer meeting at the church like I’ve been doing for longer than you’ve probably been alive.” It didn’t seem like a cutting remark, more just a flag clearly planted. It spoke clearly to the situation 'I’ve been doing this for a very long time. Have respect’.

“Yes, of course, sir, I’m sure the group will also confirm that, ah…um…” The poor newbie was struggling on the whole 'interviewing’ process, he juggled between his glass and getting a notepad from his shirt pocket. In what could only be described as an awkward tangle of limbs, the deputy eventually flicked to a page of notes and setting down his glass, he starts to write.

“Did you do anything after that, sir?”

Abel paused. It was just a minutia of movement, a brief hesitation that was entirely missable. He had to think about what he wanted to say for a moment, which was a rarity. “I got a headache, my age you know, soon as you get a whiff of a cold it hits you hard. So I came home early, and just…relaxed.”

“Of course, understandable, sir.” The youngster gave a nervous smile that likely was trying to be charming, though Abel barely gave it the time of day. Took more like cordial social interactions to actual gain his favour. He was at his heart, the sort of man that appreciated action over the frivolity of words.

“What’s your name, boy?”

The deputy blinked, and stared at Abel as if to ask 'me?’. The Mayor just raised a patient brow, a corner of his lips curled in a half-smile to encourage the boy.

“Urm, D-Deputy Roger Turner…sir.”

“Roger, old sorta name that. Did Sherriff Malvo recruit you?” Abel asked his questions with a gracious smile, but his tone was the kind that a police officer may have wielded ironically. It held a profound sense that answering wasn’t optional.

The deputy just nodded, putting his pad away and blinking away like an epiphytic deer in headlights.

“You know, I went to school with the Sherriff. I was older, but I knew him well enough. Still know him.”

Still completely lost on where this is going, the officer just bobbed his head along like a toy being shaken. His eyes were wide-eyed as if the prospect that his boss could know the Mayor well was surprising, even though anyone with even a modicum of a brain would expect it.

“I know, that if he knew one of his deputies, sent here to question me formally in the capacity of his office, decided to stand around and sip my bourbon, he’d fire them quicker than you could say missing kid.” It was said with the clinical cut of a surgeon. A master of the board calling out his checkmate, though Abel had to admit when it came to dimwits like Rogers, it so easy as to be boring.

The penny dropped. No, in fact, it tumbled down with the force of a loosen boulder, and just like that the naive youngster realised the brevity of his mistake. The only thing deputy could offer was a bumbling mess of words. “I well, you, um, I don’t…what?”

“It’s alright, my boy, I ain’t that cruel. I think we can come to an arrangement, make sure you can keep doing your good work. Take a seat.” To say Roger took the seat was being charitable, it was closer to collapse, the heavy browned leather of seat wrapping around him and making him seem like the 'boy’ that Abel had been calling him from the start. He just mutedly nodded, putting himself in the Mayor’s mercy.

The grin came back as Abel sat forward, a cat who had spotted its next meal. His eyes narrowed in conspiratorial slits a that broad smile of a kindly old man could now be seen to be what it actually had been, the deadly visage of a man who was unforgiving in exploiting your weaknesses. A game hunter in sight of prey.

“Now, why don’t you tell me all the hard work ya’ll have been doing. Don’t leave anything out.”

ANYTHING ELSE?

> Abel Hawker is a man of the draft. Not only did he serve in the Second World War upon turning 19 in 1943, but he then went on to make a second draft into the Korean war in his twenties. He’s a man who has killed and be trained to kill, causing violence to be no stranger to him. However, being a soldier has its price. There’s a simmering rage in Abel that’s hidden beneath his advanced age and small-town manners. It takes a lot to unsettle a man whose been in such brutal wars, but if you do, expect to find a hurricane of force that would rival many of Michigan’s infamous tornados.

> The Mayor was a loyal husband while he still had a wife, and can be quite the caring partner back in the days when he bothered with relationships. A sense of loyalty runs deep in him, and it spreads to his family. While he could never truly understand the interracial and liberal relationships that his children took on, he never removed his support (though he did spare a comment or two of opinion on it), because to him, family sticks together, always.

> No one is entirely sure of the source of the Hawker family wealth. It seems to be an accepted part of Devil’s Knot. The sun rises, the snow falls, and the Hawker family are wealthy. Only Abel and his father before him genuinely knows how the fortune was built and continues to be maintained. Make no mistake, the Mayor does not just sit on his inheritance, he grows it, to pass on to his son and his grandchildren. A tree after all, without the right care, only withers.

> The day of Brian Goode’s disappearance, Abel did indeed attend his usual Chapter meeting, he did also leave early. However, the bit he fails to often mention is that he had visitors to his house that evening when his grandson was seemingly long asleep. Man in dark coats and suitcases, who spent quite a few hours speaking to the Mayor about matters not uttered very openly.

> Mayor Hawker is quite the singer. Back in his day, in fact, Abel was part of a travelling band for a few years after the Korean war. It was just a hobby of boys trying to find work (Abel’s father was notoriously frugal), but should someone look hard enough, they may see old photos around Devils Knot of the band’s past shows. Still now, one can often catch him singing an old tune or listening to a recording on his record player. He surprisingly keeps up with more modern music too, but you’d never catch him admitting it. Perhaps in another life, he could have tried at it for real.

#dkaccepted #accepted #abel hawker

[devilsknotrp]

Congratulations, Jenn! You have been accepted for the role of Wendy Taylor (FC: Mary Louise Parker). Wow. What can we even say? You have brought Wendy a depth that we truly had not even envisaged. There were glimpses in her biography, but you have enhanced them and exampled how complex and nuanced she really is. The fact that she is a closeted lesbian makes a lot of sense, and I think exploring the notion of compulsive heterosexuality and her late relationship with Charlie will be a fantastic writing challenge - one we have no doubt you’ll pull off with aplomb. Your headcanons are extensive and beautifully written. This is a truly fantastic application. Thank you for writing her! Please have a look at this page prior to sending in your account.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Name: Jenn Age: 27 Pronouns: She/her Timezone: EST Activity estimation: I have a full-time job, but I can be around on weeknights and through the weekend! I can confidently approximate my activity at a few replies per week. Triggers: REDACTED

IN CHARACTER

Full name: Wendy Marie Taylor Age (DD/MM/YYY): Fifty years old (09 October 1946) – Libra sun, Cancer moon Gender: Cis female Pronouns: She/her Sexuality: Lesbian, though she will assert she is Straight Occupation: Regional Manager, Great Lakes Cup Company Connection to Victim: Linda Goode is one of the moms. Even if her own daughter has been grown for a decade plus, Wendy feels connected to the other mothers in Devil’s Knot because motherhood is so important to her. When Linda first moved into town, Wendy was drawn to her bright-eyed enthusiasm. They talk after church about their children, and Wendy gives some gentle advice when she can. They’re friendly, if not friends. Linda’s optimism in the face of a mother’s worst nightmare has only bolstered Wendy’s desire to know her better. She remembers what Sandy was like when Pete disappeared. Linda’s going to need all the help she can get. Alibi: Wendy spent the morning at home, going through her closets for things she could sell at her upcoming yard sale. One of the skirts she’d set aside – an old favorite – had a broken zipper, so she brought it to Aisha around 1pm to see if her sister-in-law could mend it. She got so wrapped up in playing with her nephew and talking to her family that she stayed for dinner, and didn’t come home until 7:30pm, at which point she ran a bath, read a few chapters of her book club book, and fell asleep. Faceclaim: I was approved for Mary Louise Parker! :) Other alternate faceclaim ideas (not proposed to y’all) are Winona Ryder and Marisa Tomei.

WRITING SAMPLE

The waiting really wasn’t so bad. At 11:15, the pie went in; by 11:30, the whole downstairs smelled like peaches and cinnamon, even all the way back in the laundry room where the dryer-sheet scent never left. This was what Heaven smelled like, to her. This was her Heaven, right here in Formica and linoleum. She closed her eyes to take it in. Sense is everything. That’s what Pastor Jeff had told her, last time they spoke one-on-one. She’d been struggling to stay grounded, with all the background noise starting up again: another missing boy, another swing to the slumbering hornets’ nest. She could feel the buzzing in her sleep, she said. Thank God for God. He made the world for us, Pastor Jeff told her, and we take it for granted. There are little blessings everywhere. All we have to do is open to receive.

Wendy pressed her shoulders against the back of the chair, imagining a coat hanger strung through her spine and then straightened just so. The birds were quietly tittering in the trees outside. The sky, she imagined, was blue. She wanted to believe that it was.

Her egg timer ticked. She could hear it better with her eyes closed. Sometimes she thought the insides of her eyelids looked like one of those abstract paintings that’re just colors and drips, chaos on a canvas. Like the blood splatter patterns. The photos Charlie pored over. You weren’t supposed to see that, he always said – but what did he know about supposed to? What did he know about her? He had heavy hands and a weak heart, and he–well, he–

Fuck him, she thought.

She opened her eyes. Some words taste sour on your tongue and some don’t taste like anything at all. By the refrigerator, Buddy flattened out on the floor, his head resting on his paws – Wendy hadn’t even noticed him come in. She reached for him with fingers caked in flour and dough. “C’mere, Bud,” she said, softly. “C’mon.” It took him a few seconds to stand; for those couple of breaths, she was sure he’d heard her curse. Then he was walking over, and exhaling, and nudging against her to make room for himself at her feet. “Hey, baby. How you doin’, huh?” She rubbed her hand through the fur at the top of his scalp. He didn’t react. “Oh, you’re mad at me now, ‘s that it?” Buddy was as much Charlie’s as he was hers or Jenny’s, but that’s what happens when you leave: you don’t get to claim ownership anymore.

Wendy let her breath come out her nose in one long stream. She used the heel of her palm to brush loose hair off her forehead; her hands were a mess. “Fine,” she said. She stood. She had Jenny’s number memorized by now, but she still grabbed her contact notebook and double-checked as she dialed. The answering machine picked it up. “Hey, honey, it’s Mom. I’m gonna be taking a pie over to the Goodes in an hour or so. I’d love some company.” She glanced at the hanging clock. 11:50. ”No pressure,” she added. “Just call me back before 1.” Wendy tightened her grip on the phone, readying herself to hang up – but her hand didn’t move. Her sigh went right into the mouthpiece, loud and clear. “And–maybe… if you haven’t yet, maybe call your dad, too. Just to–just to make sure he’s okay.” Okay. “Okay. I love you. Talk soon.” There were still 20 minutes left in the oven. They couldn’t pass quickly enough.

ANYTHING ELSE?

Here is my Pinterest board for Wendy! 

Wendy is a lesbian. Used to be. Wendy used to be a lesbian – and God, even the word is ugly, isn’t it? Lesbian, like the name of another species, something grey-skinned and hairless crawling out of a crater. She outgrew it when she grew up. There were thoughts, and dreams, and wishes and whims, and when she was younger there were girls her age who stopped her breathing just by touching her – but that was frivolity, that’s all. She can be so frivolous sometimes. If it weren’t for her Daddy’s looking out for her, she might’ve lit her life on fire years ago just ‘cause she liked to watch the sparks.

No one’s ever hurt her worse than Charlie Taylor did. Would you believe she really loved that son of a bitch? Being a housewife felt about as natural as waxing her leg hair off, but she did it for him – and, like waxing, it hurt less over time. Sweet, serious Charlie. He’d been impressive to her long before the Sheriff’s badge: just a kid at 20 when they’d first met, and even then there’d been something steady about him. Something safe. And as they got older, they got older together, and they got married together, and they had their daughter together. It didn’t matter who they were in the dark, because they were a family together, a whole of sums, a house united. That’s what kept Wendy from leaving, all those years ago, back when she could’ve left him. They had made something together. Even when things were bad, they were still warm like a burnt-up dinner, bitter but still hearty all the same. She couldn’t spit in the face of a home-cooked home. Guess Charlie wasn’t burdened with the same sense of sacrifice, though, ‘cause he gave it all up to be himself. As if she hadn’t bit her tongue for him. As if she hadn’t swallowed blood.

When she was younger, Wendy’s lifelong dream was to climb the tallest tree in Devil’s Knot. Up by the river, where Ely Street met North State and the water folded over the rocks underneath – right there, that one, the one that stretched bare and empty on top like it was just made for a Christmas tree angel to sit. It didn’t matter that there were taller trees by the Campgrounds; she claimed that one back in elementary school, pointing and shielding her face from the sun. She practiced on the trees in her front yard. Her legs still show the scars where sharp bark and misplaced foot-holds left their marks. Wendy’s mom used to patch her up quietly in the bathroom after she fell off, be it bike or branch, and now when she tries to remember her mother, she thinks of how they’d wince together when the iodine hit her skin. Her mother, watching Wendy’s face and sucking in her own breath through her teeth like she could feel it, too. Like it hurt her to hurt her, no matter how small the pain.

It was never her lifelong dream to work for Great Lakes Cups, that’s for sure – but she really does like it well enough. She’s the franchise’s first female regional manager in Michigan, if you’ll believe that. Her! Wendy Taylor! Sometimes, when she’s feeling particularly scatter-brained and stupid, she’ll remind herself to look at the little name-plate they put on the wall outside her door. If she can run a whole office of a consumer products manufacturing company, then she can do just about anything. And if there’s anything she can’t do – well, she’s got her Daddy to help guide her halfway to home. No one was happier for her than him when she got the promotion. Not even Charlie, who by then was already her ex on barely-speaking terms, divorce papers pending. Her Daddy has been her biggest supporter, coach, and strategist for longer than she cares to remember. She can see that now. No matter how many times she doubts him, it’s only the toughest love that gets people to change. She wouldn’t be who she is without his. 

Wendy always knew she wanted kids. Charlie wanted them too, and when they had Jenny, everything changed all at once. It was like another version of herself had been growing in her, too, right there in the womb next to her daughter. She gave birth to both of them. She saw it. She knows it’s crazy, but she saw it – and it wasn’t a hallucination, either. Pastor Jeff’s on her side. He says that the Creator has His ways of showing people what plans He has in store. After years of fighting and flailing and keeping God out of her heart, Wendy is finally ready to listen.

#dkaccepted #accepted #new rp #original rp #dark rp #wendy taylor

[devilsknotrp]

Congratulations, Asher! You have been accepted for the role of Brian Goode (FC: Jack Mulhern). I honestly smiled through tears while reading your application. The tender relationship between David and Brian, David’s secret playlists, all of it combines to make such a beautiful representation of one of our favorite characters.  Please have a look at this page prior to sending in your account.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Name: Asher Age: 23 Pronouns: They/Them Timezone: EST Activity estimation: Every other day or so. I work full time and am going to be taking classes starting next month. Triggers: REDACTED

IN CHARACTER

Full name: David Goode Age: 14/06/1977 Gender: Cis-Male Pronouns: He/Him Sexuality: Homosexual Occupation: High School Senior (Quarterback) Connection to Victim: A member of the Goode family, David is Brian’s older brother. Alibi: On a long run, training for an upcoming game. Faceclaim: Jack Mulhern

WRITING SAMPLE

“What’s that one?” 

David looked up and followed Brian’s hand as it pointed up at the sky. Following the blond’s finger, David saw the familiar bright stars and laughed. “Oh come on dude, you know this one, you gotta.” Turning his head, David looked over at his younger brother, trying not to laugh as Brian’s face scrunched up in an attempt to remember. “It’s Orion…” the younger boy responded slowly, as if something bad were to happen if the answer was wrong.

“Well yeah, you knew that already though. What do you remember about him?” David asked, gently poking Brian’s cheek as he spoke. The kid was on a roll tonight. Either he was forgetting all the stars he once knew by heart, or he was pulling David’s leg. “He’s a hunter. A big hunter. And he’s like Jesus!” Brian exclaimed, swatting David’s hand and squirming farther away on the blanket. 

“Like Jesus? Whadda ya mean?” David laughed again, poking at his brother once more before lying back down and looking up at the stars again. “He walks on water.” Brian responded, in a tone that seemed to say ‘duh’. Holding back another laugh, David nodded, eyes scanning the stars for familiar constellations. Before he could find one though, Brian spoke again, pointing at another set of stars. “What about Gemini?” he asked, eliciting a groan from his older brother. The kid definitely knew how to get a reaction out of him but he knew how to as well. Turning onto his side, to face his brother, David grinned before beginning to tickle the young boy.

The two of them had spent countless hours sitting on the lawn, staring up at the sky. Stargazing nights had practically become a tradition for the Goode brothers after they’d moved to Devil’s Knot. Back in Rosemount there had been too much light pollution to see the stars but Devil’s Knot was different. It was small. It was suburbia. A perfect place to pause and look up at the stars.

After almost a year of looking up though, David had never been able to understand how Brian did what he did. The kid wasn’t even ten yet and could point out more constellations than most adults. He’d just look up at the stars and be able to see them, as if the lines that connected them in all the books were up in the sky as well.

David had never been able to do that. He could appreciate how beautiful the scene was but would never be able to interpret it in the way Brian could. 

Which was why now, almost a week after Brian had disappeared off the front lawn, off of their stargazing spot, David looked up at the stars and felt lost. Without his younger brother, it was all just a mess of lights in the sky. There were no stories to tell, no long gone Greek gods, just balls of gas burning lightyears away. 

For the first time since he’d come home to find Brian missing, David felt lost. The past week had been a whirlwind of search parties and police interviews and the brunet had hardly found time to breathe, let alone stop and think about what it all meant. Now though, it was hitting him like a tonne of bricks. It meant that Brian was gone. 

Mom believed that there was still hope; that Brian would come back one day, but David wasn’t so sure. He heard what people said, listened to them as they spoke, in hushed tones, about the Silverman family, about how similar the two cases were. He knew that the police were checking bodies of water, the woods, all the dark places where a body could be disposed of. 

Because they were looking for Brian’s body, not for Brian himself. 

Feeling tears start to form in his eyes, David blinked, his father’s words playing in his head. Man up. Paul had always said. David used to hate it when he said that but now he didn’t. Mom was a mess, the house was in even more disarray than usual, and Brian was gone. For once, David agreed with his father. He had to man up. He had to take responsibility, help his mom, find Brian. The only question was how.

ANYTHING ELSE?

Moved to Devil’s Knot from Rosemount, Minnesota (Twin Cities area) almost two years ago (January-ish)

Enjoys nature and flowers and plants but has pushed that part of himself deep down because he’s been told, constantly, that he needs to man up

Loves his siblings more than anything. He’s drifted away from them, Beth in particular, but would do anything for them

Despite the fact that he knows that it was the right thing for his mom to do, the divorce hit him really hard. He knew that his dad was abusive but still clung to the facade of normalcy that he had when his parents were together

Deep in the closet. Practically in Narnia. He’s thought about coming out, about not playing it safe, but the thought of having to have that conversation, of having to be something other than good scares him.

When Brian first showed interest in piano, Paul Goode had ridiculed his son. Had told him to “man up” and to stop being a f*g. Tired of Paul pushing them around, and regretting not doing so for himself, David stood up for his younger brother.

He encouraged Brian’s piano playing as often as he could.

The two would sometimes star gaze together. Brian knew all the constellations and David knew the stories behind them.

The day Brian had gone missing, David said that he had gone for a long run. He was quarterback after all and people expected him to be in the best shape he could be. While he had been on a run, that hadn’t been the only thing he’d been doing. In between running, he’d ducked into the woods to explore and get high. He feels guilty now that he’d been dicking around in the forest when his brother was in trouble.

Sometimes misses his old town. It was bigger than Devil’s Knot and he could be more anonymous there. Here, he feels suffocated by the fact that everyone knows everyone.

Loves music. Has a lot of cassette tapes.

Wishes he could be 90s grunge but is probably, actually, 80s pop.

Spotify Playlists:

David Goode’s Playlist https://open.spotify.com/playlist/39RrcVa1DLMfveulGoiyxB?si=D0SKWKhURpSsQJE5A4Pk_g

David Goode’s Secret Playlist https://open.spotify.com/playlist/11aPIjTspummXavYCcBz3L?si=29Y_aSuCQqWfPN6TwFG0IQ

#dkaccepted #accepted #david goode

[devilsknotrp]

Congratulations, M! You have been accepted for the role of Sandy Silverman (FC:Nicole Kidman). As Mandy’s player, I was understandably anxious to find a player who could articulate the muddy depths of Sandy Silverman... I shouldn’t have even worried. Your application is absolutely incredible. Your writing sample alone made us both so excited, because something as simple as ringing the hotline for Brian is loaded with meaning and intent. We have to spotlight your headcanons. Fleshing out her backstory allowed us to see how much has happened to Sandy. The glimpses of Phillip (putting out a cigarette in his food: oh, God) were painful reminders of how complex domestic power structures can be. You have given Sandy such life. It will be truly wonderful to see her develop in game. Please have a look at this page prior to sending in your account.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Name: M Age: 24 Pronouns: She/her Timezone: GMT-5 Activity estimation: I have a full time job and other commitments but I’ll try to reply a couple times a week! Triggers: REDACTED

IN CHARACTER

Full name: Sandra Kathleen Silverman, née Moore Age (DD/MM/YYYY): Fifty five (08/04/41) – Leo Gender: Cisgender woman Pronouns: She/her Sexuality: Lesbian (closeted, even to herself) Occupation: Real Estate Agent, Great Lake Homes Connection to Victim: Sandy sold Linda the home in which the Goode family currently resides. She also sees Linda from time to time at PTA meetings – when Sandy manages to show up, that is – since they both have children in high school. And since Brian’s disappearance bears a resemblance to Pete’s disappearance years ago, Sandy feels an unusual connection with Linda. Alibi: Sandy reluctantly took Pete shopping in the morning, and dropped him off at home afterwards. She headed to the office to grab a few papers for a client and spent the afternoon preparing a house for its viewing scheduled for the following day. Faceclaim: Nicole Kidman

WRITING SAMPLE

The line rang three times before someone picked up. “You’ve reached the Brian Goode tip-line,” a man said, voice crackling through the phone line like crumpled paper. The voice was monotone. Sandy had clearly not been the first person to call this morning. She hitched her shoulder up, using the bony part at the top to press the receiver against her ear so she could take a sip from her coffee mug. A Michigan Nip, of course. 

“Hi, good morning, I’ve been meaning to call you,” she said. One week had passed and Brian Goode was still a ghost. 

Sandy’s eyes were focused on the phone keypad. If she looked hard enough, she’d swear that some of the numbers had been worn down just a bit more than the rest. All those calls, back and forth, twelve years ago. She practically had the department’s number memorized at this point. “It’s just terrible, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but we’re doing the best we can right now, ma’am,” the man said, and Sandy couldn’t contain the snort of laughter that came flying out. She was standing in very spot where she’d learned that her son was alive, and that her husband was dead. She’d never felt that the Devil’s Knot Police Department had done their best at just about anything. “Do you have any information to report?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, certainly. I was just calling to ask about the case, though. Do you have any leads yet?” Sandy asked the question matter-of-factly, and took another sip. After how long it had taken Charlie Taylor to botch everything last time, she figured the department owed her some goddamned information. 

There was a pause. “Ma’am, this is a tip line,” he said. The pitch of his voice rose at the end like he wasn’t sure if he should be asking or telling.

“I know,” Sandy said. “I thought the main line would be busy, and maybe I could get some information from you instead.” She heard shuffling behind her and turned over her shoulder to make eye contact with her son. “Just tell the Sheriff that it’s Sandy, he’ll understand,” she said, eyebrows raised, and shooed Peter away with a quick wave of her hand. The last thing she needed was for him to get re-traumatized, or whatever Dr. Shah had called it. She’d written some psychology buzzwords down a few years ago in case Sandy ever wanted to go to the public library and check a book out. In all likelihood, the piece of paper had gone through the wash in one of her pants pockets and disappeared entirely. 

There was another pause. Longer this time. He gave a sigh that crackled in her ear. “Mrs. Silverman, I – “

“Officer, come on,” Sandy interrupted, “Don’t you know what happened to my family?” Of course he did. Everyone did. 

“Yes, and I’m very sorry, but it’s ongoing investigation. If you have any information that you think could be helpful, please let us know.”

Twelve years later and apparently the department hadn’t gotten any better since Charlie Taylor resigned in disgrace. Sandy tipped the mug back and took a large gulp. The splash of whisky burned in her throat. “Let’s just hope you’re doing a better job this time around.” She looked down at her empty mug. The spiral cord trailed behind her as she took a few steps toward the counter to put it in the sink. “It didn’t take you a week to find my son in ’84. Do your fucking job. Good day,” Sandy said, and hung up.

ANYTHING ELSE?

Here is my Pinterest board for Sandy! 

Sandy grew up in a very traditional family. Her father was a physician, her mother a homemaker. She watched from a young age how the men in her life took up space; how they showed cruelty in the way they spoke loudly, making rules that only they were allowed to break. Irene, Sandy’s mother, taught her how to make herself pretty and small, so boys would like her. Her older brother was the pride of the family; all chiseled jaw and boyish charm, just handsome enough to get away with anything. The pedestal he lived on was so high she could barely see the bottom of it. She was just a girl, raised in chains, her parent’s Little Darling, unobtrusive and accommodating. Never enough, because she was never allowed to be. This disconnect deepened as she grew older – but if her parents wanted her to be a young lady, Sandy would be the best young lady in all of Indiana. She’d perform perfectly.

She was always good at getting people to like her. In high school, all it took was becoming cheer captain and giving out blowjobs after school in the parking lot. She was a good girl. Sloppy Sandy, they called her. It didn’t matter. They all cheered when she became prom queen, anyway. She went on to study sculpture at Moore College of Art and Design, and told the other girls that her family had been the one to give the school its name. Just to see their faces light up. Sculpting gave her permission, for once in her life, to stick her hands in the mud. When her mother referred to sculpture as a fine hobby, Sandy knew it was code for a pit stop on your way to marriage.

Phillip and Sandy met on a blind date. Irene introduced the idea during one of their mother-daughter dates at the beauty parlor. She waited until Sandy’s fingers were in the manicurist’s hands to inform her that Phillip Silverman would be picking her up that evening. Seven o’clock, sharp. Good genes, she said. Handsome. His mother had been crowned Miss Indiana in ‘22, after all. Irene had just been runner-up. Sandy agreed, of course, because she had to.

The following year, they were married. Phillip was a kind man, and everyone loved him, so Sandy did too. The word wife felt funny in her mouth when she said it out loud, so she put on an apron and shopped at Macy’s and picked up pilates. If she shaped herself into Woman incarnate, it made it all better, somehow. When she gave birth at twenty-five, the post-partum depression swallowed her whole. It left the dishes unwashed, diapers unchanged, and to-do list unchecked. She spent more time in bed than her infant daughter did. Phillip learned to bring the baby to their bedroom to breastfeed. More often than not, when she cradled their daughter in her arms, Sandy would start to cry. Bad mother, bad bad bad, she thought. Phillip seemed to think so too. It didn’t take long for the GP to write her a prescription for Valium. It helped. She started drinking more, and that helped too.

As Amanda grew, Sandy drank. Post post-partum depression, maybe. She didn’t have an excuse then; she just gave up. Sandy tried to fashion her daughter into a reflection of herself – dressing her in pink, putting her in cheerleading, teaching her to smile – but the connection felt irreparable. Thankfully, Phillip took over the bulk of the parental duties. He never let her forget it. At least the resentment was mutual; at family dinner, Sandy put her cigarettes out in Phillip’s food to let him know he’d eaten enough. No one was going to be fat in her family. Another child was out of the question, but sometimes, when Sandy was drunk, she forgot to take her birth control. The post-partum depression knocked her on her feet so badly the second time around that she got her tubes tied. After the procedure, she drove down to the beauty parlor for a manicure.

Sandy remembers very little of the two days her husband and son were missing. The panic was paralyzing. She was drunk when she got the call that Peter had been found; she drove to the hospital and took out two bushes in the parking lot with Mandy in the passenger seat. Her boy was alive! Later, when they found Phillip, grief was quickly washed out by rage. Why had he done this to them – to her? Everyone who’d called her the bad parent could kiss her well-toned ass. And they did. For a while, at least, when the frenzy was still about the poor Silverman family. A small part of her liked the attention. Finally, someone in Devil’s Knot gave a shit about Sandy Silverman when she was sober.

The rumors were relentless. Soon enough, the town was going to swallow itself whole. One morning, their dog Bonnie turned up dead in the front yard, blood pooling on the overgrown grass. Sandy got in the car in her silk pajamas, went down to the police department, and told Charlie Taylor just how badly he was fucking the whole thing sideways. Three months was too long. When they finally arrested Max Acosta, Sandy didn’t even care if he was guilty. She was tired. They asked her to corroborate the argument between Max and Phillip. She remembered the incident in a half-hazy way, but it must’ve been Fourth of July because she’d been drinking watermelon punch. Phillip must’ve started the argument, the bonehead. I have a sense about these things, trust me.

After the trial, she set Peter up with a psychologist because God knows she wasn’t equipped to deal with that. The children still felt far away, somewhere inaccessible to her, even after all that happened. Sandy tried joining the PTA, but that required sobriety on a Wednesday night, which meant her attendance was sparse. She got a real job, finally. Sandy Silverman, Real Estate Agent, Great Lake Homes. With a card and everything. Being a salesman is like being a woman: a test of how much you can endure. All the happy wives and mothers must be lying to themselves too, right? It’s just contest to see who can keep the smile pasted on her face the longest. Well, Sandy Silverman’s a professional, and she’s good at that too. She’s the best at it. And she’ll show you!

#dkaccepted #accepted #sandy silverman #literate rp #original rp

[devilsknotrp]

Congratulations, Ruby! You have been accepted for the role of Connie Romano (FC: Natasha Liu Bordizzo). My God, you understand Connie perfectly. Everything, from your writing sample to your headcanons, fundamentally demonstrated how much thought you’d put into her and how she will relate to the other characters in play. I think you emphasised her softness - and though it would have been too easy to make her too gentle, you struck just the right balance between her sensitivity for others and her quiet resolve. Connie might be uncertain, but she’s not always a pushover. You also dealt with the theme of peer pressure really well. We’d love to see her continue to struggle with that as the group develops, especially because, at some point, she will have to make a choice... Altogether a wonderful application. Please have a look at this page prior to sending in your account.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Name: Ruby Age: 19 Pronouns: She/her Timezone: NZST Activity estimation: I’m enrolled full-time in university so my workload fluctuates week-to-week. I don’t like to really estimate activity because I can’t make promises that it will always remain the same. But I do strive to be active to some extent at least once a day. Triggers: [Redacted]

IN CHARACTER

Name: Connie Denise Romano constancy  // devoted to Bacchus // from Rome Age (DD/MM/YYY): 20th of July 1978. CANCER sun, AQUARIUS moon, SCORPIO rising, VIRGO venus. Gender: Cis female Pronouns: She/her Sexuality: Bisexual. Connie has uncomplicated feelings about her sexuality. It has always just been something that has existed within her, devoid of complication, unlike much else of her psyche; she is constantly plagued by complicated feelings about everything else. But she has always known she’s had crushes on girls and on boys. It’s not something she’s ever come out and said to anyone, but she thinks she’d be at peace with it if it came out, or if she dated a girl. It doesn’t seem like a secret that needs to be hidden, but she hides it anyway. She hides a lot of things.

Occupation: High School Senior; aspiring NYU theatre applicant – eventually she wants to be a theatre actress, possibly film but she has no real overwhelming desire for the need to be seen like that. She definitely wants to venture into filmmaking and screenwriting; she has hoards over unfinished manuscripts stuffed in her drawers, most are roles she writes for herself.

Connection to Victim: Brian Goode had always been a bright kid. Connie remembers him in snippets: riding his bike down the street, or down at the arcade, or talking with David. That’s the real thread of connection she has to Brian. David. Connie has always liked David. He’s always kind and she sits next to him in a few of the classes they share together. She had only seen him as a sort-of-maybe friend until he asked her out. Taken by surprise, she had awkwardly turned him down, fumbling her way through an excuse. Connie had still felt too new then, too hurt by everything that had gone down, and David was sweet; she wasn’t ready for sweet. But then it was like he was everywhere, and now she can’t help but look for him in every crowd, or think about what he might say about something. It’s only a small crush, but it makes her feel young and alive and a little shy. Now she feels like they share something. There are moments since Brian’s disappeared that she’s thought about telling David she understands, but that would mean opening up about the gruesome crime, and that’s the secret she holds closest to her chest. Instead, she bakes cookies for his family and has spent time trying to be there for him. As a friend. But she can’t shake the feeling that Brian’s disappearance is connected to her own family’s murder. She’s terrified of what it all means, and she’s determined to help discover what really happened.

Alibi: What were they doing the afternoon Brian Goode disappeared?

Connie had been in the theatre room when Brian Goode disappeared.

“What were you doing?”

“I was practicing my monologue. Wuthering Heights, by Emily Bronte.”

Pause. “It’s Catherine’s bit. You know, I wouldn’t be you for a kingdom!”

“Was anyone else there?”

“It was just me.”

“And what time did you arrive? Did anybody see you? When did you leave? Can anyone confirm that you were there?”

“I must have gotten there at around 2? I’m not sure, sorry. I think I got home around 8? My brother saw me. Em. He was there when I got home. I don’t know if anyone else saw me,” Connie shrugs, “maybe a teacher? I’m sure someone would have been working.”

Connie had been on a bus back from Sioux Falls. Two days earlier she had lied to Emilio and told him she was going to be staying at a friend’s house, throwing out Kelly Shah’s name. Then she hopped on a bus and headed back to her hometown. In the mail she had received a curious post-card, a simple I’m so sorry, baby in sloppy handwriting she could only guess was her mothers. Her bones trembling she had made the snap decision to go back to Sioux Falls. It had her grandma’s old address scribbled as the return address. Her mom must want her to come home. And Connie needed answers, security, her mom.

But Sioux Falls didn’t provide any answers; just dead-ends. Her mom wasn’t there and all that lingered was an air of misery. She walked around the block she grew up and bought a milkshake from Bugsy’s and cried behind her school’s old shed. It felt like a million years ago that she had lived there. And it felt like just yesterday her parents had been brutally slaughtered.

She had gotten on the first bus back to Devil’s Knot after that. She was never going to know what had happened to her parents. She was never going to know where her mom went. She was never going to fully belong to this world. But she could go home and laugh until her stomach hurt with Em.

Her bus had pulled up in Devil’s Knot at around 6PM. When had Brian gone missing again? Connie hadn’t gone home straight away. She got off the bus and headed out to “The Clearing” – she had been to countless parties there, fooled around with boys she wasn’t interested in, spent hours practicing her scripts. The creepiness that lived there felt safe to her, somehow. It felt like a loose connection to her own trauma. She couldn’t visit the site her parents had been murdered at, but she could find solace in the space another gruesome crime had taken place. She was a little entranced by the mystery of the case, wanting desperately to be able to bury herself in the facts and knowledge of the Silverman legend since she couldn’t know the details of her own.

Connie didn’t spend long there. She sat on one of the couches and cried until she felt okay enough to clip on her happy, cheerful, popular girl façade and she went home. All the lights were off by the time she returned to their little suburban home. Em tried. But sometimes Connie just wanted to scream out at the absurdity of trying to build a life while they ignored their past. He wasn’t home. He didn’t see her coming in. But it didn’t matter, he’d protect her.

Connie doesn’t know why she lies but she can’t take it back once it’s out of her mouth. Maybe it’s to protect her mom, or maybe it’s to protect her past, or maybe it is to protect herself. Wouldn’t people see her differently if they knew the truth of where she had come from? Couldn’t they suspect her? She knew how mass hysteria worked. She was an intelligent girl.

Faceclaim: Natasha Liu Bordizzo

WRITING SAMPLE

Connie’s got her legs splayed out on the floor of the drama room. Her knee jutted out at an awkward angle, her thigh starting to cramp. Fingers raking through sheets upon sheets of discarded scripts. All the words are blurring together. Either she can’t concentrate or she’s started to cry. Connie feels so detached from her body that she couldn’t tell you which one it is.

It makes her feel a little sick, being squashed up in this room. It used to be her sanctuary. If Devil’s Knot was starting to overwhelm her, the past sneaking up in her mind, her friends starting to drive her stir-crazy – she could always escape here. An easy lie tossed over her shoulder, ‘You know I have to practice!’ and then she’d indulge herself in reading scripts, curled up in the disgusting bacteria-ridden green couch in the corner. The room was nearly always empty, save for a few other theatre kids who’d come and go from time-to-time. But Connie had started to learn the hours in which they came and went, always aiming to be there by herself. From 11am to 1PM was usually a safe bet if she wanted some time for herself.

But now she’s sitting on the cold floor and her stomach is doing somersaults. She’s almost certain she’s going to be sick soon. Her breakfast making its way back up. She can’t stop thinking about Brian. That cute little kid just gone. His name on the tip of everyone’s tongues, the stifling silence around his disappearance, the haunted clutch-hold his presence has had on this town. Connie knows all the rumours about the past tragedies, she had studied up on the Silverman case as best as she could before arriving, and then the gaps had been filled in by eager classmates ready to divulge all the sick, twisted mysteries Devil’s Knot had to cough up.

She sees her Dad’s mangled body. Her stepmom’s headstone. Her mom’s own vanishing from her life. Connie knows all about tragedies and mysteries and satanic ritual cult bullshit. Part of her feels like a bad luck magnet. She’s been reading the same line on the script Mrs Rubens had written for her for half-an-hour. Fed up, she crumples it up in her hand and throws it across the room. Some days she wishes it was acceptable to screech until her lungs hurt. Connie has this sudden overwhelming desire to douse herself in gasoline and sink under water. To throw her body across the room and see how it lands. But instead she presses her lips together and lifts her body up off of the ground. Does a quick stretch to release the tension building in her muscles and fetches the screwed up piece of paper from across the other side of the room.

She just hopes Brian isn’t suffering. She wonders if it would be better if he was found dead or alive. Is he being tortured? She’s read all the books on satanic cults. She’s not sure if she believes in any of what they say – the sex orgies and torture and animal sacrifices. It was all started from puritanical religious ideologies. But part of her does wonder. She wasn’t allowed to see the case files from her parents murder but she knows it was something satanic. Connie shakes her head in an effort to rid her head of the thoughts, threading her fingers through her hair and brushing out any knots that have gathered. Shut up, brain! She wants to yell. It’s always going too fast for her liking. Her brain is still stuck on Brian as she goes to twist open the door to leave. He was such a sweet kid, and even if he wasn’t, no-one deserves to go missing. It’s horrific.

She checks the time on one of the clocks hanging up on the wall before she leaves. If she hurries she might catch some of her crowd still at Patsy’s Diner. She doubts she could keep any food down, but they’re all expecting her. Connie doesn’t know if she can handle having to talk about the case like it’s an enthralling gossip fest tonight, sometimes she wonders if her friends have any hearts at all or if they’re all made of ice. But she plasters on a bright mega-watt, charming smile and works herself into a happy state of mind.

It’s easy to pretend. But she wonders how long she has left until she falls apart at the seams she’s meticulously stitched herself together with. It’s starting to feel like any minute this wild wolf within her will be unleashed. The days are become longer, more tightly coiled around her, and there’s still no sign of a missing child. It’s not normal. Connie isn’t sure how to act like everything can still be the same when something so sinister has taken place…again. In this town, in her life.

She pulls a piece of gum out of her bag, a simple black square shoulder bag she’d picked up as a treat for herself last week, before all this chaos had been unleashed. Carefully she unwraps the mint flavoured piece of gum and pops it in her mouth, throwing the wrapper away in the nearest bin. The act of chewing soothes her nerves, the pop of flavour giving her something more interesting to taste than the rising vomit trying to push itself out of her.

ANYTHING ELSE?

NOTE: Since a lot of Connie’s life is entwined with Emilio’s, I’ve taken a lot of liberties in imagining what her childhood and present day living situation etc. looks like! This would be fleshed out better in conjunction with Emilio’s player & story, obviously, if I was accepted.

BIOGRAPHY.

BEFORE.

Connie Denise Romano was born on the twentieth of July, 1978, as the clock struck a quarter past three in the afternoon, in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. Her parents were on the brink of a divorce, Grease was still on top of the charts and the stage had been set for her arrival.

Her birth mom was a loose cannon, a firecracker, a live-wire. Connie remembers being enamoured by her, wide-eyed, watching her mom flit around their living room in her dressing gown, belting out Call Me by Blondie, drenched head to toe from the rain outside. But she also remembers the screams in the middle of the night, the long periods of time where she’d disappear for, the terse fights between her parents in their living room at one in the morning. By the time Connie was six her mom, Annie, had left for good.

Emilio will never understand that part of her: the sliver of Annie that lives underneath her skin, that aches to come crawling out on the middle of the stage, the screeched monologues where she shuts her eyes and channels the energy of the woman who’s DNA runs through her. Emilio’s mom is lovely, he’ll never wonder if she was responsible for the murders. It haunts her at night sometimes, a bubbling question mark underneath the surface of her skin. Her memories are clipped, dream-like, half the time she wonders if Annie wasn’t even half the nightmare she remembers her to be; sometimes she’s curious if she was worse, and sometimes she swears these bursts of anger that flare up within her are from her.

It was just Connie and her dad for a while then. He was her best friend, her confidant, her hero who could do no wrong. He tried to teach her to be fierce and resilient in the face of danger, strong and confident and sure of herself, but that’s just not the kind of kid she was. Connie was shy, she was bright and personable around the right people, but she always fit in better at the adult table than the kids table. Clinging to her Dad’s leg at parties, mumbling her name when asked, declining the offer of a birthday party. He enrolled her in drama classes to help ease her out of her shell, or maybe, because he was scared she had that same pent up energy bubbling under her and he wanted her to have a healthy outlet to channel it into. It didn’t matter, she fell into the role of theatre like she was born for the stage.

He remarried when she was ten. Connie had craved a mom so badly, she had spent every night praying at the altar of her bed to stars for one. This intense, sensitive desire that ran through her to be loved. Julia was kind and she took her shopping and they had movie dates, just the two of them, together on the weekends but Connie could still sense the distance. Julia was marrying her Dad, not her. She liked being an easy kid, knew even then how to shut up and play the right part. She went along with being tolerated and not loved. It was an easy role to play.

Her journey into adolescence was rocky. Connie didn’t know how to fit in at first. Her mind has always jumped miles ahead, inquisitive and adept at reading her own emotions. She struggled through middle-school, teetering on the edge of a million different friend groups, playing the shy girl, the weird girl, the outcast girl, the friendly girl, the popular girl; she kind of knew everyone, and no-one ever really knew her. It wasn’t the way she preferred it, her bones ached for settlement but all she could find was restlessness.

In her first year of high school she had no-one. She struggled to make friends in Sioux Falls. The same people she had known her entire life flitted in and out of her life like revolving figures in a play, she reached out to grasp them and they all just slipped away. Her friendships grew away from her, their common interests and shared histories fading into oblivion to make room for those awkward silences of knowing there’s no mutual understanding left anymore. It had left her sad, but Connie always moved on from everything without pushing it, a smile on her face. It was all for her to digest silently, not in a fit of rage.

She made friends in her sophomore year: a bad crowd, her dad had called them. It had been her rebellious stage. Connie had quietly embarked on a journey of destroying herself for fun. It was the year she began to detest everything inside of her. Her insides recoiled and she couldn’t stand to look at herself in the mirror. Every morning she woke up fatigued and nauseous with the thought of having to exist in the world. She had met Peter in one of her drama classes. He was older, and he smoked, and his friends liked to go out to the woods late at night. He kissed her and she felt like she was permanent, her feet stuck firmly on the ground. Then he’d go days without calling her and she’d let herself go stir crazy inside her own brain. They never got up to anything wild. It was never that sort of rebellious phase. Connie would just hang out past her curfew with them, smoking cigarettes she hated the taste of, laughing along when the boys wrestled on the ground.

But by junior year they were gone and she was stuck with herself again. And then her world got shifted upside down.

DURING.

They are hazy memories she can’t quite recollect. A bad dream she tends to forget about. Connie liked to buy the cover-up of a random attack. It goes down better for her. Peter had called her afterwards, to ask if it was satanic, he talked her ear off about the occult. Connie didn’t care. She pushed the event to the back of her brain and reworked herself into a new woman. This would not define her. It would not become her. It is always on her mind.

Police officers. Lawyers. Social workers. God, the fucking social workers. Connie remembers them all in bits and pieces, like watching a film she’s only half interested in. The open mouths, the silent words, the folded up case files she couldn’t look at. The funeral. The faux sympathies from her classmates. The rancid vomit she would throw up every night.

Emilio filed for custody of her and they moved to Devil’s Knot to start a new life.

Connie made herself a list of rules before leaving: no-one was going to know about what had happened, she was going to find herself with a group of friends, she was going to stop thinking about her missing mom and her dead dad, she was going to stop hurting herself for fun. Her life was going to become easy, despite everything.

AFTER.

Emilio is all she has left. He’s quickly turned into her best friend, the only person in the world she thinks she trusts, but it still makes her stomach twist and turn when she remembers he’s responsible for her. He’s overprotective sometimes, and she’s gotten good at lying to even him. It just doesn’t feel like this is her life sometimes.

It would have been easy to fade into the background. Connie has been doing it her whole life. She’s too quiet, sometimes, and her head is always racing too far ahead. She’s always caught up in her own little world. Entering Devil’s Knot she thought she’d immediately fall in with the outcasts. That’s where she belongs, right? But instead she was easily swept up by the most popular kids in school. She doesn’t know how it happened. One minute she was nervously getting ready for her first day, freaking out, and the next she was being pulled along by Kelly Shah.

It had been nice at first, to belong somewhere. There are moments she genuinely appreciates her friends. Then there are moments she feels like such an imposter it makes her want to scream. They don’t know the first thing about her and Connie doesn’t see the point in putting on appearances, it’s starting to wear her down. All she wanted was to live a normal, boring life. But she’s starting to see it’s going to be very hard to achieve that.

Especially with Brian now missing. It feels like only the start of something deeply sinister.

HEADCANNONS.

                       i.         Connie’s wardrobe consists of lots of turtlenecks, solid colours, lilac cardigans, lots of miniskirts, chunky boots that hit right under the knee, navy track pants with stripes down the side, lots of sweater vests, mood rings, flower and butterfly charms and hair-clips, empire waist dresses, low heels, plaid patterns, her favourite cream and baby pink floral long skirt, cropped chunky cable knit sweaters, floral patterns. Her main colour combinations are: black, lilac, peach, navy and red.

                     ii.         Her top artists of the year have to be Alanis Morissette, Goo Goo Dolls, The Smashing Pumpkins, TLC, Oasis, No Doubt, Aaliyah, Hole, Jewel, Bikini Kill, Madonna, Fiona Apple, Modest Mouse, Bjork and Belle and Sebastian.

                    iii.         Connie is a major fan of The X Files. The week Brian Goode went missing was the first episode she had missed since her dad’s death.

                    iv.         Her other staple favourite shows are: Seinfeld, the newly airing Sabrina the Teenage Witch, Beverly Hills, 90210 (she’s a secret Brenda Walsh fan; like she just gets it), Party of Five, The Nanny, Melrose Place and My So Called Life.

                     v.         Connie had been a feverish reader in her youth, devouring all the books she could get her hands on. Her dad had said her mom used to love to read. It had bought her closer to her somehow. But then she hit fourteen and couldn’t stand the sight of words. It’s only after her dad’s death that she’s been getting back into reading again.

                    vi.         Connie hated hiking before her parents died. Now it’s one of her favourite secret hobbies.

                  vii.         She loves to bake.

                 viii.         She had been obsessed with the O.J. Simpson case the year before.

                    ix.         She had bought all the Satanic ritual books she could grab her hands on right after the murder. Everyone wanted to shield her from the truth but she needed to know. Nobody would tell her anything so she had to find out for herself.

                      x.         There is something about ‘The West Memphis Three’ that unsettles her. She has to look away every-time they’re brought up.

                    xi.         She’s a social drinker but a secret smoker. It’s only habitual, a stress-reliever, the only tie she has left to Peter and his crowd. Em has no idea.

                   xii.         Her day-to-day life has been very boring lately: school, theatre practice, listening to what everyone else is doing and going along with the crowd.

EXPANDED CONNECTIONS.

                       i.         EMILIO: It’s funny how quickly tragedy can bond you. Connie has always looked up to Em. He’s her big brother, how could she not? They were as close as they could be, considering the age gap and the intervals of missing time between visits. He was still her big brother and she still wanted him to like her and he still annoyed her constantly. But now he’s all she has left in this world. Her very best friend. Her guardian, now responsible for her well-being. It’s like walking a tight-rope with him sometimes. She loves him and she hates him all in the same breathe, and then she feels bad when she knows he’s just doing the best he can.

                     ii.         HEATHER: Heather is unlike anyone Connie has ever met before. There is just something about them that draws Connie in. It’s electric. Their determination, drive, commitment…Connie envies and admires all of it. She thinks the world of them. The brightest part of her day is when they have debate or are studying together or Connie catches her eye from across the room. There’s just something about them that makes Connie glow warm and happy, inspires her to strive to be a better person.

                    iii.         ELIAS: Connie immediately felt a connection to Elias as soon as she met him. He seems to be the only like-minded person in this town to her sometimes. He’s her trusted confidante when it comes to the arts. Some of the rumours about him have limited her from being able to develop a deeper friendship with him the way she wants, her group would just never allow it, but she always feels at peace in his presence and wishes she could just ditch her friends some days and hang out with Elias.

                    iv.         DAVID: He hadn’t really made her radar, other than he was nice and new like she was, and they sat in the same classes together. But then he asked her out, and she turned him down, and now she can’t get him out of her mind. It’s only a small crush, not anything near what she feels for Heather, but it’s there all the same: blossoming in her chest. Since he’s asked her out, she feels like they’ve grown into better friends, and now with Brian missing…well, she’s been spending a lot more time with him.

                     v.         KELLY: Kelly is probably the closest thing she has to a best friend here in Devil’s Knot. Connie both loves and loathes her. There are times where she swears it’s just the two of them against the world, a genuine, real friendship. And then Kelly goes and does something that completely makes Connie pause and wonder who the fuck this girl is. But at the end of the day, her arm is gonna be slung around hers, and they’re gonna giggle at the back of class together, and go shopping together, and Connie is gonna spend her weekends curled up in Kelly’s bed. There’s so much pressure that comes with being friends with Kelly Shah. It always feels like too much sometimes, like Connie is gonna mess up and get kicked out of town.

                    vi.         HOMER, SAM: As much as Connie feels uncomfortable by being in the same group as the popular kids – there comes an immense amount of pressure and responsibility and anxiety with the job – she genuinely does like both Homer and Sam, even if sometimes she feels not good enough in the group or she questions what they’re doing, she thinks the two of them have good hearts and she finds her friendship with the two of them mostly an easy ride.

                  vii.         MILTON: Connie secretly hates Milton. She can’t stand him. He makes her blood boil and rise and she has to bite her tongue every time he speaks. She doesn’t understand why Kelly is still with him at all.

PLOT POINTS.

I’d love to see Connie somehow get tied up in the Chapter business through Em; I don’t see her being truly a part of it, but I think it could be fun to explore maybe her opposition to it and how that affects her relationship with Emilio.

An exploration of the Sioux Falls drama and how that ties into Devil’s Knot’s mystery, if it does at all.

Her complicated relationship with her birth mother – possibly going to see Karen Shah to deal with it or going to see Karen Shah regardless, actually. I’d also love to see Connie trying to find a mother figure through some of the other women in town. It’s something that she’s always desperately been searching for.

I can definitely see her getting involved and trying to figure out what happened to Brian since her own past is still a mystery. It’s going to be easier for her to try and get the truth out of a situation she’s removed from while still feeling like she’s gaining peace of mind from her own trauma. I can see this leading her to work with the younger kids or some of the past generation that was involved in the Silverman case.

I’d also really love to see some sort of connection to Pete Silverman. I think they’d both be characters who carry a lot of guilt. Pete, for his past. And Connie, for the past she’s hiding. Somehow they’re very different but feel similar.

I’d also love for her to get involved in Brian’s disappearance through her lie about her alibi – did someone see her on that bus? Did someone see her out in the clearing? Does someone know about Sioux Falls? I’d love for her past and her lies to come unravelling.

I think a lot of constant themes have popped up in this app with Connie – her past, her commitment to theatre and the arts, her sense of being lost and not belonging, curiosity / avoidance about satanic rituals, her need to belong somewhere, guilt / regret / avoidance / overthinking, her ties to her different family relationships, the friendships she’s made here – I think these are all important parts of her that will be explored in various different ways and plots. I think my overarching goal for Connie as a singular person, not involved within the mystery, would be for her to find a true sense of belonging and confidence rather than playing the role of whoever is wanted from who in that moment. Connie needs to discover who she is.

#dkaccepted #accepted #connie romano #literate rp #new rp

[devilsknotrp]

Congratulations, Emily! You have been accepted for the role of Kelly Shah (FC: Naomi Scott). Wow. Part of me was concerned that someone would turn Kelly into this ice cold queen with a streak of sociopathy... but you rightfully humanised her, and demonstrated that beneath that rigid control and anxiety to please, she’s just a teenage girl. The complicated way you dealt with her emerging womanhood and identity deserves a particular shout out. You write her very sensitively and with so many layers. Truly, you are a great writer, and I think no one could do Kelly justice more than you. I also have to commend you on a fantastic writing sample which managed to capture how multifaceted the allure of power really is. Also: Kelly being a twin and a Gemini? Excellent content. Please have a look at this page prior to sending in your account.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Name: Emily Age: 20 Pronouns: she/her Timezone: AEST/GMT+10 Activity estimation: At the moment I’m on uni break, so activity is extremely high. I can be online for upwards of three hours every day. When school goes back that’ll drop, but not by much since uni has wifi and I can come online during breaks between classes. My schedule isn’t busy. Triggers: [Redacted]

IN CHARACTER

Full Name: Kelly Nicole Shah Age: 10/06/1978 (Gemini, turning 19 next June) (If accepted, I’m more than happy to change this if whoever is playing Kevin has a different date in mind) Gender: Cis Female Pronouns: She/her Sexuality: Questioning. Her attraction to women is not in question, that is something Kelly is sure of. It’s the extent of her attraction to men that she is currently questioning. Out of character, I would say the best applicable label at the moment is bisexual, but Kelly doesn’t really know a lot about labels or anything at this point, and that label is definitely subject to change. She is also dealing with a mean case of compulsory heterosexuality, although she doesn’t quite realise it yet. Occupation: High School Senior Connection to Victim: Kelly has no real connection to Brian, but she does know his family. David is the quarterback, and usually sits on her lunch table. Milton never shuts up about how David doesn’t deserve that role, and Kelly doesn’t think it’s possible to care any less. Beth is just weird. She doesn’t seem to have any respect for high school hierarchy, and that grates on Kelly. In the week following Brian’s disappearance, she’s made a weak effort to be nicer to both of the Goode siblings (mostly David). Kelly feels awful for Ms. Goode, but hasn’t really spoken to her — she mostly hears about her from her father. Alibi: A complete dictator when it comes to the squad, Kelly was holding a Saturday practice (unprecedented, every other cheer captain has let the rest of the squad have weekends off). It went for roughly two hours, with the rest of the squad despising her for making them jump and clap in the freezing cold. Kelly didn’t even hear about Brian going missing until later that evening when she returned home. Faceclaim: Naomi Scott

WRITING SAMPLE

Here’s a link to a Google doc with my writing sample (I didn’t want to make the app super long for the inbox).

ANYTHING ELSE

Here is a link to a little dossier I made for Kelly (headcanons, playlist, etc).

Here is a link to a Pinterest board I made for Kelly.

#accepted #dkaccepted #kelly shah #literate rp #new rp

[devilsknotrp]

Congratulations, Rory! You have been accepted for the role of Perry Esposito (FC: Peter Gadiot). It would be too easy to write Perry as a strict black sheep, as someone without a deep hurt, who was just some tough guy. He’s really not. And you’ve brought that out in him. There were so many elements of your application that just rang so true. Perry being gently friendly to people he meets; his diligence; his quiet resolve. Perry was never going to be an in-your-face character, but he is a subtly intense one, and you’ve managed to sharpen his edges. Your writing sample was also beautifully written and so, so sad. Thank you for bringing to light how painful heartbreak can be - and how it can linger for longer than you’d expect. This was a wonderful application. Please have a look at this page prior to sending in your account.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Name: Rory Age: 22 Pronouns: They/Them or He/Him Timezone: CST Activity estimation: I’ll definitely be able to keep up with the requirements here. Depending on how strong my muse is (and how exhausted I am by the end of any given day) I’ll most likely be around most nights. If I had to give it a guess on a scale of 1 - 10, I’d put myself at about a 7!? Triggers: [Redacted]

IN CHARACTER: BASICS

Full name: Perry Esposito Age (DD/MM/YYY): 30 (09/07/1966) - Libra sun, Gemini rising, Pisces moon Gender: Cis Male Pronouns: He/Him Sexuality: Homosexual Homoromantic Occupation: Bartender Connection to Victim: Perry was aware of their existence in the way that in a small town, everyone knows everyone, but he can’t say he was even acquainted with them. The closest he’d come to having a conversation with the woman- Linda- was nodding his head at her as they’d passed by each other in Piggly Wiggly one day, but that was the extent of their relationship. He might not have even been able to tell you their names with complete certainty, before they’d been thrown into the limelight, at least. Alibi: Perry started his shift at The Bar at 4 P.M. Faceclaim: Peter Gadiot

WRITING SAMPLE

TW for (implied) child abuse.

It took a moment for things to start sinking in: the slam of the car door, the roar of the engine, the glare of the sun reflecting off the pitiful, rusted paint job and the cloud of dust that accompanied the spinning wheels. Perry just stood there for a second, his shocked brain struggling to catch up before he was stumbling after the car, running a few steps with a hand outstretched  yelling hey, yelling for Bobby to stop, wait, come back- but it was too late. A few more seconds and he was gone entirely. The car was gone and Bobby was gone and everything was gone and Perry was left standing in the motel parking lot with the California sun kissing his skin and something foreign curling up in a newly- hollowed place in his chest.

The first day, that foreign- something was made up of panic and denial and, of course, a bone- deep sort of hurt. Bobby wouldn’t… he was mad, yeah, but he’d… alright, Perry hadn’t realized he was that mad, but surely he’d… he’d come back. Perry knew he would. He’d calm down, he’d realize what he’d done and he would come back. Perry would forgive him. Hours passed, but still, he told himself- he’d forgive Bobby when he came back. Because he was coming back, even if he was taking a while- that was what he told the motel manager, when the guy came and tried to kick him off the bench he’d curled up on for the night.

As Perry’s second day alone dawned, the panic and denial heightened and started warring. He ended up stealing something from a store so he didn’t starve, but he didn’t pay much attention to what he nicked and he didn’t notice whether it tasted nice or not. It was to keep him from starving, that was all. The sun set on that second day without any sign of his dad’s shitty car, and as the world went dark so did that fizzling spark of hope he’d been harboring in the pit of his stomach.

Bobby really had left him, and he wasn’t coming back.

Perry stuck around on that third day, though. Just in case. Watching the street Bobby’d driven away on and feeling a traitorous little leap of hope whenever there was a car anywhere near the right color, but it was for nothing. Time flew by and the grief began settling in. He was an adult and he was a man and he never cried, hadn’t since he was a child, scared and hurting and hating his father, but this? Being left to his own devices for better or worse in a strange place by the only person that had ever managed to find anything valuable in him, by the only person that had ever found anything about him to actually love- yeah, he was crying. His arms wrapped around his midsection as his body shook, a hand furiously swiping at the tears trailing down his face. He bit down on the inside of his cheek so that he wouldn’t make any noise, bit it hard enough that it bled. He’d been so dumb to think this would work, to think a piece of trash like him would get away and have a fairy tale of a life.

There were better things out there than Devil’s Knot, but they weren’t for him. They weren’t within his reach.

Perry stayed there until it was sometime between late afternoon and early evening, until he was out of tears to cry, and then he forced himself to stand. He cast a glance at that motel sign, then at the space the car- his car- had been parked at. He stared for a bit, because this, right here- these moments before he gave in and let go- this was as close as he’d ever get to a real goodbye. Part of him thought that it still just felt like a really, really bad dream, but he knew he wouldn’t be waking up.

He raised both middle fingers, flipping that empty parking space the bird as he backed away, and then he made his way to the highway and began the process of sticking his thumb up at anyone that passed until someone finally stopped.

It was time to go home, now. Time to grow up.

ANYTHING ELSE?

Here’s a Pinterest board I made for him!

HEADCANONS:

Despite the fact that Perry would consider himself a friend to one (Blanca) and close to none, he’s a friendly guy. If life had given him a kinder lot, he would have been a blatant extrovert. As it is, at his core he’s a convivial guy, and despite the fact that most everyone’s still got him written off as scum- he’s amiable enough to those who extend the same courtesy to him. He’s far beyond making much of an effort. He’ll greet the customers that come in to the bar, even make small talk if someone seems interested in pursuing it, but that’s about the extent of it. He hasn’t had a boyfriend since that disaster when he was eighteen, and he doesn’t intend to ever go down that path again. When he gets lonely enough, he’ll visit a bar a few towns over where nobody knows his name or his face. There was a time when he’d wanted a future that held more than that- hell, when he’s drunk or high enough, there are times when he can still admit to himself that he wants something more- but he’s not a kid with his head in the clouds anymore, and he’s not fooling himself. Lives like that aren’t realistic for people like him. He’s learned his lesson. He won’t be burnt twice. He likes his bbartending job well enough. It pays the bills. His apartment isn’t anything fancy, but it’s decent. That’s his life. He’s going to live in this town until the day he inevitably dies alone, and he’s accepted that.

Perry is allergic to cats and dogs and pretty much anything with fur. Not horribly so, just enough to have his sinuses uncomfortable and his eyes going red. An irritation more than anything. It hasn’t stopped him from leaving a window open for the stray cat that hangs around his apartment or from blowing a portion of his paychecks on Fancy Feast for the fleabitten mongrel. He’s definitely not a fan of coming home to find dead rats or birds strewn about his apartment, but he’s joked to Blanca that it’s the cat’s way of paying rent. It is not his cat. He’s adamant about that fact, even though it’s been a couple years now since it became his roommate of sorts.

The world has been reminding Perry of the fact that he’s an outsider from the time he was old enough to understand the words coming out of the townspeople’s mouths. Maybe even before that, really. Even if he hadn’t been an outcast, though, he would have caught on to the fact that he was different. When kids his age started developing crushes, he knew there was a wide difference between what he felt towards the girls and the way his stomach would start flipping over some of the boys. It wasn’t a welcome discovery. He was hated enough as it was and even before he began to grasp the gravity of this particular difference he knew that standing out in any way would just be another strike against him. This, though… Perry wasn’t certain the fallout from it would be something he’d survive. Even now, after having so much time to adjust to the idea, he’s not quite fully at peace with being gay. Maybe the smart thing to do would be find a girl he likes well enough and pretend, but he’s never been able to bend his rebellious streak enough to do so. He’s keeping this particular disparity to himself, but that doesn’t mean he wants to just force himself fall in line with what the world would have him doing, either.

He feels freest during those rare visits he makes to the clubs out of town. He can pretend he’s someone else for a while, living a different life. It’s too easy to lose himself in the warm touch of another. It’s too easy to drown with the crisp evening air filling his lungs and the expanseless, unfamiliar sky around him, and it is far, far too easy to think about leaving then, with the possibilities of what this world could hold trying to swarm around his head. The world is so big. There’s so much out there. Objectively, he can’t say he’s never had a home. He grew up in a home with his dirtbag father and his older brother. He has a home now, too, a carefully organized and cared for apartment, a home he’s worked hard for, but privately, Perry believes that home is more than just a place. Home is a feeling, and he thinks the strongest he’s ever experienced that feeling was when he was in a car with a boy in the seat next to them as they drove into the horizon, trees and cities and lights blurring past, not knowing exactly what their future held, only that it would be good. That was a euphoria that he’s never been able to replicate, but, he reminds himself- the agony when he’d crashed and burned hadn’t been worth the exhiliration of the days that had lead up to it. It really hadn’t.

Perry can’t say he’s surprised that the present seems to be circling around to the past. This town is a fishbowl, stagnant. He’s empathetic for the kid’s friends and families, but to tell the truth- mostly, he’s just tired and cynical. There’s a sense of foreboding weighing heavy on his chest. He doesn’t know where this will go, but he doesn’t think for a moment that it’s going to end with Brian’s disappearance. Whatever’s coming isn’t going to be pretty- he just hopes he’ll get to keep on the fringes of it all.

Perry’s wardrobe isn’t any more exciting than his apartment. He sticks to muted colors, blacks and greys and whites. Nothing remotely expensive. He’s not trying to impress anyone, but he does put a surprising amount of effort into maintaining his appearance. Perhaps it has something to do with wanting to distance himself from as many similarities to his father as he can.

He drives a beat up old truck. It’s not exactly easy on the eyes, but it gets him wherever he needs to go, and that’s all that matters.

As far as general life skills go, he’s hardly a prodigy when it comes to the kitchen, but, as in most areas of his life, he’s put a decent amount of effort into being self sufficient. He’s figured out enough to get by. He’d rather cook for himself than eat at the diner. If something needs patching up, he’s handy enough with stitches. That’s not a skill he initially learned for the sake of clothing, but it’s a useful one nonetheless.

#dkaccepted #accepted #perry esposito #literate rp #new rp

[devilsknotrp]

Congratulations, Rose! You have been accepted for the role of Brooke Youngblood (FC: Devery Jacobs). Brooke is such a weirdly wonderful character and you did her such justice. She’s sassy and looking for the world to just wake up and I think you captured that beautifully. Her angst and black eyeliner will be a welcome addition to the town!  Please have a look at this page prior to sending in your account.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Name: Rose Age: 23 Pronouns: she/her Timezone: so I accidentally got it wrong in the other app haha, it’s currently GMT +1, soon just GMT because I’ll be moving to the UK Activity estimation: Right now I have all the time in the world but in September I will start my masters so it will probably be a little less but I’m sure I’ll have time to work around it. Overall my activity would probably be around 7 or 8. Triggers: REDACTED

IN CHARACTER

Full name: Brooke Enola Youngblood Age (DD/MM/YYY): eighteen (14-11-1978) Gender: Cisgender female Pronouns: She/her Sexuality: heterosexual Occupation: high school student and cashier at Piggly Wiggly Connection to Victim: Brooke has a few classes with the older two Goode siblings but doesn’t know much about Brian or their mother. She’s probably seen them in passing while she was working at Piggly Wiggly but nothing more than that. However, she feels for the family, she, unlike them, was born and raised in the darkness that can sometimes be Devil’s Knot. It’s unfortunate that a family from elsewhere be dragged the shadows created by the events of 1984 that lurks in their town. Alibi: The Saturday that Brian went missing, Brooke had been working the entire day at Piggly Wiggly. As usual, there was an assortment of customers who came and left. Children buying sweets, mothers doing a grocery run, guys buying some beers, girls buying new glossy magazines. It was business as usual. Around 5 the shop closes and so Brooke leaves the old decrepit place that always seems to be on the verge of financial problems for the next day. Her evenings were always spent out doing whatever she felt like. Sometimes it was to watch a film, sometimes to get high and other times just drive around until it was pitch black outside. Brooke explained that she’d been out for dinner, eating a meal in peace and quiet and drove around till she arrived at Videoport, flicking through DVD’s she wants to watch. Around midnight, she arrived in her old Chevy Impala, turned matte black due to the dust and dirt over the years, back home where she found her mother passed out on the sofa with the tv on. She moved her mother upstairs and cleared away the wine glass and wine bottle, the only two witnesses to this affair ever happening. After that, she went to bed.  Faceclaim: Devery Jacobs

WRITING SAMPLE

Biting a fingernail on her left hand, Brooke Youngblood surveyed the scene in front of her. Her almond-shaped eyes glazed over to the one side of the table where John was sat. Well, actually her father but she saw him so rarely that she normally just referred to him by his first name, something neither of her parents seemed to like much. His dark hair was still quite full for his age and his smile was as dazzling as ever. It wasn’t hard to see why her mother had fallen for him. Now he wore a crisp business suit with a white shirt and striped tie. He fit right into the image that had been created by both of them when they had gotten married at 21. So young to be making choices that would affect you for the rest of your life. You can never know if it’s going to be influenced in a good way or a bad way. Only time can tell and it can sometimes be a bitch of a master.

Brooke swung her gaze to the other side of the table where her mother was sat. Rozene was an image that one doesn’t forget and deliberately so, her mother had worked at it. Her dark hair fell effortless down in waves as she wore a linen dress, casual yet chic. Her mother’s make-up was flawlessly applied, no signs yet of the mascara that could possibly end up running down her cheeks or any lipstick smudge on her chin from reapplying lipstick in a giddy fashion. Their whole house seemed like something that one pulled straight of a poster for the American dream. Well, it was more like the all-American nightmare for her. She let out a sigh as she passed around the casserole that her mother had spent the entire day making to her dad. It tasted good but there was nothing, nothing, that could decrease the tension in their household. Taking a sip from her glass of water, she could tell that it would only be a matter of minutes before her parents would start talking to each other. Now they were sat in deathly silence, only the sound of cutlery on plates and eating could be heard.

Eating the last mouth full of her plate, she set down her knife and fork and her napkin just as she’d been taught all those years ago. She thought back to when she’d been taught proper etiquette. For months she had to ask her parents “please may I leave the table?” whenever she even wanted to go for a piss. From all the fine things her mother tried to teach her, that was the only thing that had stuck. She quietly uttered the sentence as she stood up and picked up her plate, setting it in the sink. As soon as she was out of sight, their voices started to push through the walls. Her father’s deep, baritone muttering something to her mother as she heard her mother throw down her fork and heatedly reply back. “For fuck’s sake Rose, you know this isn’t normal. This town has always had its demons…. Now, this….”

Her mother replied back, but the words were cut out as she turned on the tap and rinsed her plate clean.

“Also, what the fuck kind of food do you call this?”

“I spent HOURS cooking that, you piece of shit. I don’t see you offering yourself up to cook a meal for us.” Their voices were rising over the noise of the tap, that’s when Brooke knew she had to get out. The plate clattered in the sink as she pushed her arms into her coat, grabbed her keys and left.

Her trusty Chevy Impala had brought her to one of the few places she could think of that was clear of any people. Piggly Wiggly. It was stupid to come to work after hours but right now there was no chance of anyone being there and that’s all Brooke needed right now. Sitting on the hood of the car, she slipped her hand into her pocket and pulled out her pack of Marlboro and a lighter. As she inhaled the soft grey smoke of the cigarette curled up and into the night air, the embers of the tip burning a fiery orange. Her eyes cast upwards as she exhaled the smoke. If it only was as easy to disappear from this town as the smoke disappeared in the night. The cold nipped at her cheeks which she stubbornly refused to acknowledge as she lifted to the hood of her coat onto her head, keeping herself as warm as she could. The size of the cigarette seemed to be dwindling fast as Brooke started to feel this dark feeling boil inside of her. Anger started to build as she thought about her parents. Why couldn’t they just have one normal meal? Just one. Is that too much to fucking ask for?

Dropping the cigarette to the floor, she stomped on it with a force that wasn’t necessary to put out something so small. No, it was measured against the fire that was burning through her veins.

Brooke’s hands started to itch, a desire to hit something rising, like a coiling serpent ready to strike, trying to find a way to let out all her anger. She popped the boot of her car and pulled out a green canvas bag, slamming it closed again. Her footsteps were full of purpose as she strode up to the sidewall of her workplace. Her hand reached in and grabbed a can as she let the bag go. The can felt cold, the sharp biting making everything seem more real, as she lifted it above and pressed hard. The colour was neon green and spread like a wildfire as she started to draw.

A smile slipped onto her lips as her anger faded and instead the feeling of thrill ran through her body. It lasted about a minute. She saw before she heard. Her eyes caught the sight of red and blue light as she swore loudly. Bright lights shone in her face as she tried to shield her eyes, automatically watering due to the brightness.

“Oi! Hey you!” Brooke dropped the can into the bag and slung it over her shoulder as she tried to get away.

“Hey! You! Stop right now! An officer of the law is speaking to you!”

She turned and ran right into a body. “Well, if it isn’t Brooke Youngblood. You’re coming with us. Vandalising property.”

An officer picked her up by her armpit as she tried to wiggle free. The other officer came up behind her, huffing and puffing despite the short distance. He observed her bag and the scowl that she wore. “Don’t you think we aren’t busy enough as it is? All us looking for that Goode kid?”

The officer shook his head as he signalled her to come along to the patrol car, a hard push sending her that way. Brooke decided not to say anything as she sat down in the back of the car, the leather seats feeling slight warm despite the cool October air. Yeah, that’s right. Finally, this town is being woken up. All of these idiots get to see what’s actually going on behind all these smiles and closed doors.

A smile slid onto her face as they drove off, only one thought on Brooke’s mind. Wakey wakey, motherfuckers. You’re all in for one hell of a ride…

ANYTHING ELSE?

→ The Youngblood household is less a home and more like IKEA showroom, all gloss that when disassembled is just cheaply made wood. The matriarch, Rozene Youngblood, is the epitome of the notion of a two-faced coined. On the one hand, she is a classy lady, married to the esteemed businessman John Youngblood, who she met at Devil’s Knot very own highschool as a senior, who performs the duties of a housewife to a perfection. On the other side, the real side, she’s a bored, lonely, repressed alcoholic. She hides her misery behind glasses of Rosé and plastic smiles as she laments the singing career she abandoned for traditional atomic family life. Her parents play the roles but never truly mean it, and while the rest of the town is fooled, their only child is not. Brooke has spent her life clearing up empty bottles and sick, while her father graces them with his presence every few weeks if only to criticise and make barb comments at the dinner table. Is it any surprise Brooke strives to break every social conformity she meets? She has first-class proof that bliss is not picket fences and neighbourhood barbecues.

→ After years of not only seeing her mom consuming more alcohol than Brooke ever thought was possible and the unhappy effect it’s had on their family as a whole, Brooke doesn’t drink. Even though she’s not of the legal age to do it yet, she’s already decided that way in advance. There have been moments she’s had it offered to her which she declined. On the whole, the number of parties she gets invited to is also on the low side so peer pressure and her exposure to it, besides being at home, is limited. She’s more open to drugs and has been known to smoke on certain occasions. Handing some of her cash in and sneaking a packet of cigarettes out, going on quick breaks just to have a quick smoke is rare but it happens as she tries to relieve herself from the not stop grind of her work ethic. Besides that, she’s open to experimenting and having a fun time. Anything to get out of this dreary, awful town, right? Even if it’s just mentally.

→ If Piggly Wiggly is an American staple, then Brooke Youngblood’s dark eye shadow and blunt cut bangs are a Devil’s Knot staple. As a young girl, she used to run around in colourful dresses and bows in her hair. It all slowly started to fade away but when she started high school, that’s when it really peaked. On their first day of high school, Brooke stepped out of her mother’s pristine car and all eyes met her. Her dark, long locks were always braided or beautifully taken back now were let loose and hung like a curtain down her back. A blunt fringe had been cut, somehow framing her face better and making her face seen at least five years older. Her eyes were rimmed with deep purple eye shadow, highlighting all her best facial features. She wore a simple purple dress with black Dr Martens. Since then that’s become her style and it’s what she’s faultlessly known for. Some say she’s the only fashionable thing about Devil’s knot and others say she seems like a demon sent from hell. Whatever it is, Brooke Youngblood is in never going to change it, despite her parent’s wishes to the contrary.

→ Brooke drives a old Chevy Impala. Although it’s not traditionally a car for young girls, Brooke isn’t traditional nor a young girl anymore. Once she got her license, she went car shopping with her mom which turned out to be a disaster. Her mom wanted to get her new, fancy open-top cars which she definitely didn’t want. As they drove back, Brooke spotted an auto shop where they fixed old cars. As she walked in, it took her all of one second to spot the car and ever since that moment it’s been hers.

→ Even though her parents met in Devil’s knot and it’s all she’s ever known, Brooke despises the town. It seems to be filled with pretentious people who are so worried about fitting a certain societal mould that they can’t think straight. All this white-picket-fence crap is enough to make her sick. It’s definitely not the kind of life she ever wants to live. One of the first things she wants to do is travel. Leave Devil’s Knot for good behind. She’s always sensed the darkness in this place and now with Brian missing, it’s only affirmed it once again. Even if no one else will follow her, Brooke knows she won’t be staying here forever. If she can help it not even another year. This very purpose is what drives her to work so hard, either she’ll leave by savings or good grades, whichever ends up being first.

#dkaccepted #accepted #brooke youngblood

[devilsknotrp]

Congratulations, Kris! You have been accepted for the role of Heather Wheeler (FC change: Zendaya). Heather is such an overachiever who’s been completely wrapped up in Kelly’s grasp and you nailed her! You’ve added so much depth to her backstory and I can’t wait to see her on the dash!  Please have a look at this page prior to sending in your account.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Name: Kris Age:  20 Pronouns: She/Her Timezone: EST Activity estimation: I can commit to around an hour or two of activity a night on weekdays. However, my weekends aren’t ever planned and I cannot give a completely accurate estimate of what those will look like in terms of activity. Triggers: N/A

IN CHARACTER

Full name: Heather Lucille Wheeler Age (DD/MM/YYY): (03/07/1978); Cancer Sun, Gemini Moon, Virgo Rising Gender: Female Pronouns: She/Her Sexuality: Closeted Bisexual. Occupation: High school senior. Connection to Victim: Heather doesn’t really know them. Sure, she had seen Beth around school a couple of times but it’s not like they were friends. Her aunt isn’t very active in the community, so she wouldn’t have met Mrs. Goode; therefore, this whole case is pretty distant from her. She does feel incredibly bad that Brian has gone missing, and has devoted just as much time as everyone else to making sure that he comes home safely. Alibi: “Kelly was hosting one of her Saturday practices. Yes, it was horrible, and freezing cold. I mean – who takes cheerleading that seriously? The only reason why I showed up was because we have a huge competition coming up, and even considering that I was still skeptical.” Faceclaim: Zendaya

WRITING SAMPLE

I fucking hate my life. Heather thought as she rounded the track for the third time. It was a Thursday afternoon, and school had just let out. Track practice was in full swing and she was reconsidering her decision to join. She had participated in four extracurricular activities today: the debate club which met before school, a student council meeting that took the place of her study hall period, an impromptu cheerleading practice during lunch because Kelly felt like they still weren’t ready for the competition on Friday, and now track practice. She was fucking drained.

It was exhausting living her life. Somehow, her aunt had thrown her into this mindset that the only way to be successful was to be involved in everything. Of course, by default Heather barely wanted to be included in anything. Yes, she was a part of every club you could think of, but her role in each was pretty mediocre. There was nothing about Heather that stuck out, or made her anymore noticeably than anyone else. This was definitely done on purpose. In all actuality, she just wanted to get the fuck out of this place. All of her hard work was finally paying off, and she knew that she would get into her dream school on the west coast. As far away from Devil’s Knot, Michigan that a 4.0 grade point average, and stellar class activity involvement could get her.

She was focusing intently on the head bobbing in front of her as her thoughts wondered to the pack of cigarettes hanging out in her bag. She had gone through a pack already this week, and it was only Wednesday. At this point she either had a raging nicotine addiction, or was stressed the fuck out. She’d prefer to claim it was the latter. Her life wasn’t completely horrible. She was generally okay most days, just not living her best life. However, after four years of being you it was hard to change. Sometimes she just wanted to pop out of her shell and scream – “I’m only one person, I can’t do everything!” …. But then again, the thought of screaming anything gave her crippling anxiety, so that wouldn’t be happening anytime soon.

A slight giggle escaped her lips as she pondered over this fact, and relief flooded throughout her body as she reached the fence. Finally, her pre-practice conditioning was done, and she could escape for a ‘bathroom’ break. “Hey coach, I’m going to the bathroom. I’ll be back,” she called out, leaning down to rummage through her backpack, settling on her toiletry bag and starting across the grass and towards the field restrooms. Her beloved bike sheds were only a few steps past those small concrete buildings, covered by a few trees. Her mouth had begun to twitch as she anticipated placing a cigarette between her lips. “Thank goodness,” she sighed aloud as she rounded the last tree. A cigarette already in her mind as she couldn’t help rummaging through her bag to retrieve one on her way over here.

It was only a few seconds before she had it between her lips and lit, a long pull following. She tried to keep her smoking habit a secret, but she had been caught a couple of times by various people. It was a disgusting habit, and she really wanted to stop, but it was hard to find the willpower. She had control of everything in her life, and it was nice even if it sounded crazy to let something take control of her for once.

ANYTHING ELSE?

Heather is a closeted bisexual. Not in a hide in the bathroom, and kiss inside a stall type of way… more so a “I don’t even know that I really like girls” type of way. She’s had a few moments when she’s looked at Kelly and thought “Wow, she’s fucking hot,” but everyone finds people of their same gender attractive right? It’s almost like finding yourself attractive in a way.

In reality, Heather only finds Kelly attractive because she’s just as high strung as she is. In Heather’s eyes it comes across as determined… but the both of them are just batshit crazy. 

When she’s not participating in one of her many after school activities she likes to sit out in the woods. It’s quiet, and sometimes it’s nice to be alone. She’ll take a couple of schoolbooks, a snack, and just hide behind the trees watching the road. Only a few cars pass by, and the rumbling of the engines mixing with the hum of nature is soothing. Now that Brian has gone missing, she’s strayed from that spot, not from fear directly – she just hasn’t had the opportunity to return just yet.

She doesn’t listen to much music, it’s distracting. Especially when she’s trying to study; which is more times than not. When she hangs out with Julie, she’s more open to doing ‘fun’ things, but only so she’ll shut up about it. 

Heather takes pride in the fact that she is dependable. She gets things done correctly the first time. Wasting time isn’t something she’s fond of, and she would rather take her time to get it right rather than rush and do a mediocre job.

Her parents were both alcoholics. She was hiding in her bedroom closet during one of their routine arguments when her father shot her mother, and then turned the gun on himself. Heather was only five. She moved to Devil’s Knot with her aunt soon after, and pushed the memory to the back of her head. Even the appearance of alcohol seems to trigger her, so she stays as far away from it as she can. She absolutely refuses to drink it, and will freak out at anyone drinking in her presence.

#dkaccepted #accepted #heather wheeler

[devilsknotrp]

Congratulations, Noel! You have been accepted for the role of Kevin Shah (FC: Avan Jogia). What an absolute delight reading your application was! You really grasped what makes Kevin Kevin. The Shah family dynamic is so intricate and interesting, and you really show an intriguing side of it. We can’t wait to have you on the dash! Please have a look at this page prior to sending in your account.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Name: Noel Age: 23 Pronouns: She/they Timezone: CDT Activity estimation: I’d estimate myself being on the dash every 2-3 days. Triggers: REDACTED

IN CHARACTER

Full name: Kevin Shah Age: 10/06/1978 Gender: Cis male Pronouns: He/him Sexuality: Bisexual Occupation: High school senior Connection to Victim: Kevin vaguely registered the Goode’s arrival in Devil’s Knot, a year or so ago— newcomers in a small town, who wouldn’t have— but that’s pretty much the limit of his interactions with the family. The most he’s seen of them have been through Beth and David, by virtue of being in the same grade at school. David he wrote off almost immediately, as soon as he showed signs of getting along with Kelly. When he went on to win the spot as their football quarterback, Kevin’s assumptions were reaffirmed. Beth had always seemed more interesting, especially with her brother for contrast. Still, Kevin can’t tell if she’s just a troublemaker or if there’s something more substantial to her, so she’s barely been on his radar all year. Now, after the incident, he doesn’t know how to feel about either of them. Alibi: “It’s not the most exciting answer, but I was home alone in my room, reading. What can I say– it’s a Saturday afternoon, Kelly’s out so the house is actually quiet, my best friend is too busy making an honest living to see me. I think I was finishing up Eugene Onegin. I try to get all my Russian lit reading done before winter, otherwise that shit can really fuck you up. …It probably would’ve been more interesting if I said it was In Cold Blood or something, huh?” Faceclaim: Avan Jogia

WRITING SAMPLE

In Michigan, no given point can ever be more than six miles from a lake. Kevin’s too scattered to remember where the piece of information comes from, but it’s as cemented and sure in his mind as his ABC’s, so he figures it must be true. There must be some calculation in there, about how likely you are to be touching a body of water at any given time. Some average of the surface area of the human body, at least at it’s ends, as compared to the square footage of all that cement, grass, forest. Or maybe: surface area of Devil’s Knot above the water, and surface area of all of Devil’s Knot that lies below it.

(He is not thinking of Brian Goode at the bottom of a lake.) Kevin knows something is wrong because his parents are home early. After breaking the news, they just look at him, expectant, waiting for some reaction. He doesn’t know what it’s supposed to be, but he knows he can’t be here, so without a word he turns and goes back to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him loud enough that he knows they hear.

Once a few minutes have passed, he slips the same door open, and soundlessly walks down the stairs and out the back door. Years of practice sneaking out means he has it down to an art, and no one notices him leave.Realistically, he knows he can’t go far. He guesses he can risk about half an hour outside, tops, before one of his parents checks on him. Kevin doesn’t like to give his family ammo, and getting caught sneaking out today of all days could be serious enough that his mother might actually talk to him about it, which would not be ideal. His family life greatly improved the day he learned to lower his expectations and avoid anything that might turn into an excuse for interaction.

Kevin speeds into a jog. The houses start to grow further apart, and pretty soon he’s running parallel to the forest. He knows the reputation that surrounds it, that poor man and his poor, mangled body (Pete Silverman’s dad, a small voice in his head says, but he quashes it, reduces the knowledge to bare-bones, scribbles of text on an old newspaper.) Still, he’s never found the forest as ominous as some of his classmates make it out to be. Something about the quiet of it, how the trees muffle all sounds. Even a few minutes walk into the woods, away from cul-de-sac civilization, can leave him feeling like the only person left in the world. At peace. All that outside chaos, lowered to a hum and then smothered completely. Tonight though, the woods don’t feel calm. They feel like they’re waiting.

Kevin slows his jog until he’s stopped completely, looking into the still trees. He wonders what monster might come out of them, and what he would do if it did.

ANYTHING ELSE?

— It’s like everyone says— the quickest way to get a kid interested in something is to forbid it, and nothing is more taboo in the Shah household than religion. Kevin’s interest in everything spiritual, otherworldly and arcane all stem from his mother’s discomfort with it, her absolute distaste for anything even vaguely mystical. His upbringing was a world of science, facts and reality, leaving him with a pragmatism that only feeds his fascination with anything unlikely. Life in Devil’s Knot can feel so small and alienating, and sometimes the existence of every odd little object and bit of information he’s hoarded away is a reminder of how much else is out there, how many different ways of thinking and seeing exist in the wider world. (But yeah, it definitely helps that his interest of choice pisses his mom off.)

— His interest in the arcane also functions as a way to make the boogeyman of his Devil’s Knot childhood— Satanism— into something controllable, something not frightening. A scientific fascination, rather than chanting monsters in the shadows. A pet project rather than something that could happen to him (or someone he knows.)

— He went through a period during sophomore year where he tried to learn everything he could about the history of Devil’s Knot. He tells himself this had nothing to do with the 10 year anniversary of the murder of Philip Silverman, and any creeping anxieties that may have been bubbling up in the town’s collective unconscious. Kevin decided he maybe knew enough about the town when he found himself in the dusty basement of the library, searching through a box for an article vaguely alluded to in one line of a separate newspaper microfiche, describing a summer in 1934 when there may or may not have been a three-headed lamb born on a farm that used to take up the majority of Elm street. He accidentally inhaled a spiderweb while sifting through files and in the ensuing coughing fit had the (rare) thought that maybe this particular obsession had gone too far.

— Kevin can read tarot cards really well. It’s not something he believes in, but it was a way to pass the time one weekend a few summers back. At the very least, the history of their iconography is really interesting. (His favorite card is the Hanged Man; he considers it widely misunderstood.)

— Kevin can’t deal with Kelly being cheer captain. It was bad enough that his twin sister would choose to sign up for a sport so tacky, so teen sitcom, so stereotypically status quo, but then to put in the time and energy to actually become captain? It’s unforgivable. He avoids her and her friends around school, and any opportunity to accidentally be associated with them. If a classmate asks him if they’re related, he lies.

— (TW: homophobia, racism) Growing up, Kevin’s appearance made him an anomaly. He’s (obviously) checked the statistics, and they’re pretty grim— by the time of the last census in 1990, Indians made up a mere 0.2% of the entire Michigan population. He doesn’t know where that 0.2% are hiding, but apparently it’s not in small, backwoods towns like Devil’s Knot, because he can count on one hand the residents he’s met who look anything like him, outside of his own family. Without going into unpleasant detail, this fact hasn’t been lost on the other residents of Devil’s Knot either, and it hasn’t always been easy. Sometimes it feels more like being born with a target on his back that says ’Total assholes, aim here’. Point being, he’s familiar enough with discrimination, and being judged over parts of himself he can’t control, that he doesn’t see the need to bring any unnecessary negative attention to himself by coming out as bisexual. Not that he’d want to change if he could, or anything like that— he’s always been pretty comfortable with his sexuality. And he’s definitely not afraid, because fuck that. But, barring any sudden fervors of love, it’s not a part of himself he sees the point of broadcasting around school.

— Kevin has a lot of questions about Max Acosta and his trial, but he hesitates to share them with anyone outside his close circle. One thing he that situation has taught him is how quickly the town can turn on those outside the status quo, how fast opinions can flip to the extreme. Learning about the holes in Acosta’s trial fundamentally changed how he saw Devil’s Knot. Kevin had always wondered how far people would go to regain a sense of normalcy in a small town like theirs. He guesses Max Acosta found that out the hard way.

#dkaccepted #accepted #kevin shah

[devilsknotrp]

Congratulations, Meredith! You have been accepted for the role of Ariadne Guzman (FC: Odette Annable). Ariadne is an interestingly positioned character. She could easily be written as a passive love interest for Mike... or as an active member of the police force. Your application made it clear where she stood: and it’s on her own two feet. You said it so well in that she is firm in her convictions and who she is. Ariadne is clumsy and well-meaning and entirely endearing, and that came across so well in your application. You have an ear for her character and it was a true delight to read your interpretation of her. Thank you for such a great application! Please have a look at this page prior to sending in your account.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Name: Meredith Age: 18 Pronouns: They/them Timezone: EST Activity estimation: In the summertime (so, now!) I am extremely active, posting probably every other day, though I will make an attempt for every day. I’m starting college in the fall, so that adjustment might put a bit of a damper on that, but I’ll maintain posting as often as I can. I have no issue staggering posts out so I’m still on the dash, even if I prefer to post all my replies at the same time. Triggers: REDACTED

IN CHARACTER: BASICS

Full name: Ariadne Rose Guzman Age (DD/MM/YYY): 11/24/1967. Sagittarius sun, Leo moon. Gender: Cisgender Female Pronouns: She/her Sexuality: Bisexual Occupation: Police Officer Connection to Victim: Blurry television screens and terrifying accusations only bring back memories of the horrors of ‘84 — and that’s what primarily fuels her determination to bring Brian home. Simply imagining all the horrors that happened, but instead to a little boy is enough to make her stomach turn. Ariadne knows Linda vaguely from church, mostly from chatting the other woman’s ear off after presenting a particularly shitty cherry pie at a church potluck. Alibi: Ariadne was on the job when Brian went missing. It made things more horrifying and more real, but she’s grateful that it’s solid. She knows what kind of paranoia small towns cook up after trauma like this. Faceclaim: Odette Annable, Shay Mitchell, and then the original face claim of Natalee Linez.

WRITING SAMPLE

Shit. Fuck. Shit. Shit, fuck. She’s halfway through the train of expletives, mind moving erratically — like a wonky washing machine in a seedy laundromat, thunk thunk thunking against her skull, or television static after a particularly nasty rainstorm knocks out the cable — when she remembers why exactly her alarm clock is losing it’s shit at such an early hour. Church. Well, perhaps early isn’t the best word for the situation, even considering the time at which Sunday service began was still in the single digits. Not early; Ariadne is indisputably late. She knows it well the whirs and chirps and blaring of the three clocks she has stationed around her room all reminding her oh-so-sweetly. She’s always been a heavy sleeper, especially with the sheer amount of glass bottles that line her recycling bins. Sam Adams, Pete’s Wicked Ale, Coors. It’s something reminiscent of a baby cooing and falling asleep with drool trailed across plump cheeks, after his bottle, the way she curls up under the blankets in the fetal position after three or four or five ( it’s not five often, she’d swear on it ) of her favorite brew. There’s even a raggedy looking plush dog, with worn patches in his fur and an eye gone rogue somewhere between toddlerdom and childhood, that she keeps in the corner of her room. Too grown to sleep with it, too nostalgic to tuck it — even if him is the pronoun the mind conjures, one can hardly forget all the details of childhood stuffed animal lore — away somewhere far from here. It gets lonely in her apartment. But she’d headed to church, not Sunday school, damnit, and she’s going to act like it.

Speedily, hopefully, and though she rams her funny bone against the headboard as she makes a spastic attempt to slam the first alarm button as she yanks off pajama pants. She hops on one leg, half to mitigate the pain, or at least let herself think she’s doing so. Hobbling now, to the second —— aaand, the other half of her reasoning is left in a crumpled lump on the floor. I’ll pick them up later, she thinks, as she hunts for dress pants. A skirt, maybe. Should she wear a skirt? Fuck, does she need to shower? She yanks long brown locks in front of her face for a moment, inhaling deeply. Still smells like mango, her arm through it still smells like Dove soap and dollar store shampoo. No one could say she wasn’t distinct.

Third alarm is slammed off, and sweet, sweet silence fills the apartment once more. Other than the clank of pipes, of course, and she shakes away thoughts of ghost stories she tells herself when she wants to be too terrified to sleep. Criminals, she could deal with, but Casper the Ghost was pushing it. Skirt, skirt, skirt … “ Make an effort to look nice, Ariadne. ” Words are mumbled, and it takes a moment for brain to measure up with scattered thoughts and realise she’s talking aloud to herself. Great. Something fluttery and pale blue that ends at her knees is snatched off a hanger that looks terribly lonely in her closet, and she feels like a school girl as white blouse is added and respectively tucked in as neatly as she can muster. There’s no time for makeup – thankfully, she absolutely despises wearing it — or doing her hair, which she doesn’t mind so much. Hopefully not a rat’s nest. A single yank of the string dangling from crooked blinds, and she sees that the sky matches the cardigan she yanks on in hue. Dress shoes are pulled on, and she knows she’ll get a blister along with the dirty looks from a church elder or two for legs not clad in pantyhoes. Keys, keys, keys — deodorant, a swipe under each arm — keys, keys, keys.

She’s out the door now, and never more has she wished to feel sunshine on her skin. But, she only only gets overcast, and in spite of it, she skips two steps at a time down the back of the building. Cramped in spite of beautiful hardwood floors and a relatively spacious kitchen — relatively being she could turn around in it and not smack her ass against a hot stove, the apartment doesn’t really feel like home. Not yet anyway. Home. That’s a concept, that, to Ariadne at least, exists somewhere in the mythical sphere between familiar and intangibly distant. The way she’d grown up, at least, of dress collars stiffened with cornstarch and staring out bedroom window at the blinking of city lights in the distance, wishing she was doing something — that didn’t quite feel like home either. She loved her parents, she did, is how she would explain it when offering too much information, but in the same way a zookeeper might like an elephant before it sits on their chest and suffocates them to death. Time spent in Devil’s Knot still felt like a vacation. A novelty, really, some shitty tchotchke that ended up breaking the moment you vaguely manhandled it. But the illusion of small town community hadn’t shattered yet, not under hands delicate even through callouses. Nothing could, only time itself wearing down the sheen. But for now, things were bright and real and good, crisp September air shirking off summer humidity on that Sunday morning. There was a buzz of possibility — or maybe it was just anxiety at the thought of bursting through church doors too late to not interrupt the hymns.

Maybe that buzzing was what home was.

ANYTHING ELSE?

I made a pinterest board for Ariadne here, and a playlist here. Both are constantly in progress, as right now they’re looking a little sparse.

BACKGROUND / THE STORY SO FAR

Religion was always a part of Ariadne’s life, but it didn’t fall into her lap quite so perfectly until she was in Devil’s Knot. She grew up going to a stuffy church every Sunday, with old men half asleep in the pews and slow, heavy hymns that didn’t exactly put the joy of the Lord into her heart. Sunday school was a drag, and her mind was always moving far too quickly for her to pay attention. Why does God make bad things happen? She asked her mother one day, after a collection plate had been filled with sweaty fistfuls of coins and crumpled one dollar bills at the revelation that someone in the congregation had cancer. God doesn’t, her mother said sternly, giving the meat she was tenderizing another smack. Ariadne jumped. People do.

Ariadne never believed that, though, not for a long time. Not until she was seventeen, and her parent’s mumbled words by the television set caught her attention. Murder. Gruesome as could be. She could feel the sinking in her belly of anger, at the cruelty and callousness of the situation. It was in that moment she vowed — she wanted to make a change in the world. She wanted life to not be so cruel. She followed each word of the trial with rigid attention, praying a resolution would be found. And then she saw Max Acosta’s face, and her mother’s words rang true in her mind. People do. People were not a supernatural force, nor an unstoppable one. People — people she could fix.

Being a cop specifically isn’t what she’s always dreamed of — it’s helping people. Ariadne’s people skills, empathy, and desire for change had her toying with the idea of becoming a therapist for a while, but she’s never been particularly focused. The idea of sitting around all day, only using her words … it didn’t feel like enough. Still confused and lost as to how she could possibly make a difference, Ariadne lurked around the local community college for two years, taking enough classes to get an associate’s degree in psychology. The scientific parts bored her, but one class caught her interest particularly well. The Psychology of The Criminal Mind. She knew then that this, that becoming a cop, was what she was meant to do. She didn’t have to save people — she could protect them.

Moving to Devil’s Knot was an easy decision. If there was one thing Ariadne craved, it was connection. People. And a small town, one with a shitty diner and church picnics and the trial that started it all … it just felt right to her. Weren’t those the people that most needed protecting? People who had already been burned? From her tiny apartment, Ariadne poured over police manuals, pushing herself through the academy and finally, finally becoming a trainee officer. Now that she’s in full force ( ha! ) at the force, she’s lost none of her shine or enthusiasm for what she’s doing. She’s certainly not a kiss-ass, because it’s all painfully genuine. She really does want to work more hours, she really doesn’t mind the extra paperwork. Anything that needs to be done, she’ll do it. It’s just what’s right.

HEADCANONS

She doesn’t mean to be a shameless flirt, it’s just how she comes off. She’s bright and she’s funny and she’s warm, and a cheesy smile or a hand placed on a shoulder only comes from that place of kindness. Banter rolls off her tongue easily, and compliments are always genuine. She’s been like this for as far as she could remember — fourteen and charming the wits of all the boys in the freshman class. That mouth’s gonna get you in trouble one day. Her father told her then, through a half baked smile and the reeking stench of whiskey as he ruffled her hair, even though Ariadne thought she was far too old to have her hair ruffled.

Ariadne has always had to work harder than other people. Her mind just doesn’t seem to focus right. That’s part of the reason she’s so meticulous when it comes to police work, the same way she was with assignments throughout her school years. Room is always messy, clothes mostly untucked and never quite ironed properly, but she’s a marvel when it comes to facts and evidence. She likes to let people believe it’s all natural, but the amount of time she’s pulled all nighters perfecting things because everything else is just too interesting for her to focus is more than she can count.

As friendly as she is, Ariadne is not a people pleaser. Firm in her convictions and quick to spout them, shutting her mouth isn’t something she knows how to do. More often than not, these can turn into arguments — though as anyone that’s spent more than an hour with her can tell you, any spat with Ariadne is brief, because forgiving and forgetting is just a part of her personality. She’s always ready to go back to being best friends, and start the cycle over the next time you disagree with her — realistically, the next day.

No one is a worse chef than Ariadne Guzman. Except, well, she doesn’t know it. She tries, always, but she’s the type of person to burn water. Chicken comes out uncooked in the middle, pasta falls apart into mush as soon as you twirl it on a fork, cookies and cakes are burnt and runny, respectively. But she still shows up wherever she’s invited with something disgusting that she’s deemed her new specialty. Suspiciously, after the response, her specialty is never cooked again. Following instructions isn’t exactly her forté when lives aren’t on the line, so it’s not really a shock to anyone but her things turn out badly.

Ariadne loves holidays. Something about not doing much outside of her family as a child, Christmas and Easter and Thanksgiving and even Halloween were always huge celebrations for her as a child. She has spirit for everything, and is the best gift giver in all of Michigan. Even though it’s a rarity that anyone sees it, her apartment is decorated as neatly as she can muster for each of them, and she never complains when stores break out their decorations a bit too early. Don’t you feel the spirit in the air?

#dkaccepted #accepted #literate rp #original rp #new rp #ariadne guzman

[devilsknotrp]

Congratulations, Rose! You have been accepted for the role of Linda Goode (FC: Jodie Whittaker). We have our heartbroken momma! You captured Linda’s motherly nature so perfectly, I was smiling through the whole application. You’ve made it so clear that while her life may not have gone according to her dreams or plans, the children she got out of it make everything worth it. I love her passion for writing, too! Welcome to Devil’s Knot! Please have a look at this page prior to sending in your account.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Name: Rose Age: 23 Pronouns: she/her Timezone: so I accidentally got it wrong in the other app haha, it’s currently GMT +1, soon just GMT because I’ll be moving to the UK Activity estimation: Right now I have all the time in the world but in September I will start my masters so it will probably be a little less but I’m sure I’ll have time to work around it. Overall my activity would probably be around 7 or 8. Triggers: REDACTED

IN CHARACTER

Full name: Linda Elizabeth Goode (nee Holland) Age (DD/MM/YYY): thirty-nine (28-09-1957) Gender: Cisgender female Pronouns: She/her Sexuality: heterosexual Occupation: currently on the look for one. After living without Paul, her ex-husband, she has enough money to move and live for a few months with the kids but she’s been keen on finding a job and becoming a part of the community. Before that she was, and still is, a stay-at-home mom. Connection to Victim: Well, about as closely connected to him as one could be. She carried him for nine months, goodness sake. He is her baby. Brian is her youngest son who she loves so dearly. With the other two being older and a little more rebellious, Brian is all she has left to love and hold dear of her children before he gets older and more independent as well. Alibi: The Saturday that Brian went missing, Linda had been busying early in the morning. She had woken up at her usual time, seven in the morning, and prepared breakfast for her children. They all came tumbling down one by one, eating their pancakes bleary-eyed except her daughter who always looked ready to take on an army with her deep scowls. After that, she went food shopping and came back. She had just made lunch for herself and Brian, her other two children out for the day, while she loaded all the dirty plates and cups into the sink and started to clean. All it took was a split second while her hands had been in soap or while she had been drying the plates for Brian to leave. Linda left looked up through the kitchen window where Brian had just been, only to find him gone. She shrugged it off for a second as she tidied everything away first. After that, she decided to ask if he felt like coming in. When she went outside and found him nowhere to be seen, that’s when she started to panic. Faceclaim: Jodie Whittaker

WRITING SAMPLE

“Mom! Mom, come on!” Brian yelled from the car, his brown hair waving along on the breeze of the wind. Linda, feeling like a sumo-wrestler, walked towards the vehicle with two big bags in her arms. One on each side, swinging back and forth with every huge step she took. Pushing them inside the boot, she closed it as she moved to the front. As she did, she walked past the rest of the car where within lay her three greatest treasures. David, Beth and Brian. Her eldest son was sat in a corner, shading his eyes from the sun. The wrinkle between his eyes indicated what he truly thought about being trapped in such close vicinity with his two younger siblings. Beth sat in the middle, her unruly red hair tumbled down her shoulders while her blue eyes moved around the car to see everything that was going around her. In the other corner sat young Brian. His wide eyes, similar to Linda’s, watched his siblings with great interest. The smile on his lips seemed to brighten the entire world. Linda felt a surge of pride and pure happiness as she saw them. Moving to the front of the car, she sat down and turned to face her children.

“Who is ready to go to the beach?”

Linda enjoyed the gritty feeling of the sand between her toes as she slid them deeper into it. The big lime green towel that was their collecting point lay flat open with a parasol to keep create a little shade in this otherwise lovely warm weather. Through her sunglasses, she saw her whole new world unfold before her. The lovely warm glow that was cast on everything she viewed. Beth’s hair was the colour of live fire as strands of it almost seemed gold, David’s skin seemed slightly tan and warm and Brian’s smile and bright yellow sunhat seemed as bright as the sun itself. It created a warm feeling in her chest that spread through her, turning the corner of her lips up. Paul had left for a few days on a trip to another state so Linda wanted to make the most of her time with the children. It was summer and the weather was so nice, that when they’d come down in the morning she immediately asked them what they thought about going to the beach. They spend the entire day there until David had a slightly red-ish hue to him, Beth had managed to pick a fight with someone and Brian had stomped off because she hadn’t let him get every ice cream he wanted to try.

As they were about to leave, Linda called the three of them to her and told them to sit down on this wooden bench close to where they were parked. Judging by the annoyed groans and sighs she could tell that they weren’t in the mood for a picture but Linda had enjoyed this day so much that she wanted something tangible to remember it by. They were perched on the bench and faced her as she took a photo. She took a few extra ones for good luck, or so parents always said but she enjoyed having as many pictures of her children as she could.

A deep sigh escaped her lips as she looked down at the photo in her hand. She remembered so well David walking next to Brian as they chatted together. Laughing together. Beth running around them. Helping her younger brother get up after she’d pushed him too hard and caused him to fall down. Brian. It had been a week since she’d last seen him and the weight of that reality settled heavily on her shoulders. She’d walked passed the mirror, catching a glimpse of her ghoulish appearance. That’s the best way she could describe it. Sleep didn’t come easily but so didn’t getting out of bed. The dark shadows under her eyes revealed as much. Her hair, pulled back in a ponytail, hung loose and you could see the greasiness of it in the morning light.

It was her real face, but the town of Devil’s knot had no time for reality. They wanted to see a mother put together, one that was not a failure, that could stand up to the unbearable of a missing child. It was impossible, but she tried, stepping into the shower as if it could wipe away all that buried into her heart.

Her hair hung in its usual styled bob and a little make-up worked miracles to hide the dark shadows and harsh lines that had become prominent on her face. Once perhaps she’d have spent a moment to appreciate her features, wide doe eyes and small lips that had been admired for long ago. The notion of such fanciful ideas was laughable however, in the face of a tragedy such as this.

“Mom, are you ready?” David stood in the opening of her bedroom, seeming larger than life in the shadow of the hall lights. He’d become the man of the house, or at least tried to, and she found herself being so very proud of the effort. But it was too much to ask him and Beth to keep a brave face. The haunting of Brian’s absence was replicated on them as well.

Linda tried her best to conjure up the warmth and be the caring mother they needed, but a facade could only do so much. The practical was easy, making breakfast, doing simple chores, but when it came to the emotional, to actually looking them in the eye and saying it would be okay - she wasn’t sure she could really be there. Linda let out a soft sigh as she tried to rid herself a little of the pain and emotions that raced through her. She tried not to let her children see too much of what it was exactly what she was feeling, she wanted them to see her as strong and determined because that’s exactly what she was. Linda knew her son was out there somewhere and she was sure she’d find him, as sure as the earth goes around the sun.

“Yes, come on honey. Let’s go and look for your brother.”

ANYTHING ELSE?

→ Linda was a girl who didn’t look like a “nerd” but she was smart. During her high school years, she worked hard to get the best grades that she could get and worked for it. Her wide eyes and soft smile caused her to receive quite some attention from guys but she never pursued them. After graduating, she got into her state university and pursued her dream to become a journalist. Her love for writing grew as she read literature and got involved with extracurricular activities and what was going on in the world. At that moment in time is when she met Paul Goode, the darling of the political classes and one-time guest speaker at her university. He was the most charismatic man she’d ever met, and she fell, easily, dramatically, and most of all, foolishly. It wasn’t his wealth that got her, nor his position, but his passion. He had a drive that was infectious and a tendency to sweep you into his path whether you want to or not. And so, like a love-struck teen, she let him spin her into his web and he kept her there in every sense. Her pregnancy for one. They started dating in her second year and in her third year she found out she was pregnant. She was worried her mother would disown her, instead she fully embraced it. The woman smelt the opportunity with such a man on the up and up, and so, they were married. You’d think for someone so clever she’d have avoided that easy pitfall, but no, she ended up with David at the age of 21, with no prospect of finishing her course and no choice but to lean on Paul. Till unhappiness do them part…

→ Linda is a good mother. Perhaps too good. There’s such a thing as caring too much and that’s exactly what she does. But what else can she do? They were after all her life, literally. After giving up her own dreams and ambitions, she has close to nothing else to do except care for her children. It’s not her intention but its manifested into a deep, constant need to take care of them. From fussing over their hair to making sure their rooms are perfect to accounting for their location almost constantly. Over time the incessant has produced friction in the house, especially with David and to a lesser degree Brian. Who unlike their sister were unable to easily break out the chains of her overbearing nature and Linda tried her best to break habits far too old in the making. It makes Brian’s disappearance all the more stinging, knowing that she could have stopped it if only she’d loved him more and kept a closer eye.

→ The notion of putting on a good face is not exclusive to Devil’s Knot. In fact, it has been Linda’s recipe for life ever since she had gotten pregnant. No matter the abuse Paul threw her way, nor the stresses of essentially living as a single mother even when she was married, she could always be relied upon to put on the show of a happy housewife. The truth, however, beneath the mask, is that Linda has been unhappy for decades. It buries down to her bones, a dark stain, that clouds her mind in the moments that she was alone. All it would take would be a few visits to a therapist to know she had depression, but the notion doesn’t even enter her mind. Instead, she loses herself in her duties. When she makes the kids dinner or folds their laundry, she’s not ever really there. She’s just an empty shell, going through the motions, watching the world pass but taking no joy in it. She’s afraid that should she take a moment to really face what she felt, she would no longer be able to keep going.

→ She may be a housewife, but that didn’t mean Linda was without skills. She had been a journalism major for a reason, and she had a mean prose when she chose to wield it. In the fleeting moments of loneliness at home, she sometimes returns to her old flame, but she’s scared to really consider it again. Writing was hard enough when you’re young and unafraid, but she has a family to support, and a dismal lack of self-belief means that she often considers it a fancy that she has no right to indulge in, despite the deep joy that it brings. Watching the evening news and the morning paper will just have to do. She hopes one day to be able to pursue a certain kind of job that would allow her to write again like she’s always wanted to, but for now, that’s not something she’d want since she’s still completely focused on her children.

#dkaccepted #accepted #linda goode

[devilsknotrp]

Congratulations, SB! You have been accepted for the role of Deborah Davies (FC: Sadie Sink).  Please have a look at this page prior to sending in your account.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Name: SB Age: 28 Pronouns: She/her Timezone: PST Activity estimation: I’m on all day erryday. Triggers: REDACTED

IN CHARACTER

Full name: Deborah Elizabeth Davies Age (DD/MM/YYY): Thirteen. Born: 18/05/1983 Gender: Female Pronouns: She/her Sexuality: N/A Occupation: Elementary School Student Connection to Victim: Brian was part of the gang. Out of their group, she’s closest to Josh, but Brian came in a close second. They bonded over their absent and problematic fathers and found in each other a kindred spirit. His absence weighs heavily on her and at this point, she’s not sure what she’ll do if he isn’t found soon. Alibi: Taking a nap. Her mom made her clean the house Saturday morning while she  was at the diner and Deb was told she could have friends over for a movie marathon if she made sure the house was spotless.  Faceclaim: Sadie Sink

WRITING SAMPLE

“Sorry, you think one of us knows something about all this?” 

School had been a mad house since two days ago when she stopped seeing one of her best friends in the halls. It wasn’t weird for Deb not to hear from Brian, sometimes he just took a few days to himself. Sometimes she wishes she could do the same thing. But then again, with her mom  always at the diner and her brothers none existent in her home life, she kinda got her wish. This, however, was different. Brian had been AWOL. His brother and sister hadn’t heard from him, his mom hadn’t seen him, and the fact that none of the gang had heard a peep...well that meant trouble. 

“I just don’t see how you think a bunch of kids are gonna know who took him. We never saw anyone weird around, he didn’t have a stalker or anything, he was a normal kid, okay?”

Deb was never the one to get in trouble. Not for lack of trying, but she was pretty good at manipulating the adults around her into believing that she’d either never do it again or that she was never in the wrong to begin with and it was all just those darn boys. In the aftermath, Deb was the one walking away with a smirk while the boys stared angrily at her back as they got their punishments. 

“I already told you. The last time I talked to Brian was on the phone after school on Friday night. We’d all just finished watching the baseball game and we were gonna go grab corndogs, but Josh had his family dinner to go so we all went home.”

The perks of living with just your mom and no older brothers was that there was rarely someone hogging the phone or the bathroom when you needed it. Deb could only imagine what sort of hell it’d be to get ready in the morning if she had two older brother around. It was bliss they was she had it. Truely. There was no part of her that wished her whole family could be together. Brothers, a mom, a dad....

“What do you think we talked about? Kid stuff! Mostly about how much Brian loves playing but never gets a chance to. Sure, he’s not a great player, but they should still let him play! That’s just fair.” 

They all knew Brian wasn’t the best player on the team, but that wasn’t what was important. He wasn’t terrible, and he liked being part of the team. Deb was one of the  loudest voices in the stands any time he got up to bat, and she hoped Brian knew that. He had friends, even if he liked to be off by himself every once in a while. Deb really hoped he knew that people cared about him.

“Can I go now? I’m supposed to meet my mom at the diner. And honestly, you guys should be out there looking for Brian instead of talking to all of us.”

Talking to a bunch of thirteen year olds wasn’t gonna find Brian. A part of Deb wondered if it was the same person responsible. If the monster that had a hand in taking Pete had actually stayed in Devil’s Knot, running free. Not Max Acosta, but his spawn. What if she was the reason Brian was missing? What if he was picked ‘cause he hung out with her? 

Deb snatched up her bookbag and stomped out of the Principal’s office, shoving rudely past the Office Assistant. Sometimes her mom called her abrasive as if saying it out loud would change anything. How could she not be? She was literally the spawn of Satan. What else would she be?

ANYTHING ELSE?

She has a small “shrine” hidden under her mattress. It’s a scrapbook consisting of all the news clippings and magazine articles written about her father. It’s not like she idolizes him, but she can’t deny that she needs to know everything she can about him. God knows her mom won’t tell her anything. 

Has been trying to get Andrew to teach her how to skateboard. She found an old one out in the garage, probably one of Bobby’s failed experiments, and has been trying to make it her own. It’s covered in holographic alien and glitter winking cat stickers. She’s not very good and has a lot of scraped knees to prove it. 

Sometimes she zones out when doing her homework. Sure, everyone does, but for Deb it’s not because she isn’t interested in doing the work. Sometimes her brain just gets so overwhelmed with all the ideas and problem solving possibilities that it just sorta shuts down. Give her a few and she’ll reboot. 

Deb doesn’t really talk to her half siblings. She wants a relationship with them, sure, but right now it just sorta seems like they’re too old to hang out with a kid like her. She can’t help but feel like they just don’t know what to do with her which makes her uncomfortable too and if you ask her, it’s just easier to avoid them at all costs.

She has an extensive CD collection and will shred anyone who touches it without her permission. Her top artists at the moment are Smashing Pumpkins, Garbage, Fleetwood Mac, The Cardigans and Nirvana. She’ll never admit this, but she does pop on some Spice Girls every now and then, but like hell does she keep their album with the rest of her treasures. 

#dkaccepted #accepted #deborah davies

[devilsknotrp]

Congratulations, Cee! You have been accepted for the role of Zeke Hawker (FC: Jack Dylan Grazer). This was another really tough decision, and we truly thank the both of you for your applications! We love how deeply you got into his mind, his likes and dislikes, his snarkiness balanced with a touch of insecurity and a dash of healthy egotism. He’ll be a delight to have running around town! Please have a look at this page prior to sending in your account.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Name: Cee Age: 20 Pronouns: She/her Timezone: GMT+10 Activity estimation: I’m currently studying full-time again, so I should be able to post IC every 2-3 days easily, depending on my muse. Even if I’m not writing, I’m usually able to be around to plot almost every day! When I know I’ll be pressed for time due to deadlines or exams, I’ll request a semi- or full hiatus. Triggers: N/A

IN CHARACTER

Full name: Ezekiel “Zeke” Hawker Age (DD/MM/YYY): 13 (07/01/1983); Capricorn sun, Gemini moon, Libra rising Gender: Cis male Pronouns: He/him Sexuality: N/A Occupation: Student Connection to Victim: Brian was one of them. He has no idea how such a quiet kid managed to weave his way so easily into an already tight-knit group, but it happened. Zeke wonders if it was because of him being in the same baseball team introduced Brian to the group. Whatever it was, he’s never found himself doubting whether Brian could be part of the friendship – and he doubts plenty of things. Alibi: Zeke was watching the other baseball games. With his game finished (and most of it spent sulking on the bench with Brian reluctantly lending an ear), he’d chosen to stay a while longer that afternoon. Sometime between the matches, he’d made a quick trip down to the Piggly Wiggly with ten dollars he’d mooched off Abel for candy and chips with a few other kids on his team who were still around. At around four-thirty he picked up his bag, shrugged on a crewneck and walked home from the pitch. A teammate’s parent offered him a ride home, and he gratefully took it. He was dropped off at the front doorstep and went straight inside. Faceclaim: Jack Dylan Grazer

WRITING SAMPLE

“Nope. That’s not it.”

Dust motes float languidly around him in the muted daylight that spills from the attic window, stagnant in mid-July air. A hand retreats from the cardboard box he’d finished rifling through, a messy stack of books and trinkets set back in their rightful place. To find a hint, anything about his parents, shouldn’t have been this hard to find. This was a trope of every movie; people kept unwanted things in the attic, not the basement. Too predictable. He thinks so, anyway and although this was real life and not some Spielberg blockbuster, it was close enough. Zeke had forgotten about the graze from another failed skating attempt that spans the base of his knee when he kneels down to store it away. A slight wince crinkling his face, he pushes it back to the spot on the boarding that’s a stark brown against the thin grey that covers the floor. Like nobody would know he’s ever been there. He dusts his hands on his shorts, but not before he’s rubbed his face and splutters from a cobweb across his nose. “Gross.”

Over cereal that morning, he’d asked again. Over a sugary bowl of whole milk-laden Cheerios, Abel consumed by today’s newspaper and soft radio masking the quiet that settled over the house, he wondered if there was anything else to be told about his mother or father. And just as his grandfather always did, it was a stock-standard answer of no, not really, there’s nothing remarkable to tell. As if he hadn’t missed out on the ordinary things already. And besides, isn’t it much more worthwhile to focus on the present?

“Focus on the present, my ass,” Zeke mutters to himself now, free arm outstretched to tear away a frayed edge of packing tape run across cardboard. In heavy marker, the next box is labelled 1971. A good decade before he’d come into existence, kicking and screaming. “Huh.” With limited options for company, it’d become nothing short of normal to talk to himself. Small comments of wonderment as he came across a particularly impressive fact in a book. 

Backhanded remarks as he resigned himself to watching The Bold and the Beautiful when nothing exciting was on television. Once, while they watched television after school, Josh had said he bugged out for doing that, laughter mingling with the taunt. Whatever. You try living in a giant house with just your grandpa, Zeke retorted. The Sunday visits Josh came along for were far different from living there week in, week out. Sundays were warm and bright. Cheerful, even. Once that rolled past, it fell back into the same monotony of school and baseball and homework, all tied together neatly with a rigid lights-out by nine sharp. To focus on the present was a joke.

A soft tug pulls the tape away easily. It’s left crumpled up beside him, gathered together in his fist before being dropped to the floor. He’s hasty to uncover the contents. Just like the last one, it’s packed meticulously. Like Tetris. The cover of the top photo album is worn in one spot, thumbed over by countless hands. He’s careful when he lifts it out and sets it on his lap, even more gentle with the plastic covers that run over the already faded photos.

So he sets to work. He’s learned to search out that face, the same way he skim-reads the chapter of a book assigned for reading he’s put off until the night before. Even if the only reference he relies on is faded, the photograph tattered and dog-eared in one corner from being stuffed in his jacket pocket to show his friends, the features are clear as day when Zeke pores over the images one by one. The disappointment’s sour in his mouth when he’s gone through it with no luck. The photos are beautiful, filled with smiling memories and yet, all devoid of his parents.

Beads of sweat across his upper lip, cotton shirt glued to the spot between his shoulder blades, another hour passes of searching through the storage boxes. He gives up eventually, when he’s graced with that same unpleasant taste. Mingled with that, though, is something else. An idea that perhaps there’re better places to look than right under the nose.

ANYTHING ELSE?

Zeke equates knowledge with adulthood. Maturity. Being a grown-up with a monotonous office job, fibre cereal and the drone of a television. Or used to. Brian’s disappearance has confirmed his suspicions – that it isn’t quite the case. The cops figured out who snuffed Phillip Silverman all those years ago pretty quickly, right? Or so some of them claimed. So, why’s it so hard to put a finger on who kidnapped Brian? The manhunts have gone on drearily, ended with no real certainty. Nobody’s a step closer to finding his friend. All grown-ups seem to do about it is croon in gossip over a diner booth table or spare an infinitesimal glance at the Crime Stoppers posters plastered on each utility pole downtown. He’s become distrusting, and quick. Whatever valiant spearheading people take up of the manhunt and the newfangled mystery of Brian appears self-serving. That there’s a few brownie points to score for next Sunday’s service, or a nice spot on the front page to print their mug across for stumbling across the next clue. If grown-ups cared, what reason is there to be so hush-hush when he asks questions? Zeke doesn’t want to think only the worst will happen. But if the adults are getting nowhere, he’s brought it up in hushed conversation with his friends that maybe, maybe, there’s a better chance of them getting to the bottom of it.

It’s well-known that Zeke isn’t great at making friends. Scratch that – he’s awful at it. Was his father, with all those vices, like that as well? It isn’t that kids don’t want to be friends with him because of his admittedly unconventional family. Whose only parent is their grandpa? But that’s never been so strange to set him apart far enough to be the black sheep. Jealousy has kept him from making friends. Until he reconciles with the fact, he supposes there’ll always be a quiet anger simmering at the back of his throat. It’s an uncomfortable sensation that makes its home in his chest, knowing that he won’t have a mom or dad to take (somewhat reluctant) photos of him on a birthday, on the first day of school or at a family gathering with a scowl plastered to his face. Those are things he’ll never be able to replicate, with Abel occupied by work and the belief that rules in place of his company are enough to raise a kid. He’s long become familiar with that yucky twinge when kids mention their families. He’s never had the luxury of saying My mom took me to go watch Independence Day in Lansing last weekend, or Hey, my dad came to see me score in little league, isn’t that cool! No, it’s been quiet admissions of frustration to Andrew when Abel has skirted a question on his father with the same lacklustre, manufactured answer journalists get when they shove a microphone in his face for the millionth time. To have answers is an itch he constantly finds himself having to scratch.

Apparently, his name means “God will strengthen”. Impressive. Except he despises going to church, enough to almost call himself an atheist, though he’s uttered a prayer or two in the last week when the worry really gets to him. Please, God, find Brian. Keep him safe, bring him home. It’s a nice way to swallow the nerves down, but not much else. He’s more interested in picking up a science book rather than the Bible, adamant about his excuses to weasel his way out of Sunday service but the effort is often pipped every time. Elaborate stories are quickly becoming his new forte. They’re just not quite good enough to get him out of that scratchy button-down and slacks too short at the ankle from his last growth spurt. At least he doesn’t have to go to those prayer groups Abel attends. While he can chalk it down to tradition and old habits, he’s never quite understood why Abel’s put much of his time and energy into it. He’s funny about it, too. Not funny as in it’s an innocent hobby, but funnyfunny. Funny where, if Zeke holds him up with a badly-timed question right as he’s about to step out the door or makes an offhand (and most definitely deliberate) remark that he might as well live at the church with the group, his face becomes stony. While he has quietened down about it, as far as his grandfather’s concerned, he’s determined to ask around elsewhere.

Sometimes, Zeke entertains the idea of asking if he can live at Ken and Aisha’s house. It makes sense. Their car often rumbles in the driveway to pick him up for school or to take him to a county fair. It feels much more familial. He worries that he’s a burden on Abel, that he’ll never properly connect with him as a son should. He’s come home with a busted lip and bruised pride from smart-mouthing bullies enough times to make anyone sigh with exasperation rather than concern. It’s not as if resisting the status quo at home, rules laid down like the law, helps his case either. His uncle and aunt’s home is welcoming. Smaller and cosier and warmer, always filled with chatter or laughter or radio. Abel’s house is huge. Silent, most of the time. When bad weather’s in, the windows rattle and wind shrieks around the corners, making it feel far emptier than it already is, which is no easy feat. To busy himself, Zeke got into the habit of reading and video games. Once he’d mowed his way through the fiction in the reading room, he quickly became hooked on non-fiction. There’s a haphazard stack of books on his bedside table at all times, switched out every week or so. He didn’t mind playing Actua Soccer for a while, until it reminded him of just how terrible he is at sport. Zeke likes to pick up new hobbies. It’s given him a wealth of new knowledge; new facts to ring off. Or when he needs to prove a point. He even tried to skate for a while. Eventually, he got sick of the bruises and grazed knees and Andrew’s bemused remarks. From stargazing to photography to origami, it’s a good way to pass the time.

When it comes to music, he’s pretentious. Zeke considers himself an indie aficionado – he’ll go for an underground station rather than the commercial pop garbage that plays on the radio. Most of his mixtapes are painstakingly curated, filled to the brim with Pavement, Mazzy Star, The Cure, Soul Coughing. Weird stuff. It’s made him consider picking up music, save for the fact that he can’t carry a tune to save himself. Tone deaf, that’s it. He won’t dare admit that he doesn’t understand half of the songs, lacking the life experience to even do so, but he’ll certainly make it seem like he does.

He has no idea why he keeps on with baseball. Most of his time at practice and games is spent cracking jokes and trading interests with Brian on the bench, ignoring the tinny sound of a bat and the shuffle of feet, the cheers from onlookers. Coach says he’d be good at the game, only if he paid attention. Deep down, Zeke has an urge to master everything. It distracts him easily. New things pop up to command his attention and in the blink of an eye, he’s moved on. He’s not scatterbrained, though. Just selective. He knows where to allocate his time. Ideally, he wants to be a jack of all trades, well-rounded and good at school and sports and small talk, though he hasn’t gotten any of them down pat. Too much of a smartass for teachers to really like him, too clumsy with his motor skills that he drops the ball half the time, enough lip and a tendency to curse that makes most kids reel, his friends included. But he’s trying to be better. It’s a quiet effort; one that won’t happen overnight. He cares about his friends deeply, even if it is masked by a habitual urge to squabble and brazen ideas that elicit eye rolls rather than impressed gasps. One day, though, he’ll come up with something good. Something spectacular.

#dkaccepted #accepted #zeke hawker

[devilsknotrp]

Congratulations, Maria! You have been accepted for the role of Stan Meyers (FC: Michiel Huisman). Stan is such a wonderfully twisted and complex character and you did him such justice with this application! He has touches of darkness but the soul of a (rather inept) poet and you captured him beautifully. His desire to be someone, to showcase his talent is so woefully interpreted, we just can’t wait to see him on the dash! Please have a look at this page prior to sending in your account.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Name: Maria Age: 23 Pronouns: She/her Timezone: GMT Activity estimation: Every other day Triggers: REDACTED

IN CHARACTER

Full name: Stan Meyers Age: 14/11/1960 (36) Gender: Male Pronouns: He/Him Sexuality: Straight Occupation: English Literature Teacher Connection to Victim: Teaches both David Goode and Beth Goode, but beyond that has little real connection to them. Alibi: According to staff electronic key records and the activity on the computer in Stan’s classroom, as well as his own testimony, he spent the night on Devil Knot High-school grounds. His own explanation was late night working, attempting to get resources and marking done. Faceclaim: Michiel Huisman

WRITING SAMPLE

Stan had never been popular, nor had he much of a home life. In fact, his life was so ordinary, that it had pained him in its tedium. Perhaps that’s why he loved books so much as a young boy. The pages of fantasy could transport him into a world far more exciting than his own, the salacious drama of contemporary fiction would drive his heart wild in a way the reality didn’t. In the hidden words and gruesome imaginary of crime novels, Stan could let his mind ponder and take the role of a silent detective, living in the heat of the moment, pulse on fire with the idea of a criminal close.

In his grasp, he held a novel. Well, it was rather charitable to call it that. It was more a basically stapled flimsy booklet that looked more akin to a brochure you might find in church. Its brightly decorated cover depicted a stock image of rolling hills from some far-off land, whose horizon was lined by a misty but beautiful lake that was clearly not photographed in the united states. Beneath the rather peaceful landscape sat the title and author.

“Upon the hilltops

By Stan R. Meyers”

It was one thing to tumble into the universes unknown and drop yourself into a story so completely that the outside fades away. It was quite another to become a master of one, to be the sculptor, the creator, to not only be drawn but draw others. The ultimate mark of relevancy. The one way to live on this earth and pass beyond it and yet still be remembered.

Stan could feel his jaw tighten as his fingers clutched the booklet tightly, the cheap paper warping under his grip. Nothing was worse than knowing quite how much you were failing to achieve that relevancy. To realise that you were as ordinary and simple as the place, family and history you were born to.

The publishers had sent mealy-mouthed apologies, or in the case of the most arrogant, one-line rejections. One even had the gall to advise him to take writing classes. Him! He had read more than any two-bit author who ran those courses had in their life. Yet they were still better than him, at least they had their name to a real cover, not the half-bit cheap imitation he held in his hand.

He hadn’t even known why he bothered, money was low and he had no chance of actually making a success of self-publishing. The teacher threw the bundle into his wastebasket, kicking it under his desk and out of view. What did you even do when faced with your own failure so clearly? Society says, work hard at something, put in those required hours and you will become a master. He’d been writing since he had been able to hold a pen properly, and nothing. As with so much, the lies told by our parents, teachers and political leaders were just that, vacuous promises that are intended to gloss over a brutal, unforgiving world.

Stan took a shaky, hard breath, adjusting his knitted vest, as he got up and checked his hair in the classroom window. His dark eyes stared right back at him; the swirling brown lit by a hidden flame of rage that he kept under wraps in day to day life.

Before his spiralling thoughts could go any further, the bell rang and his reflection morphed into a different person entirely. Gaunt cheeks and heavy-set brows suddenly lightened, a broad smile splitting across his face as he turned to his door positively beaming. The students came in quite quickly, his class was well-received for the most part, and he rarely had tardiness apart from the usual suspects.

Every student greeted him, his grin almost infectious and often returned back as he glided easily to his spot behind his desk, clasping his hands together in manufactured glee as the last pupil took their seat. “Ah, if it’s not my favourite class of literary explorers.”

“Right class, today our topic is simple…” Like he had many times before, Stan grabbed his trusty piece of white chalk and in elegant, spindly writing that one may have expected back in the 18th Century wrote out the topic of today.

“How to trick your audience…”

His smile softened, but there was still a sense of cheek to the glimmer in his eyes as he stepped around to the front of the class, hands spread out like a roman general embracing his subjects. “Who’s ready to write some lies?”

ANYTHING ELSE?

> Stan comes from a very ordinary family in which he was the only child. His parents were suitable middle class, both working office jobs with an equally pointless set of responsibilities for mildly reputable firms. Just like Stan himself, they were in many ways entirely average in their talents, but unlike their son, seemed to pay it no mind. They were happy to earn money and just enjoy their simple life. Perhaps this tedium is why Stan became so infatuated with books, but either way, he finds himself rather embarrassed by his parents and beside the dutiful phone call every now and then, does not do much to connect to them.

> Despite having little talent in actual writing, Stan is, in fact, a rather expert dissector of books. He often has a strong grasp of the subtleties in language and prose, and while being brilliant at mimicking these intricacies, he is completely unable to produce his own. Like much of his life, he is a master of pretend and pretence, but when it comes to actually being original, he has a lack of imagination that was rather compelling in its strangeness. Either way, his critical eye makes him a great speaker at the local book club.

> Surprisingly, considering his desire to be noticed, Stan hasn’t ever really tried to properly pursue a proper relationship. Physical wants aside, he finds serious long-term attachment difficult, on account of hating himself quite enough already, but also due to his fellow adults tending to eschew themselves to a sensibleness that Stan abhors. He wants to dream, to be something other than what he is, and thinking about saving, taxes and getting married feels like a drawback into the mundane. Maybe that’s why he likes them younger…

> Stan isn’t religious in the slightest, but he finds the idea of church fascinating. It’s likely just the history of it, the pomp and pageantry that goes with bible prose and ceremony, ignites some of that passion and wonder in him. So, he attends rather diligently, hoping both for a spark of muse and to put on a good face with his new neighbour. Jeff Abbott, in particular, draws his attention and he feels almost like he could listen to the pastor for the rest of his life.

> The current story regarding Brian Goode’s disappearance as well as the sordid history of Devil’s Knot is prime writing material. While Stan didn’t move for this purpose and rather decided to pick a secluded town to avoid rumours regarding his previous employment, he is certainly trying his best to make use of the happenstance and use it as fuel for a new book. There’s no sign that using reality as a springboard will improve his lack of talent, however.

> Who says poverty doesn’t have some upsides? Despite being rather empty-pocketed on a near constant basis, Stan is just about good looking enough to play a reversal role from the traditional man. Through the gift of gab, he’s well known to manage to get other people to cover his bills, tabs and drinks, as well as being the owner of perhaps the biggest collection of coupons in the whole of Devil’s Knot.

#dkaccepted #accepted #stan meyers