hedley, oliver jude

[oliver jude hedley]

OLIVER HEDLEY

full name oliver jude hedley
nicknames oli, liver is less popular, olive juice
type original
gender male
age eighteen
birthday february 5th
group popular
clique jock
grade senior
sexuality straight
occupation waiter
face claim kevin flamme
alias kara

persona
easygoing, trusting, friendly, push over, family oriented, faithful, loyal, calm, genuine, bored, devoted, slightly pessimistic, disorganized, disciplined, sympathetic, systematic

life
i've lived here my entire life, i guess, grew up in the same house with the same people. my mom's a baker at a cafe down town, might've heard of it? clementine's cafe. she's french. anyway, i work at the diner right across from her, i'm a waiter which is okay seeing as it's pretty basic in itself. go to the table, take the order to the chef, bring the food to the table, collect the tip, smile, right? hopefully i won't be doing that for a living; i try to make sure of that with my grades, but they vary. doing well in gym though; i play on varsity soccer, my best friend's the captian. i'm fine with being a forward, we do pretty well. home games are the best because lo can usually make it, you know, watch us play. she's my girlfriend, we've been together for a while.

anyway, i better go unpack, just got back from france actually. charlie had some relatives there and she ended up staying behind but she promised she'd call everyday (when she wasn't busy), and i need to feed the cat.

roleplaying sample
air space is thick and smothering and furnished, harnessed, brandished with fluorescent forensics (swirling wax that stirs in front of your retinas, pirouetting off your shoulders as you watch the smoke glide under the tips of your eyelashes, curl around the foreign fingers clasped over your trembling wrist), melting down your esophagus and into the cores of your {clenched} catacomb lungs, polishing sides and forming soft puddles at the bottoms of alveolus, bronchiole, bronchus, painting your larynx over with oil and tart nitrates so that everything trapped inside hardens, crystallizes before you can cough it back up; and suddenly there is a rush to your brain, (a gathering of birds in formal formation piloting into the center of your cortex and nesting in the crooks of your memories, crushing them beneath electric feathers and golden beaks and tonged feet {scooping blood orange into the lacerations that draw themselves across the surface of your cerebellum}, prodding recollection (recognition) into the depths of your mind until you can't feel the soles of their shoes scraping across the undersides of your skin anymore, can't even remember them ever being there in the first place, and there's a soft sigh that escapes you (a hushed exhale of breath that streaks colors of red and blue and tinged, bruise-purple through the constricted room, a kaleidoscope of color in an otherwise dark, shadowed cradle of paralyzed ambiguity, a seabed {you drowned a long time ago, and this is where all the corpses drift and gather, clump together into one mass of bittersweet, temporary death, sprawled out on the ocean floor, hardening into seashells and skin and bones and eyes like fragile pearls, pupils glossy - bits of moonstone sifted into the sand like forgotten fratalscape, shards of unwanted glass})