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Post by SVETLANA IVANA ZAMOLDCHIKOVA on Dec 6, 2010 20:48:38 GMT -5
 It was all about the food.
Svetlana never had a problem with eating. Though physically, she was as thin as a model and as lean as a soldier should be, she was by all mean completely and utterly mentally obese. She was a human garbage disposal and never took offense when someone called her so. Therefore, she didn't care about the stares she received as she slurped on an extra large homemade strawberry milkshake from a random little store and then proceeded to chomping on a few french fries that were, also homemade, inside a little paper bag. She had more food in the other, much larger, plastic bag; a double cheeseburger, onion rings, a piece of garlic bread, and a chocolate glazed donut. She normally didn't eat such American foods, often opting for foods from any other restaurant that was from any other country. She'd tried all of them, she could swear on her life by it. But today, she was feeling especially American and thus, she was walking down the street contently sipping on her large milkshake.
Clad in an odd outfit, she yawned as she reached the street corner. She was on her way to the park in hopes of finding a good spot to fully enjoy and savor the delicious food she had purchased at such a wonderfully cheap price. She wore some boyfriend shorts, a cropped beige ACDC shirt, red bolero jacket, onyx tights, and some floral Doc Martens. An array of silver rings covered her skinny fingers, cross earrings hanging from her piercings, and cheap Ray Bans sat on the bridge of her nose. Her hair was bed head messy and reached between her thin shoulders and defined jaw. Her collarbone stood out with the scoop neck line of her shirt and over all, she was eclectic at best without overdoing it. She looked comfortable and she was. Hey, she wasn't a supermodel and who the hell did she have to impress other than herself? Everyone else could go suck a fuck.
Finishing the milkshake, she tossed it in a nearby trash can and after seeing that the park was full down the street a bit, she settled on a ledge on the side of some random apartment building. Pulling out a cancer stick, she lit it up and took a drag. Cigarettes usually kept her calm and she needed to stay calm and not too excited for her food or she would eat it too quickly and get sick off of it. It was then that she saw the shadow cast over her, blocking her source of warmth since she obviously wasn't dressed for the New York City fall/winter weather, "Oi, person," she glanced up at them and scrunched up her nose with distaste, "Move, yeah? Well, please move out of the way. You're blocking my warmth," her Russian/New Yorker accent was thick and twisted together, making her sound foreign yet native all at the same time. She took a drag patiently as she waited for the person to move. It wasn't like she wasn't well known in the city. She used to run with gangs, criminals, drug addicts, partying socialites, rich princess type, any type of person anyone can come up with. She was social, blunt, private, and down right brutal but she was Svetlana.
If she wasn't any of those things, she might as well be nothing.
OPEN TO ANYONE. |
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Post by TOBIAS SAMUEL MAYHEW-COHEN on Dec 20, 2010 17:40:45 GMT -5
To the casual observer, the young man wandering up and down this particular part of Greenwich Village looked to all the world like he was hanging around there because he had nothing better to do. But Toby Mayhew-Cohen was not, in fact, aimless in his pacing; he was trying to catch a publisher, who he’d been told by a refutable source (okay, a homeless guy, but Toby had always found homeless guys to be surprisingly good informants, especially if you paid them), walked down there regularly after eating lunch. Toby had had a string of bad luck recently with publishers – he wasn’t the most reliable of clients – and he was hoping to accidentally-on-purpose run into this particular guy. He had a few short stories he was hoping to publish to keep his head above the water. He was just making his way slowly back up the road when someone caught his eye, leant against a ledge smoking a cigarette. He had one of those strange moments, which he liked to call writers’ déjà-vu, where one sees someone who seems to have stepped out of the fictional world they created. In this case, he could have sworn he was looking at Biana, the beautiful European girl who traded information with the PI in his unfinished novel, and ended up dead from barbiturate poisoning as a result. He was so drawn in by the similarity to the image in his mind that he decided to go talk to her. It was only when he was a few feet away that he realised he didn’t really know how to start the conversation. He stood there for a few seconds, and was about to speak when she spoke first, telling him in no uncertain manner to move. “ Oh, my bad,” he said, stepping to the sit and perching on the ledge a foot or so away from her. He was silent for a few more seconds, then decided to try again. “ Hey, I hope you don’t mind me saying this,” he said, and the moment the words were out of his mouth it would have been clear to anyone who knew Toby that she probably would, “ but you look exactly like I imagined one of my characters looking like. Y’see, I write mystery stuff, and this lady’s an informant, for the detective. ‘Course she ends up getting murdered by the conspirators,” he realised that that might have sounded odd, and backpedalled a bit, “ but, er, but that’s no reflection on you. You just look a lot like her. She ain’t got your accent though, she’s French,” he continued, then on a moment’s reflection added, “ although, now I mention it, no reason why she couldn’t be...” he paused, and cocked his head to the side; her odd mixture of an accent had thrown him, “ Russian? I thought I heard that in your speaking.” Toby’s own New York accent was particularly noticeable when he reeled off on one of his tangent-filled rants like this; his parents had actually moved to the city from Virginia, but he’d grown up in Queens and had picked up the accent completely. His younger brother, Isaac, had too, but since he’d gone to study at Harvard, Toby could have sworn he was losing his New York twang, and had started talking like he’d been raised. Seeing him around his new friends, Toby suspected he was doing it deliberately to fit in. He couldn’t really blame him; his family were hardly poor, but it took more than money to be accepted into some circles, and his brother had always been good at fitting in wherever he went. Toby could never really get the hang of that. --- Words: 614
Lyrics: 'Moment of Conception', by David Byrne |
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Post by SVETLANA IVANA ZAMOLDCHIKOVA on Dec 20, 2010 18:01:59 GMT -5
Bitch and a half. Did he really have to start talking?
Food was way more important at the moment. Listening to his words, she glanced over at him, her head moving slowly, neat eyebrows knitting together, and a frown making its way onto her attractive features. She lifted her Ray Bans a bit to look him straight in the face as if she recognized him but then let them drop back down to the bridge of her nose, "So let me get this straight," she blew the smoke out, "I remind you of a dead fictional character of your's? How'd she die? Before I take that being offensive into consideration," she was just being a bitch. She wasn't offended at all, in all actuality, she was a bit on cloud nine considering no one ever said that about her. Regardless, she wasn't going to let this stranger know that he somehow slightly made her day a tiny bit on the brighter side just because he recognized her.
She was weird and no one said she wasn't, "Yeah. Russian. Whatever," the sarcasm dripped from her golden voice but she wasn't denying it. She was one hundred percent Russian. She had been born in New York City but immediately after was sent to Russia with her family. She stayed there for ten years before moving to New York again after a political revolution began to make it's way into their country and they couldn't stay there for security reasons. Since the age of ten she'd been in New York City, spending almost every summer over in Russia to visit family or in the Hamptons for family reunions. Now, she didn't have much of a home. She followed her squad wherever they went, getting temporary apartments all the time in the city those rare times she was home-or just staying in a hotel if it was for a day or two.
Now she was suppose to be here for no more than two or so months and she was on week four. Two more and she was scheduled to go back to Afghan and Iraq, whichever needed her first. She was a corporal. This was her life. This was her job for the next few years. She signed up for eight years. Four years active and four years reserve. There was no backing out of it unless seriously injured till she got discharged. She received a bullet right in her left shoulder blade that came dangerously close to her heart. She swore she was going to die that day-she could feel it creeping in as she laid on the hard packed sand in the middle of a stupid village in the Middle East. She thought that was it-she at least died honorably but then they had to go off and save her so now she was here...
Listening to a guy and pretending to take offense to it, "Because you never know. I might be working for a detective and I could actually be French somewhere in my bloodline," again with the sarcasm. She was just poking fun. There nothing else to do today other than, after eating, go work out at the gym in Little Italy at the recruiter's station with the recruiter she was currently screwing to get her own sexual frustrations out. Oh the life of a United States Marine.
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