Katurian Katurian (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
goryteller) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
capeandcowllogs2010-03-19 08:25 pm
goryteller) wrote in capeandcowllogs2010-03-19 08:25 pm
but you're caught in your own glory
WHO: Katurian and You! (Open)
WHERE: Central Park
WHEN: Backdated to March 14th, all day.
WARNING: Likely descriptions of morbid fiction!
SUMMARY: Katurian tells his stories in the park.
FORMAT: Starting as paragraph, but feel free to tag as you'd like!
Today, Katurian wants to make something of himself. He wants to step outside and suck in the fresh air. He wants the breeze in his hair. He wants people to look him in the eye, to smile at him, to remember his name. He wants to tell stories.
You're manic, he tells himself. He doesn't know much about psychology, but he isn't sure what else it could be, given the week he's had. The bruise he received after wiping Margaret Marks out of existence is a healing, but sickly yellow, and the concussion that came with it hangs between his temples as a dull, but ever present headache. His dreams are fragmented. Awful. He looks in the mirror and isn't sure who he sees anymore. He's a mess inside and out, but today, there's a distant tinge to it, a why does it matter? A vague acceptance.
Acceptance? Of inevitable punishment? Of Death's promised protection? Of the man (ghost?) he's becoming?
Or maybe he wants to enjoy what he has while he still has it. Katurian doesn't know much about himself these days, but the one thing that's constant and will always be constant are his stories. With them, he stays afloat.
At eight in the morning, he brings a crate to Central Park, stands on top of it, and starts telling fairy tales. He tells the ones he's already told the Network, and the ones he hasn't. He tells stories from home, too, although there are some he can't tell, some that left a sickening taste in his mouth when he practiced them in front of the mirror beforehand. The Pillowman was one of them, but that isn't surprising. He knows he doesn't want to use that one anyway.
WHERE: Central Park
WHEN: Backdated to March 14th, all day.
WARNING: Likely descriptions of morbid fiction!
SUMMARY: Katurian tells his stories in the park.
FORMAT: Starting as paragraph, but feel free to tag as you'd like!
Today, Katurian wants to make something of himself. He wants to step outside and suck in the fresh air. He wants the breeze in his hair. He wants people to look him in the eye, to smile at him, to remember his name. He wants to tell stories.
You're manic, he tells himself. He doesn't know much about psychology, but he isn't sure what else it could be, given the week he's had. The bruise he received after wiping Margaret Marks out of existence is a healing, but sickly yellow, and the concussion that came with it hangs between his temples as a dull, but ever present headache. His dreams are fragmented. Awful. He looks in the mirror and isn't sure who he sees anymore. He's a mess inside and out, but today, there's a distant tinge to it, a why does it matter? A vague acceptance.
Acceptance? Of inevitable punishment? Of Death's promised protection? Of the man (ghost?) he's becoming?
Or maybe he wants to enjoy what he has while he still has it. Katurian doesn't know much about himself these days, but the one thing that's constant and will always be constant are his stories. With them, he stays afloat.
At eight in the morning, he brings a crate to Central Park, stands on top of it, and starts telling fairy tales. He tells the ones he's already told the Network, and the ones he hasn't. He tells stories from home, too, although there are some he can't tell, some that left a sickening taste in his mouth when he practiced them in front of the mirror beforehand. The Pillowman was one of them, but that isn't surprising. He knows he doesn't want to use that one anyway.
no subject
He walked through Central Park on the way back, hands crammed in his jacket pockets. There was a kid standing on a crate telling stories, and Yusuke stopped to listen out of curiosity. They sounded like fairy tales, none that Yusuke'd ever heard, but interesting, and he hung back a bit to listen.
no subject
A man who had asked to never grow hungry again was tricked into eating himself alive. A queen forced her servants to carry water up a mountain, and they all died of thirst before reaching the top. A little girl accidentally set fire to the house of the boy she had a crush on, and burned up in the embers.
no subject
"I think you're pitching those stories to the wrong crowd." He said slowly. "Not really stories made for kids, are they?"
no subject
"How do you mean, 'wrong crowd?' I don't force anyone to listen," he said. He did his best to sound calm and rational instead of defensive, and nearly succeeded. "They can leave, if they'd like."
no subject
"Hey, don't get all freaked out. Just a pointer. You got any happy stories in that bunch?"
no subject
"Not really," he says. He remembers yelling at his brother, I have plenty of nice ones. By now, he realizes that isn't true. "No. But they're not so unhappy. They're--" He struggles for the word. "--they're just a little different. Is all."
no subject
no subject
"Thank you," he adds. "But I mean, fairy tales, people assume are cheerier. They never are. I hate to be cliche, but you know the story of Little Red Riding Hood, don't you?"
no subject
"No, actually." He answered, something like a smile on his face. "But I bet I'd be right if I said it wasn't a happy story, yeah?"