Excerpt Journal Entry - A Rolling Stone

....and just four days in New York, again.

It isn't like I miss the thrill of the lights or the toll of the clinking glasses through the murmur of a crowd. Every night is exactly the same and I hear them as they comingle with the heavy atmosphere and smoke until you forget what tour bus you took to get here.

Even if the scenic byways on the roads to get here were bucolic enough to make me homesick for the Midwest, the brick and mortar inside these basement dives all starts to look the same is what I'm trying to say.

Christ, what am I thinking? Just sapping myself into the mold of a true believer. You know that guy from the commercials: He's the one who hangs a coat by the front door and kisses a pretty dame on the cheek as she takes his hat. The same fella who finds himself in black and white, sitting down to a pot roast and asking some half-pint how his school day was while holding up a bottle of ketchup for the camera with a sanguine smile.

That white-picket song and dance just feels so god damned dirty. I'll be sure to shower after I buy this vanilla cream-puff behind the courtesy counter a drink and call her sugar until the dawns early light streams through the curtains of this cheap motel on 42nd street.

 

Excerpt Journal Entry - A Rolling Stone

We were on a break after the first set in Chicago. I headed to the bar to get a drink. The bartender handed me a matchbook with a phone number and a single word: Regrets.

Now that's a new approach. Either I was going to be sorry for of all the sordid things I've ever done or, I was about end up having the night of my life. I tucked the matchbook inside my jacket and picked up the a glass of gin on the rocks leaving that bartender with  a good tip and a toast to his stamina.

 

The closest payphone sits next to the coat-check. I remember the girl inside like it was yesterday; her quirky mouth innocently tipped in a smile framed by the silkiest dark hair I'd ever seen. I picked up the handset and dialed the number making the split decision to give her something to smile about as soon as I was done making the call.

The phone rang several times before a dusky contralto came on the line. "Soretto's, this is Diana." She had a furry, velvety voice.

"What if I said I'm the guy holding a matchbook full of some dames Regrets?" I asked looking at the inside cover where I had her number in bold script, smudged with a little pair of red pressed lips.

"Who is this?" Her question was a hoax - one that I wanted to close my eyes and roll around naked in.

"My name is Henry Rule, you watched me play at the Blue Door." I said conspicuously. She laughed. The promise behind it rich enough to be considered the stuff dreams are made of. The kinds of things you do not want to talk about it with other people present;  Not with an acquaintance - Not with your pals over a Cuban cigar - Not even, with your wingman.

"A man who wants to be watched while he plays. Why, Mr. Rule, I think I like you already." I felt it then, the tug of a knowing smile because she had no idea what would come next....

 
...and neither do you.
 

Excerpt Journal Entry - A Rolling Stone

There is nothing like a Jazz bar in New Orleans, Louisiana, to remind you that the world is a lonely place indeed. Present company excluded of course; because this doll-face at the end of the bar I had thought to chat up  has her hands and perhaps her legs, full of a' green eyed monster. Defeated by the circumstances of self-loathing and her rum and coke, I pushed off the bar stool leaving a hefty tip for bartender in the process.
 
Behind the auspiciousness of a suit and tie, a man is only ever just a man in the eyes of a complicated, indifferent woman. While nestling a hat on my head from the rack near the door, I offered a good evening to her by way of a wink of understanding. She seems to have herself and that big shaggy jealous ragin' cajun in check.
 

"Evenin' Mistah," the cigarette girl who'd been so helpful earlier said from the venue of the hostess stand where she draped leisurely, gossiping with a girl-friend. She waggled her fingers from their perfect poise against a pink blushing cheek right at me.

Whew. "Darlin, if you only knew what you do  ..." Whistling sharply twice before letting it dwindle to a low note the tune from a sad-sack, of a sorry excuse, for an old man. I leaned close in passing, inhaling deeply the sweet rose perfume she'd dotted under her earlobe. This'll sound strange, but in a way I am sure that subtle scent was put there just for me to stop...and smell.

Slowly I lifted an umbrella into the heavy downpour down through the 8th ward. Torrents run off the awning of the down-cellar bar hammering at the taut stretch of black nylon. Smiling and looking up into the sky, I felt the rain pelt me right in the kisser, lifting the grain against my five-o-clock shadow with the chill.

The river, I've heard tell, waits for no man to rock and roll, so down the shoreline of a side walk I tumbled on a lightness of being like a stone in the current; unhurried and unhindered. 

OOC Obligation.

  • First and foremost; this is my hobby. I enjoy it immensely. Don't ruin my recreational time.
  • Too many rules make this guy sad.
  • I have a knack for narrative drive. Should you have a preference for genre, don't hesitate to inquire. I'm super flexible in style, verse, and settings. I will write with just about anyone, your crazy SLs don't scare me.
  • You add, you start. Please.
  • Do not blog to yourself: Engage, involve, and don't write at me.
  • Smut, happens. You need to be over the age of 18, for it to happen with me.
  • Please be respectful of the person sitting behind the screen. Appreciate the efforts of others. Ask questions. Above all, try to have fun without your ego getting in the way.
  • Henry has many secrets and they should come out during play.
  • Henry Rule is my intellectual property. I do not own the rights to Paul Newman's face, however the edits and all of the writing belongs to me. Make your own stories. I know you can do it.

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Character Gender

Male


Writer's Writing Style (OOC)

Paragraph, Multi-Para, Novella


Writer's Favored Genres (OOC)

Fantasy, Romance, Violence, Realistic, Rated R, 18+, Comedy, Action, Adult


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  • Every-each-one of my agonies are self-inflicted

    Even You.

    And I can still taste the metal of this anachronism

    where you and I do not exist

  • (Welcome back!)

    "The Orpheum? Yeah. I...you're heading in the right way." Paul realizes that the questions are likely rhetorical and his directional assistance is not truly needed a bit too late, his fogged brain struggling to buffer information that should, under normal circumstances, come to him as naturally as breathing. But under the stress and strain of his current state, even such a simple, intrinsic thing is difficult, and sometimes even painful. "I'll...come. I don't have plans this evening." Nothing that can't wait, anyway. With the end of time he's seen firsthand fast approaching, his paranoia has only worsened despite the breathing treatments Hayden and his entire staff have pushed on him in an attempt to keep his symptoms stabilized. If he were to fracture again, it's hard to say if Monarch would survive. They're on thin ice as it is, and Paul is the only thing strong enough to maintain what very well be the last beacon of hope humanity has against the coming storm.

    "I'm Paul." The name feels necessary, almost as if it were drawn from his throat by some outside force. There's an irony to it, and he's aware of it in full. Paul, a pharisee, perhaps unconverted despite his name. Paul, the persecutor. His revelation came not from god but a machine of his own making and the destruction it has brought in its wake.

    Those old wounds aren't aching as much anymore. It's so confusing to be without the throbbing that it makes him start momentarily with surprise. When pain is a constant, taking it away is such a shock the typical response is to assume far, far worse is yet to come. This is the unfortunate cycle Mr. Serene has found himself in.

  • The voice seems far away, like something underwater or echoing from a cavern far beneath the pavement beneath his feet, winding its way up to tease his ears but make little sense in terms of words. Only when the keyfob to his expensive Nissan is back in his hands does he attach the voice to the smiling face before him. He blinks steadily, regaining his composure, and takes the measure of the man before him like he does everyone he ever meets. He can't trust anyone enough anymore to make an opinion based on anything but the way time flows around them, by the echos of the past and the future he can see. They're always disjointed and they rarely show the full picture. But it is enough to pad himself against danger. It's enough to make sure he knows exactly what escape routes he might need to be aware of in the future.

    But his concentration is utterly interrupted by a familiar sight, his wounds repeated in the same pattern on the torso of an unfamiliar man. Just like that, they're gone. Surely he hallucinated it. But his suspicion grows. His lips tense into a thin line, but he finds his voice again soon enough. What he's determined in those few seconds may be useless, but at least he is refocused again. Reality fractures around him, bending and warping both light and shadows into a broken mess. It's his own private hell, but someone with more acute...or inhuman senses...might be able to pick up on the way he's forced to see the world in that moment as well.

    "You're new to Riverport. If you weren't, you wouldn't...be walking around out here like you expected great...conversation at this hour." The pauses in his speech are from pain, not alcohol. In fact, he hasn't had a sip of that tonight. He's as sober as someone could get. Pain will get you to that point.

    "Thank you." He pauses, then realizes he should probably finish his sentence. "For the help with the keys."

  • It had been a few years and although the wicked woman standing before him had not aged in centuries she understood that most individuals considered a few years to be a decent amount of time. The musician had dropped off the face of the Earth it seemed..then again Maleficent had never been good at finding people especially when magic was involved. She folded her arms as he approached eyeing the trumpet case that he carried.

    "I see you are still playing. Pity I missed the show."

    She remembered his talent with a trumpet. He could play for hours and she would enjoy every second of it. It was quite a compliment given the minuscule amount of music she liked. As she looked at the familiar face an important thought crossed her mind. She had never truly believed in coincidences especially like this. Was she supposed to believe that they had simply bumped into each other by chance? No that was not possible, not in her eyes. The musician was there for a reason. Perhaps he was there to see her? If so the guardian angel would not be welcomed with open arms. She did not need him keeping tabs on her. Instead of letting this thought fester she decided to toss it in the back of her mind for now. The two walked and chatted a bit about the weather among other mindless matters as if to pass the time. It was only when they had gone two blocks that Henry said something unusual.

    "Pie? Do I strike you as a picky eater?"

    She was not saying that to be funny despite the fact that it probably sounded that way. Maleficent was just generally curious what he thought. When it came to dessert Ms. Bosse was actually not a finicky woman. She enjoyed an assortment of pies including the ones he had suggested. One he had forgotten though was chocolate cream pie. That happened to be a favorite of hers. A piece of chocolate cream pie, dark or milk, with a dollop of whipped cream on top sounded lovely right about now.

    "I prefer chocolate cream pie actually, with whipped cream. Do you know a good place?" The sorceress could not even remember the last time she ate pie.

  • (And thank you for accepting. As is customary, we must now engage in a roleplay. Sooooo, I start, seeing as I added you. However you need to provide to me a time and a place for our RP to take place.)

  • (Let me know if you ever wanna do something with these two. I think Henry would be great at confusing my poor child XD)

  • Time truly does fly, especially for someone who never ages. The weeks begin to blend together and years feel like only days. Little to no value is placed on time making it no longer precious.

    The world went and got itself in a big hurry and while everything changed there was always one oddly colored sorceress who stayed the same. Though years had passed she still wore the same dresses, the same shoes, and the same hats that looked like they had just flown out of a classic film on the silver screen. The early 1950's seemed to be as modern as Ms. Cara Bosse was willing to go. She spent little to no effort on trying to blend in with those around her apart from her enchanted hat.

    Those citrine eyes of hers glowed like lit candles as she made her way out of the local theater. She had just finished seeing Hamlet, one of Shakespeare's more popular plays. She had always enjoyed a good tragedy; happy endings were for children after all. She was no more than a few feet outside the doors when she realized it was raining. The people around her rushed around all attempting to get cabs as if the rain was toxic to their skin. They could be so irksome at times. She did not hesitate to wave her hand in the air sending a young man flying into the middle of the street when he pushed her out of the way to get a head start. The front left wheel of the taxi just narrowly missed running over his arm.

    The villainess groaned in disappointment and muttered a quick spell causing the umbrella she had forgotten to bring with her to the performance to appear in her free hand. Her other hand held her cane that she would not hesitate to strike someone with if they dared to cut her off on her way "home." Her magic allowed the villainess to travel to any familiar location by portal or teleportation, but there was something about the rain she enjoyed. Maybe it was the simple fact that it made most people miserable?

    As the people around her hollered for taxis Maleficent swiftly made her way down the street, her heels clicking against the soaked pavement of the sidewalk. The umbrella she carried made a successful trampoline for the rain droplets but the curve of the accessory along with the brim of her hat made it slightly difficult for her to see where she was going. She was only a block or so down the street when she accidentally bumped into the blue eyed fellow with the genuine smile waiting for a taxi.

    "Excuse me.." She hissed raising her cane slightly as if she had intended to strike him out of her way. The cane lowered though when the Fae got a good look at his face. She was old as dirt and had met her fair share of people but this was one she remembered. "Henry?"

  • Riverport, Massachusetts. February, 2017. Four months since the first fracture in time.

    The ache from the six holes punched in his body by someone he trusted more than the rest of the entire damn world has faded somewhat, so long as he’s still or walks slowly. The ache in his heart from remembering who put the slugs in his chest to begin with, however, will not fade with time or from the cool hand of medication.

    He refuses to lean on a cane in public, distressing his doctors and his employees, but proving to be as inspiring of a figure as he knew it would make him. His measured walking and tense breathing only serve to intensify an already laser-focused personality, one forged from seventeen years of the sheer hell he created for himself by being so proud as to think he could be a tourist to the future and get away whole.

    Stupid, human folly, to think the future or the past can be touched with no consequence. Stupid, STUPID personal pride, to think he should be the man to do it. He paid, dearly, and he hid in the shadows in both shame and pain as he prepared himself for what he knew was coming, for what he had seen there, in 2021. For a well-educated businessman, playing the markets was not hard, especially given that he was in 1999 the second time. From the shadows, he made smart investments and built himself a small empire that became more sizable with every smart move planned out so perfectly by someone who was, by all rights, a cheater. But is it truly gambling if you know the outcome and know you’ll be successful? Or does it become something else entirely, then?

    He has paid for his transgressions, but he has not stopped his research. He has not stopped his attempts to fight, to survive, to protect…to transcend. Force most men to relieve their years, and they’ll go mad. Force Paul Serene to, and he’ll build an empire in less than two decades.

    Someone has to save humanity.

     

    Leaving the gala early was always part of the plan, a grimace set tightly across his face, expression crooked thanks to a childhood injury. His salt-and-pepper appearance has been attributed to his injuries and the stress behind them, as has his seemingly incredible aging. But the questions still come, the conspiracy theorists still crow, and his ability to retain his focus has been dulled both by the stress and pain of his wounds and losing his connection to the only person in the entire damn world he ever felt was worth it. To Jack, sure, it had been 6 years since they reconnected thanks to foreign travel. But to Paul? It’s been 23. 23 years that he faithfully and patiently slogged through, all with the plan of making up for lost time in the end. So much for that- he got bullet wounds and disgrace.

    He’ll be driving himself home to the massive Monarch building, a gorgeous thing comprised of engineering far beyond its time. Hah…no surprise there. Fumbling for his key fob, Paul has to pause and lean on another vehicle, a sheen of sweat breaking out across his forehead. He’s pushing himself too hard. His doctor is going to say the same thing she always does, and he, like always, won’t listen. It’s not a good cycle.

  • (I'm from the rolepages crowd, and before that YouTube. We've crossed paths briefly in the past, but never for long. Let me know if you've got room for a thread!~)

  • (Interested in starting something?)

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Henry Rule and Paul Serene are now friends
Oct 12
Brenna Fowler and Henry Rule are now friends
Oct 12
Henry Rule left a comment for Paul Serene
"Henry brings with his presence a sense of peace. Bestowing anyone in his proximity a sliver of that spiritualness; that blessing. Seen easily in kind eyes that remain unjaded by all of the awful things they witnessed. This is both a gift and a curse…"
Oct 9
Henry Rule updated their profile
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Henry Rule and Piers Nivans are now friends
Mar 7
Henry Rule left a comment for Paul Serene
"Mathew 7:7' Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you... '                                                          -- Even when you swear you do not deserve it.
Riverport, Massachusetts. Three A…"
Feb 19
Henry Rule liked Paul Serene's blog post Schrödinger's Man
Feb 17
Henry Rule updated their profile
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Henry Rule updated their profile
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Henry Rule left a comment for James Harris
"( you betcha! and I need your help getting rid of the center column transparent purple...x/z access rounded corners. Help me out?)"
Feb 13
Henry Rule left a comment for James Harris
"( Thank you very much for having me! )"
Feb 13
Henry Rule posted a blog post
..I packed everything with the intention of getting away from all the painful memories that brought me back to the whisper of devils.  On nights where I could not play them away through song and no amount of prayer would keep me safe, I would write…
Feb 13
Henry Rule liked Maleficent's blog post A Modern Villainess
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Henry Rule liked Zoey Ryder's blog post Let her. [A Tulip O'Hare story.]
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