*✘ ·˚. devour me .˚· ✘*

dreamed of peach trees. dreamed, again, of drowning. dreamed of highways becoming rivers. dreamed of me, my long hair in flames, my body no longer a body, but a burnt o f f e r i n g ,

[ofcyrxs]

      Southbound Task 001

THE SURVEY:

Full Name / Titles: Cyrus Raphael Clement Beaulieu Nicknames / Preferred Names: Cyrus had a few names growing up, ones they believed were meant to be endearing. “C.C” from those in the younger years, their mother would constantly call them her little “Clementine”. Gentle she’d say, just as they were Known Aliases: n/a Date of Birth: 14th Feb Place of Birth: San Francisco, California Previous Residences / Current Residence: L.A, California Citizenship: Dual Citizenship, France & US Religion: n/a Socioeconomic Status / Political Affiliation: Upper Class – Elite but Liberal Marital Status: Single Sexual & Romantic Orientation: Pansexual/Panromantic Education / Occupation: Bachelor of Fine Art at Otis Parents: Melinda and Raphael Beaulieu Siblings: n/a Offspring: n/a Pets / Other: n/a Notable Extended Family: n/a Hair Color / Eye Color: bleached hair and faded ‘rose gold’ dye, an orangy pink stain left behind. Brown eyes. Height / Build: 5″6′, slim Tattoos / Piercings: Asides from a ear piercings, and one on their helix; there’s a scar left on their nose from when they got one years ago, however it’s closed and healed after an argument with their parents. Distinguishable Features: n/a Dexterity: Like left handed? Diagnosed Mental Disorders: n/a Diagnosed Physical Aliments: n/a Known Allergies: Bees (that doesn’t mean they don’t love them) Visual Impairment / Hearing Impairment: They’re supposed to wear reading glasses, however those instances are few and far between. Nicotine Use / Drug Use / Alcohol Use: Yes, and frequent. Likes / Dislikes: Cryus loves strawberries, food in general, oil paintings, spring days. Dislikes include classical music, charcoal pastels. Favorite Song / Favorite Film / Favorite Book / Favorite Show: Favourite Film is Dead Poets Society, fave book The Secret History, Donna Tart. Favorite Color: They wouldn’t be able to pick, recently they’ve been leaning to beige though. Favorite Quote: “I asked him for it. For the blood, the rust, the sin. I didn’t want the pearls others talked about, or marble palaces. Or the roses in the mouths of servants.”

[ofcyrxs]

jcmieprice‌:

“You sure?” Jamie was skeptical, standing near the table with the coffee he’d been sipping. He definitely knew better than to disrupt someone doing anything artistic, but he couldn’t quite help himself. Back in Tempe, he’d been surrounded by the ‘art kids’, photography somewhat fell into all that. Here in the middle of the desert, Jamie was going to cling to any of those people he could. ‘Art kids’ was codeword for interesting, and Lord knows he needed something to bide his time. He knew this person, too. Briefly, a friend of Eri’s, he’d seen them at a party, some kind of gathering. It all tended to blur together at times. “Not goin’ to bite my head off for peekin’?”

“I even have coffee to share.” They’d nod at the other with a smile across their face. It would be something soft. So casually etched into the lines of their face like it would be drawn there for perfection. Something about the other seemed familiar the more they looked, but Cyrus would put that down to everyone feeling familiar in this town.

“Peek away,” Cyrus offered across the drawing. A collection of delicate lines, all too fine for the paper. They’d be practicing a new style- or new to them, a style old to the world. Shading was all but fine lines, reaching and collecting.  It would depict a woman across the shop, only in the drawing she was elsewhere. A coffee mug in her hand, the desert that surrounded her would become her. Starting at her feet, it was etching it’s way up. Her eyes, they were empty.

Was the desert becoming her, or was she just returning home?

“I never caught your name, I’m Cyrus.”

[ofcyrxs]

A month was how long it had been since Cyrus and their friends first turned into the town that was Boot Hill. They’d remember the sun setting behind them, the orange hues that saturated the desert. Night time wasn’t far behind- purple reflecting in the cola cans that ratted at their feet. They wouldn’t feel bad stopping in for the night- drawn to the town. Beckoned.

Now they’d sit amidst a cluttered cafe, tables full of people who’d all seem too busy in their own lives to notice anything else. Cyrus, he’d be sketching it. Glancing up constantly, admiring the way the towns folk seemed so porcelain. Like they were placed there, just for him. Outside of this cafe, they wouldn’t exist. They’d disintegrate to dust and drift to the mountains. They weren’t keeping track of time, how long their pot of coffee sat in front of them, nor how many times they clicked away at their mechanic pencil. But they’d look up to find someone lost- no not lost, just searching. With all the tables full, and the waitress dancing through the crowd Cyrus would call out. A quiet voice, yet it would manage to carry through the bustle.

“You’re welcome to join me.”

[ofcyrxs]

hcartbrecker‌:

working at the schoolhouse cafe did have its perks. it was a cute and quaint little cafe that lola enjoyed working in. it was fun and the tips were an added bonus. but it did occasionally have its slow days, like today was. lola was the only inside, most of the other waitresses either on lunch break or on their way for their shift. lola had decided to sweep up the floor, hurrying before any new customers came in. as she did so, she heard the song playing over the little radio. lola smiled as she swayed her hips, allowing herself to get carried away as she used the broom in her hands as a makeshift microphone. she had been so caught up in dancing that she hadn’t noticed a new customer walking into the cafe. it was only when she twirled around that she paused and saw them standing there, her cheeks tainted red due to embarrassment. she threw the broom over to the side, a sheepish grin breaking out on her face, as she stood there for a moment. “uh, hey! didn’t see you standing there! welcome to the schoolhouse cafe, what can i get you?”

Cafes always seemed abundant in the city, each of them something just uniquely different than the others. And the staff that filled them, all too often carried the same bright eyed girls so eager to serve. Those often too determined not to show the weight of the world that rest on their shoulders- fear Cyrus would wonder. No one would love them that way. The Schoolhouse Cafe ached with the same woes of all those Cyrus had seen before. Too beautiful, everything too perfectly inline even in the organised clutter. Forged.

“Coffee please, one sugar.” Bleary eyed and red cheeked, he’d been too distracted looking around to notice he was being unintentionally ignored.

[ofcyrxs]

dysdaimcns‌:

mateo finds himself walking down main street in an attempt to ease the restlessness that’s started to seep into his bones. he’s not sure what he’s looking for, but the sight of a vending machine up ahead does make him smile. patting the pockets of his rumpled funeral suit – laundry tomorrow, he thinks distractedly – for any loose change, he uncovers an extremely rumpled dollar bill that he irons out as much as he can with his hands before inserting it into the cash slot, briefly scanning the choices available before settling on a cherry coke. 

the machine whirs as it registers his order–– and then nothing. ‘ come on, ’ he mutters to himself, tapping the side of the machine lightly once, and then harder when still nothing happens. ‘ you stupid piece of junk ! ’ it’s such a small thing, hardly worth getting this worked up over, but everything in his life has been going wrong lately and he just really wants that cherry coke, okay ? god fucking damn it. he pulls his arm back without thinking, only registering what he’s doing when there’s a white-hot flash of pain as his fists connects with the machine.

he watches with some measure of satisfaction as a large crack blooms across the glass of the display, but the anger surges once more when even that doesn’t manage to shake any of the drinks out. but then he catches sight of a figure in the corner of his peripheral vision, and the rage bleeds out of him immediately, shame quickly filling the gaps left behind. mateo drops his hand back to his side, flexing his fingers tentatively just to make sure that nothing’s broken and letting the corners of his lips lift in sheepish smile before he turns to the stranger. ‘ the machine ate my last dollar, ’ he explains, ‘ just my luck, huh ? ’

A restlessness didn’t settle deep in Cyrus, gnawing at their insides begging them to abandon the town that wrapped it’s warm mouth around you. A town that grasped at your ankles- hands too tight around your arms. It would bruise the way Boot Hill held on so dearly. Love it would whisper. Tender words, and fragile moments. In a town suffocating. You’d never want to leave. Even when the dust would gather in their lungs, and their raspy gasps for air would grow tiresome. No matter how tightly the town clung- they’d forgive it. For it only wanted to love them.

It was nothing like the city he was used to, cold and unforgiving. Too busy for the mere people that walked through the streets, harsh incandescent lights- ever present. A night that was never dark, and days that were never bright.  Faces were so easily passed in the streets- forgotten. They’d never see the same face twice, no matter how much Cyrus studied them. But they’d all blur to a distant memory of lines and shapes- of one world they were witnessing. For it never was the people, it was the creation of them that seemed so ever present.

Like the children they’d see growing up, much like themselves- carved for the world to handle with a delicate caress. They were fine china, chipped and cracked from their nights searching.  But the cracks only made them more beautiful, filling with gold and lining the fault. They’d be whole. They’d be beautiful. Begging to be handled once more.

“I haven’t had much better luck with it,” A month now in the motel, Cyrus had forgiven the machine for it was only broken. His eyes however wouldn’t meet the boy before him, instead they would trace the shatters in the glass. The slightest of grins threatening to laugh at the sight.

“There’s a gas station a little walk, if you don’t break their doors they might let you purchase something.”

[ofcyrxs]

jasminsummers‌:

The sky spilled a brilliant blood orange as the sun set over Boot Hill. Jasmin had missed the warm Arizona air, and how it failed to dwindle, even as it grew dark out. She almost felt a sweat gather on her brow, though the brunette could not be sure if it was from the unusual heat or her present activities. On the counter before her sat her laptop, images of the infamous Arizona Ripper, Miguel Santos plastered over the screen. Jasmin had generally avoided the case, pictures of the murderer specifically, but her latest work assignment had lead her here, and forced her to focus on the part of her life she had so desperately tried to forget. Everyone who owned a television or a computer knew she was the daughter of Rosemarie Summers and heir to her mother’s fashion empire—- but no one knew she was also the daughter of The Ripper himself. A great discomfort suddenly fell upon the writer, feeling Santos’ picture stare at her through the screen— she slammed the laptop shut, accidentally taking out her coffee with it. “Shit.” Was all she could murmurer, head falling into hands in utter despair. 

There had always felt to be something beautiful about Boot Hill. Air constantly thick- weighing you down like a duvet. Dry and heavy. Comforting almost. Each mouthful sends a cascading welcome of dust filled air welcome into your lungs. But it’s too thick- too dry. It chokes you slowly. But you don’t quite get enough- You want more.

Craving. A town that craves you.

A tense uneasiness would settle in their stomach- it would feel like drowning. They’d look for a seat at the coffee shop, admiring the faces around. They weren’t good at looking at people, but they were good at seeing them. The shapes in their bodies, the way their faces would tense and frown. Like the people they looked at were barely that, and rather were just another painting. His eyes the brush strokes.

They’d see a familiar face sitting alone at a table- but they wouldn’t be able to pick it just yet. Coffee dripping from the table, they’d reach for napkins. Strange thing to see a familiar face in a new town, but Cyrus wouldn’t put it past a town like this to play tricks on his eyes. “Let me get you another.”

[ofcyrxs]

yall know me by now, the pretentiously poetic chester @ me if you have an issue because i’M BACK BOIS with this time a soft nb child cyrus! basically if you’ve ever read the secret history, that wasn’t inspiration but after the fact i realised they would totally have been one of those kids art hoe™, will do it for the aesthetic, a little lost in their own world more often than not but good thing eri’s here to save them ah he/they pronouns, idk mix it up the world’s your oyster come hit my up for plots if you want more pOETIC TRASH FROM ME 

[i-stan-kpopu]