Post by Shayla Bradley on Feb 5, 2009 16:49:23 GMT -5
Britannia High Records
Shayla Bradley
[/i][/size][/color]Shayla Bradley
``how could I ever own what’s [mine]’’[/center][/size]
written on my birth certificate is shayla connor bradley[/size]
but my nearest and dearest say shay
between my legs says i’m female
the number of candles on my cake was seventeen
but that will change on May 17
not that it’s any of your business but i’m bisexual
the world calls me Senior
my boobs might be fake but i'm original
my speciality is musician (cellist)*****~*****``when you’re always taking [sides]’’
hair the colour of dark brown
my eyes a shade of brown
the notch on the wall reads 5'4
and the scales clock in at 124 lbs.
my twin is Nikki Reed
my style is my own, but some would describe me as Neat and precise, Shay maintains an immaculate appearance with seemingly little effort, keeping a slender figure that displays her keen fashion sense, boasting well put together outfits that vary over a wide spectrum of styles. Modest or sexy, elegant or trashy, conservative or bohemian - she doesn't lay claim to any one particular style, proving passively rebellious to the idea of falling into a 'clique' because of her choice of clothes alone. Her thick dark hair is also worn in any number of styles, whether it be up or down, straight or curled. Unpredictable in regards to what she'll choose to wear and how she'll choose to wear it, it would still seem that Shay doesn't pay so much attention to her clothes for the sake of appeasing others or to feel good about herself or to identify herself, but simply because it's a part of the day and dressing is just another motion to living. At least, despite this fairly depressive ideal, she manages to follow through on this motion with style.
*****~*****
``but you won’t take away my [pride]’’
[/size]she who made me goes by Tabitha Bradley [deceased]
it takes two to tango and he was Lionel Bradley [deceased]
those who share the same ties are Jessica Bradley-Connors [older sister - 22]
still blood are Jack Bradley [uncle/guardian - 34]
*****~*****
``no, not this time not this [time]’’
[/size]my biography will be a best seller and it will go like this
Shayla was born to two highly creative individuals who put an emphasis on the benefits of an artistic nature. Her father was a music producer with a thousand and one underdogs signed to his label, and Shay can remember evenings where she fell asleep in his lap as they sat together in his large reclining chair in the den, him listening to some demo tape over his headphones and her lulled only to the music of his heartbeat. Her mother fancied herself an artist, and she tried everything. Painting, sketching, molding, glass-making, and she always smelled of fumes and heat. Her clothes were always stained and her hair always pulled up, but she was always smiling and Shay can remember days in the sunroom where her mother held her by the hands as she stroked her paint-smeared fingers over a plain white canvas. Her older sister liked to build things. She pushed clay together to make dinosaurs and she stacked blocks to make houses, and she gradually developed into large plastic cup towers and castles made of decks of cards. Shay’s favourite piece would always be the Eiffel Tower made of popsicle sticks that still stands on display in their middle school art classroom.
She spent years trying to find her passion. She toddled after her mother and tried to find the spark in paint and clay, but she found that she only enjoyed the art when Mother was holding her hand. She auditioned for a part in the play being held at the community theatre, but she found that she fumbled with her lines too much. She was enrolled into dance classes of all sorts; jazz, ballet, tap, aerobics, etc. She joined a choir, but she found that she allowed her own voice to fall beneath the voices of her choir mates when she judged them better than her. She played the piano for a time, but she found difficulty in moving her fingers in such complicated patterns, the movement of one hand often messing up the movement of the other. However, she’d noticed the cello that had been stowed away in the corner of her piano instructor’s room, and she found her curiosity touched once more. The teacher, a kind-hearted and yet stern elderly woman, was frustrated with Shay’s constantly wandering mind, but she allowed the girl to handle the string instrument for a few quick lessons. It wasn’t much better and the brunette found herself as easily discouraged by it as she was with anything else, but her teacher certainly found a much more relaxed flow to her student than had ever been present with the girl behind the piano.
She promised to take her teacher’s praise into consideration in regards to learning to play the cello, and she could remember that she’d been talking to her parents about it at the time that her world ended.
They’d been on vacation, on their way to a cabin by a lake, when a drunk driver crashed into them at 90 miles.
Her father died instantly, and her mother flat lined en route to the hospital. Her sister came out with a few cracked ribs, a dislocated shoulder, and a mild concussion. Shayla Bradley didn’t wake up until a week after the accident, and she soon would come to wish that she never had.
Jessica and Shay were put into the custody of their father’s brother, Jack Bradley, a professional saxophone player. Things were difficult at first. Shay was withdrawn and her grades were soon slipping. She didn’t talk and she barely ate. She opted to avoid spending time with either her uncle or her sister, and her friendships soon faded away. She began to smoke more, and it wasn’t unusual for Jack to open his liquor cabinet to find things missing. Shay was on a downward spiral that nobody knew how to bring her out – at least, not until the time came that her uncle finally managed to get her to sit down so he could talk to her. He had a letter, from her parents, that she wasn’t supposed to receive until she was 18, but he figured they’d understand if he gave it to her now. It had been written too long ago in the case that something happened to them. They loved her and they were keeping an eye on her, always. They would see her again, some day, when she was old and wrinkly and had made sure that she’d given them a bazillion and one grandchildren. They hoped she finally found something she wanted to do, though they understood that the soul of an artist could be d**ned indecisive. They wanted her happy. They wanted her to behave and be safe. They left her a trust fund that they’d been putting money into since they’d first found out that Tabitha was pregnant again. It proved quite a wealthy amount, and she'd come into its possession upon her eighteenth birthday. They'd put in a loophole, however, that she could receive it early if Jack saw her fit and signed his name on the right forms.
It was her wake up call. She grounded herself as best as she could. She got a job as a waitress at a local diner, she slowly but surely brought her grades up. She devoted herself to the cello, often accompanying her uncle to gigs. She applied to the ever prestigious Britannia High, just barely managing to get in despite nailing her audition. They said that she seemed to be holding herself back, but that she showed potential. They welcomed her, and it was the first smile she'd cracked since the accident.
She spent years trying to find her passion. She toddled after her mother and tried to find the spark in paint and clay, but she found that she only enjoyed the art when Mother was holding her hand. She auditioned for a part in the play being held at the community theatre, but she found that she fumbled with her lines too much. She was enrolled into dance classes of all sorts; jazz, ballet, tap, aerobics, etc. She joined a choir, but she found that she allowed her own voice to fall beneath the voices of her choir mates when she judged them better than her. She played the piano for a time, but she found difficulty in moving her fingers in such complicated patterns, the movement of one hand often messing up the movement of the other. However, she’d noticed the cello that had been stowed away in the corner of her piano instructor’s room, and she found her curiosity touched once more. The teacher, a kind-hearted and yet stern elderly woman, was frustrated with Shay’s constantly wandering mind, but she allowed the girl to handle the string instrument for a few quick lessons. It wasn’t much better and the brunette found herself as easily discouraged by it as she was with anything else, but her teacher certainly found a much more relaxed flow to her student than had ever been present with the girl behind the piano.
She promised to take her teacher’s praise into consideration in regards to learning to play the cello, and she could remember that she’d been talking to her parents about it at the time that her world ended.
They’d been on vacation, on their way to a cabin by a lake, when a drunk driver crashed into them at 90 miles.
Her father died instantly, and her mother flat lined en route to the hospital. Her sister came out with a few cracked ribs, a dislocated shoulder, and a mild concussion. Shayla Bradley didn’t wake up until a week after the accident, and she soon would come to wish that she never had.
Jessica and Shay were put into the custody of their father’s brother, Jack Bradley, a professional saxophone player. Things were difficult at first. Shay was withdrawn and her grades were soon slipping. She didn’t talk and she barely ate. She opted to avoid spending time with either her uncle or her sister, and her friendships soon faded away. She began to smoke more, and it wasn’t unusual for Jack to open his liquor cabinet to find things missing. Shay was on a downward spiral that nobody knew how to bring her out – at least, not until the time came that her uncle finally managed to get her to sit down so he could talk to her. He had a letter, from her parents, that she wasn’t supposed to receive until she was 18, but he figured they’d understand if he gave it to her now. It had been written too long ago in the case that something happened to them. They loved her and they were keeping an eye on her, always. They would see her again, some day, when she was old and wrinkly and had made sure that she’d given them a bazillion and one grandchildren. They hoped she finally found something she wanted to do, though they understood that the soul of an artist could be d**ned indecisive. They wanted her happy. They wanted her to behave and be safe. They left her a trust fund that they’d been putting money into since they’d first found out that Tabitha was pregnant again. It proved quite a wealthy amount, and she'd come into its possession upon her eighteenth birthday. They'd put in a loophole, however, that she could receive it early if Jack saw her fit and signed his name on the right forms.
It was her wake up call. She grounded herself as best as she could. She got a job as a waitress at a local diner, she slowly but surely brought her grades up. She devoted herself to the cello, often accompanying her uncle to gigs. She applied to the ever prestigious Britannia High, just barely managing to get in despite nailing her audition. They said that she seemed to be holding herself back, but that she showed potential. They welcomed her, and it was the first smile she'd cracked since the accident.
these are a few of my favourite things
•• cigarettes
•• music
•• playing the cello
•• books
•• songwriting
•• photography
•• sex
•• tequila
•• dancing
•• poetry
•• art
the fewer the better of these
•• authority
•• most people
•• cars
•• optimism
•• mistakes
•• lies
•• broken promises
•• the cold
•• loud noise
what keeps me up at night are
•• car accidents
•• premature death
•• heights
what keeps me going is
•• become part of an orchestra
•• write the perfect song to dedicate to her parents
•• be successful as a cellist
most people would say i’m Shayla isn't shy, but she is quiet. A girl of few words, she goes about her day with a brooding quality hanging on her person, keeping a frown on her lips and an emptiness in her eyes. A solitary figure above anything else, she prefers to work by herself and simply be on her own to do her own thing, and getting along well with others is very much not her forté. Blunt and haughty, she doesn't waste words, often making her poor attitude known to the world as quickly as possible in some vain hope that that might be enough to keep her self-imposed isolation intact. She's not afraid to be hostile or all-out aggressive. Pulling out nothing but trash talk isn't her game; she's not scared to throw a punch if she finds it absolutely necessary. Angry and easily irritated, Shay has a chip on her shoulder that she won't talk about and shows no intention of shrugging off.
However, in stark contrast to her 'tough girl' persona, Shay can exude a sensual charisma if she finds it necessary. Often taking advantage of her silver tongue to charm another in order to reach the goal of a simple brief fling for the mere purpose of a temporary release, the brunette shows a talent for coy flirtation and a capability to manipulate without remorse. Able to f**k and forget without pause, she proves able to emotionally detach herself from people and situations if and when she finds it necessary. Something of an enigma, she doesn't prove overwhelming expressive, her emotions fluttering across her round features with subtle shifts and transitions. Intelligent as well as creative, Shay knows what she wants and she'll do what's necessary to get it. A cynic to the bone, she can often be more than a little jaded about things.
Despite her seemingly reckless behaviour in regards to such things as sex, smoking, and alcohol, Shay is surprisingly responsible. True to her word, she makes a point to follow through on the things she says. She's a lot of things, but a liar is never one of them. Selfish and more than a little apathetic about a lot of things, Shayla occasionally manages to show a curious side to her, a smile larger than the usual slight smirk, though the cause for such brief glimpses to the girl she used to be are rare and fairly unpredictable. Economically minded, she proves conservative with her money, saving it efficiently so that she may be able to reach her goals easily once she turns eighteen.
*****~*****
``how did we get here when i used to know you [so well]’’
[/size]drop the façade Cy
loving life for nineteen years
years of tormenting folk faaar too many
other masks i wear are Kassie Salehi
check my flow
Boredom wasn’t a difficult thing to be found at Horizon. The options were limited; dull in comparison to what she could be doing right at that moment. Acid, ice, speed, dust – Johnny Walker, Jack, José – she f**king missed what wasn’t there. The places were small in comparison to the concrete jungle that she’d called home. It was cleaner. Quieter. Emptier. There were classes to be had. Scheduled feeding times. Counselor meetings that she hadn’t been eager to attend, even when the woman in charge of her admit, who had been kinder than her own mother and had an office that was warmer than home, hadn’t been away to take care of some silly mistake that she was probably regretting right about at that moment. There were activities to be had on the trails or at the pond, all of them supervised. But then there were the people, the students, so full of their less than unique flaws and secrets. One could never find a stretch of land or time where they could be alone any length, but that wasn’t always so bad. Some of them succeeded where she had failed, their secrets newly composed of the contraband that was meant to have been taken away from them upon entry into this postcard f**king haven. Even if that wasn’t the case, all of them had the physical contact that she craved like any chemical drug and some had the willingness to give it to sleepers like her. The pills and the powder, and the burning liquid, and the warm hands to trail over toned thighs. She’d take what she could get.
Joliet was bored, to the point that it caused a dull ache behind her eyes. Or perhaps that was the start of a withdrawal migraine that she’d managed to stave off thus far with pills handed over by a stranger at the lake and whispers in the sex stench of the dark early morning. In either case, she didn’t like it and a fix had to be so difficult to find, even when boredom wasn’t. Back home, right about then, she could have been any number of places with any number of people. That was probably what was so d**n bad about this place; Horizon. The fact that their freedom had been stripped considerably and doing what you wanted when you wanted was no longer an option. And it was thinking of all the stuff that you no longer had that really just f**king killed.
She would make do with what she had because it was all there would be for f**k knew how long. She’d fallen so far past the bottom because of one girl with a broken nose that hadn’t known how to shut up on her own, sharpening her tongue on truths that didn’t need to be acknowledged by anyone else by the sleeper and junkie they were directed to. She knew what she was. She didn’t need to hear it from them time and time again because she heard it enough from herself. Pathetic self-deprecation that was swiftly proving the only reliable constant in her life. But it happened and her temper landed her in a postcard perfect place filled with f**k ups and a restricted sense of entertainment, along with an aching head from the craving or the boredom.
Her stride had been almost angry as she’d set out, sticking to the designated trails at first. Each step in front of the other had been firm. Her muscles shifted and shivered beneath heated skin. She didn’t know exactly when she had turned to such exertions for relief. She certainly hadn’t arrived with the plan in mind. She hated to push herself. She would have been the first to admit to her slothful nature. Her idea of exercise had always just been a good f**k or sneaking home at four in the morning with a lack of sobriety proving her only hinderance. Now, she had an endless amount of walking over unfamiliar terrain. Grit grinding beneath her sneakers, a warm flush to her skin, a strain to her breathing, a thin layer of sweat beading along her hairline and the back of her neck. She still had to learn to pace herself, but she had the time. Unfrotunately.
Eventually, she'd strayed. She had abandoned the trail to break the line, ducking under the canopy and the cool of the shade slithering over her. She couldn't be quiet, leaves and sticks cracking beneath her step, and she didn't try. The chances of runnng into someone off the beaten path, specifically at the juncture she had decided to branch off from out of the miles of trail that had been left ahead and behind her were extraordinarily slim to none. And even by the odd chance that someone were in her path, listening to her crash through the underbrush, then she hoped that she had their attention. She'd love it. Ironic, considering she had once been that girl that would have rather melted into the background than ever feel eyes on her. On skin she hated.
She heard the creek before she saw it, water rushing over smoothed rocks in freezing currents.The cold radiating against her body as she tiptoed down the middle of the stream, over stones higher than the surface. Water splashed against her shoes and the bottoms of her jeans, soaking into the fabric. Her arms were held clumsily out to her side to achieve some kind of balance as she hopped from one rock to another, pausing at each moment to regain equilibrium that she'd never had to begin with before she continued onwards. There had been no creeks at home. There had been no smell of Canadian pine or clean air. There had been no birds singing in the moments before dawn. There had been no clear view of the stars at midnight when she had the drunken sense to look for them. But she didn't care for what was here, because it'd be gone when her court order was up. Not that she cared about that either. She was selfish, and she cared for no one and nothing outside of herself and what she wanted. She'd f**king convinced herself.
Perhaps she had lost her focus during the confirmation of her selfish nature, or perhaps she had simply gotten too arrogant in regards to her sloppy footing. In either light, she'd landed a little too far to the left and the sole of her sneaker slipped, slaughtering the rest of her balance. She fell to the side, her left knee scraping into the creek bed composed of mud and rock. She hadn't imagined the cold that had been coming off the water in waves, and yet it still shocked her to the bone. A curse shot off the cut of her tongue, through clenched teeth, as she swiftly pushed herself up. Her jeans were thoroughly drenched. The side of her dark shirt had gotten splashed and she idly pinched the thin fabric between her fingers to peel the damp cloth from where it clung to her ribs, which only allowed cold air to slip into the space and send a refreshed shiver through her adrenaline shot body. Her breath was ragged as it was pushed through her lungs. "You've gotta be f**king kidding me." She muttered, angry for her display of clumsiness and humiliated to no end.
Joliet was bored, to the point that it caused a dull ache behind her eyes. Or perhaps that was the start of a withdrawal migraine that she’d managed to stave off thus far with pills handed over by a stranger at the lake and whispers in the sex stench of the dark early morning. In either case, she didn’t like it and a fix had to be so difficult to find, even when boredom wasn’t. Back home, right about then, she could have been any number of places with any number of people. That was probably what was so d**n bad about this place; Horizon. The fact that their freedom had been stripped considerably and doing what you wanted when you wanted was no longer an option. And it was thinking of all the stuff that you no longer had that really just f**king killed.
She would make do with what she had because it was all there would be for f**k knew how long. She’d fallen so far past the bottom because of one girl with a broken nose that hadn’t known how to shut up on her own, sharpening her tongue on truths that didn’t need to be acknowledged by anyone else by the sleeper and junkie they were directed to. She knew what she was. She didn’t need to hear it from them time and time again because she heard it enough from herself. Pathetic self-deprecation that was swiftly proving the only reliable constant in her life. But it happened and her temper landed her in a postcard perfect place filled with f**k ups and a restricted sense of entertainment, along with an aching head from the craving or the boredom.
Her stride had been almost angry as she’d set out, sticking to the designated trails at first. Each step in front of the other had been firm. Her muscles shifted and shivered beneath heated skin. She didn’t know exactly when she had turned to such exertions for relief. She certainly hadn’t arrived with the plan in mind. She hated to push herself. She would have been the first to admit to her slothful nature. Her idea of exercise had always just been a good f**k or sneaking home at four in the morning with a lack of sobriety proving her only hinderance. Now, she had an endless amount of walking over unfamiliar terrain. Grit grinding beneath her sneakers, a warm flush to her skin, a strain to her breathing, a thin layer of sweat beading along her hairline and the back of her neck. She still had to learn to pace herself, but she had the time. Unfrotunately.
Eventually, she'd strayed. She had abandoned the trail to break the line, ducking under the canopy and the cool of the shade slithering over her. She couldn't be quiet, leaves and sticks cracking beneath her step, and she didn't try. The chances of runnng into someone off the beaten path, specifically at the juncture she had decided to branch off from out of the miles of trail that had been left ahead and behind her were extraordinarily slim to none. And even by the odd chance that someone were in her path, listening to her crash through the underbrush, then she hoped that she had their attention. She'd love it. Ironic, considering she had once been that girl that would have rather melted into the background than ever feel eyes on her. On skin she hated.
She heard the creek before she saw it, water rushing over smoothed rocks in freezing currents.The cold radiating against her body as she tiptoed down the middle of the stream, over stones higher than the surface. Water splashed against her shoes and the bottoms of her jeans, soaking into the fabric. Her arms were held clumsily out to her side to achieve some kind of balance as she hopped from one rock to another, pausing at each moment to regain equilibrium that she'd never had to begin with before she continued onwards. There had been no creeks at home. There had been no smell of Canadian pine or clean air. There had been no birds singing in the moments before dawn. There had been no clear view of the stars at midnight when she had the drunken sense to look for them. But she didn't care for what was here, because it'd be gone when her court order was up. Not that she cared about that either. She was selfish, and she cared for no one and nothing outside of herself and what she wanted. She'd f**king convinced herself.
Perhaps she had lost her focus during the confirmation of her selfish nature, or perhaps she had simply gotten too arrogant in regards to her sloppy footing. In either light, she'd landed a little too far to the left and the sole of her sneaker slipped, slaughtering the rest of her balance. She fell to the side, her left knee scraping into the creek bed composed of mud and rock. She hadn't imagined the cold that had been coming off the water in waves, and yet it still shocked her to the bone. A curse shot off the cut of her tongue, through clenched teeth, as she swiftly pushed herself up. Her jeans were thoroughly drenched. The side of her dark shirt had gotten splashed and she idly pinched the thin fabric between her fingers to peel the damp cloth from where it clung to her ribs, which only allowed cold air to slip into the space and send a refreshed shiver through her adrenaline shot body. Her breath was ragged as it was pushed through her lungs. "You've gotta be f**king kidding me." She muttered, angry for her display of clumsiness and humiliated to no end.
[/size]
*****~*****
``how did we get here well i think i know [how]’’
[/size]This Application was made by Cammy, though props go to Chrissie for inspiration! Looking forward to being hunted down with a pitch-fork!!
Song credit goes to Paramore for their piece of art known as Decode
[/blockquote]Song credit goes to Paramore for their piece of art known as Decode
