cliff josiah rathbone

[fly]

CLIFF JOSIAH RATHBONE

Name: Clifford Josiah Rathbone
Nicknames: Cliff to mostly everyone, Ford to his father, Clifford to his mother, Professor Rathbone to his students, and Cif to his niece,
Age: Thirty-Two
Date of Birth: November 13th, 1977
Orientation: Heterosexual
Nationality: South African & American
Home Town: Johannesburg, South Africa
Subject Taught: Fiction Writing, Play Writing, Screen Writing
Play by: Callum Blue

--- WILY Despite the tad bit of arrogance that all great writers seem to suffer from these days, Cliff really is quite clever. Back when he was a student, he could have easily managed grades well within the “A” range had he not been so concerned with maintaining his reputation as the abundantly clever boy with the unfortunate inclination towards being an underachiever.Knowing him now, you would have never thought that as a little boy, Cliff couldn’t abide to have a book anywhere near him. Though he was an exceptionally fast learner and quite advanced when it came to reading and comprehension, the thought of taking a precious hour of time that could be better spent playing with dinosaur toys was perhaps the most dreadful thing he could have conceived. He abhorred reading with a passion up until about the age of 14. That was when he was introduced to George Orwell. After that, you couldn’t seem to pull his nose out of his books without running the risk of having your arm broken. It was in his teenage years that he learned a great deal of knowledge from the books within his high school library. However his cleverness isn’t all attributed to extensive research and literature; he’s quite crafty with his words and his thoughts as well. He’s very eloquent in speech and wickedly artful when it comes to delivering opinions or jokes. He’s an excellent conversationalist which makes him an appealing and wildly popular man at parties. Some would venture to call him impeccably charming, but then again it’s all a matter of perception. While some might find his sharp witticisms amusing, others find him to be an insufferable know it all who is convinced he’s right about everything.

--- IMPASSIONED Clifford is violently passionate about the things in his life he deems important and dear to his heart. You can see it in his eye when he talks about how deeply he believes in the sanctity of words; there’s a fire there that makes him appear almost wild. Often in his lectures he appears unhinged to his students, like a wildly religious preacher might in the midst of a particularly heated sermon. He’s incredibly expressive and loves to help people understand what it is he experiences when caught up in the middle of reading one of George Orwell’s novels or when listening to a particularly beautiful piece of music. Alongside with being a passionate speaker he’s very passionate when it comes to his relationships. He’s the kind of man doesn’t take up “girlfriends”, but rather “lovers”.

--- HAUGHTY There’s no denying it; Cliff is a blatant snob. When it comes to play writing, he regards himself as, not really the messiah of the written word, but the man who is, above all else, faithfully devout to the rules of the written word. With him, not just anybody can call themselves a writer. The idea of the writer is precious to him; you can’t just let the first idiot who comes across a pen and paper befoul it by deeming himself a wordsmith. People often complain that he treats writing as if it were an elitist club only for those born with the talent, but to that he responds that as a faithful lover literature, he must protect words from abuse and misuse at the hands of imbeciles. The fact that he knows a lot about writing and has such a critical eye makes him an excellent teacher, but at the same time it makes him a nightmare to study under. He’s very particular about who’s allowed in his classes and hypercritical over his student’s work almost to the point of brutality.

LIKES:

• 1950’s and 60’s Pop Music
  
• Dickens
  
• Shakespeare
  
• Wilde
  
• Aldus Huxley
  
• Orwell
  
• Strindberg
  
• Camus
  
• Marshmallow Hearts
  
• Watermelon Juice
  
• Pineapple Veggie Dip
  
• Leggy Brunettes
  
• Writing on paper napkins
  
• Reading on his fire escape
  
• Dancing
  
• Love
  
• Students who idolize him
  
• Students who defy the cliché
  
• Latin
  
• The Pata-pata

DISLIKES:

• Classical Music
  
• Drivel
  
• People who think their drivel is a masterpiece
  
• Emily Brontë
  
• Nicholas Sparks
  
• Things involving vampires
  
• John Mayer
  
• Simpering people
  
• Being manipulated
  
• Red Onions
  
• Venice
  
• Boring women. Like Carrie Underwood
  
• People who write on their scripts with pen
  
• Bus Rides
  
• Birds
  
• Trying to make conversation with his brother-in-law
  
• Students who don't listen in class
  
• Students to cling to the cliché
  
• Birkenstock's
  
• The Macarana

Marlene and Pelé were high school sweethearts. They met in a dimly lit biology class on a Thursday afternoon in the midst of a slideshow about the workings of Taxonomy. A couple years after they graduated from high school they attended the University of Cape Town, still attached at the hip, despite the different faculties that they went into. It wasn’t long after they began in their areas of study that Marlene unexpectedly became pregnant. While it was by no means an unwelcome thing, it did put a little pressure on their plans for marriage. They’d both made the firm decision to finish up their education and obtain stable jobs before they were even going to think about getting married and having kids. So, Pelé one night after having picked up a large portion of samosas to bring to his pregnant girlfriend in the midst of an intense attack of cravings, he proposed. They conducted a hasty ceremony a month later in a small church with a humble amount of guests, and though the ceremony was beautiful, the belly on the bride was overtly present under her beautiful white linen dress.

Coincidentally, Cliff entered the world on the same day that his mother had 21 years prior. It was in the fledgling hours of the morning at her parent’s house in Johannesburg around 12:30 on November the 13th that the labor pains began for Marlene. Arrangements had been made the day before for large party in celebration of her birthday, but little did Marlene know that she was to be joined by another for the special day. The birthing process was long and arduous for poor Marlene, but despite the amount of distress she was experiencing, you could hear her voice ringing out through the corridors saying; “BY GOD AND ALL THINGS HOLY, THIS BABY WILL BE BORN, AND IT BEST BE BEFORE SUPPER BECAUSE I’VE SPENT FAR TOO LONG PLANNING THIS DAMN PARTY FOR IT TO GO TO WASTE!” So her siblings and parents within the house waited with bated breath for the arrival of the baby as they continued on with the plans for the festivities that evening. Finally, a half hour before the guests were to arrive for the occasion, Cliff was born and there was much rejoicing. The celebration within the household was immense and the party which had only been projected to last a couple hours continued on well into the early hours of the next morning. Pelé couldn’t have been more proud to have a healthy baby boy, and Marlene, though bedridden for the celebration, shared the same sentiments.

Marlene unfortunately had to drop out of university in order to take care of newborn Cliff, but Pelé continued on into the area of dentistry and eventually obtained his license to practice. For the family, things were going wonderfully. They were living in perhaps one of the wealthier gated communities in the city, they had a steady income, and they were happier than ever. It wasn’t long after Cliff turned 2 that Marlene gave birth again, this time to a little girl that they named Nancy. Though the two were very close even at the tender ages of 3 and 1, Cliff and Nancy never seemed to get along. If ever left in each others company for more than half an hour, their delightful pretend games would turn into huge screaming fits about who got to play with which thing and how the other was supposed to play their character. Even though they are fully fledged adults now, they still behave very much the same as when they were kids.

While life was relatively good for the family of 4, it became evident as the children grew older that Johannesburg was perhaps not the best environment for children to grow up in. The city’s reputation for being one of the rape and murder capitals of the world was proving to be more apparent as the children reached their teen years. When Cliff was merely 14, at least 3 of the children in his small private school class had been killed at the hands of passing looters and petty thieves. It wasn’t until the tragic rape of one of Nancy’s friends that Marlene and Pelé decided that they needed to get their family of this place. The political situation was unstable and the crime rate was dangerously high. They’d had enough of waiting with bated breath each afternoon to see if their children would arrive safely, if at all, from school.

At 16, Cliff and the family finally relocated to The United States; a place that promised perhaps more security then what they would find in their old country. They moved to the little town of Summit in New Jersey; a sleepy place with one movie theater, a coffee shop, one high school, and a plethora of gigantic colonial style “McMansions” as Cliff liked to call them. After finishing up what was left of his schooling, Cliff found himself the fallowing year of his high school graduation at Dartmouth in New Hampshire. He’d never expected to get into a prestigious university, especially not one that was a member of the Ivy League. His grades had been substandard due to his laziness with handing assignments in on time, but apparently the entrance exam he wrote was enough to get him in.

He spent a good portion of his life at Dartmouth and graduated with a Masters Degree in Creative Writing with a minor in screen writing. At just 26 he wrote a book that was short listed for the New York Times best seller list. He’s had a number of books published since then, but soon after he became more focused on play writing. After moving to New York for a bit he began cranking out plays, a few were picked up by directors and performed in smaller playhouses. One actually became an Off Broadway hit, which he believes if one of his great accomplishments in life. After a while of doing his own thing, he was invited to come as a guest speaker for Emerson Collage which he gladly accepted. At his brief time there he fell in love with the collage and after a very successful lecture, was offered a position as the next professor of creative writing after the current one was to retire the next year. He’s now been working at Emerson for close to 2 years.

Why Emerson?
Despite his elitist attitude towards writing, he really does love teaching. He loves inspiring people to write and getting them to stretch their ability beyond what they thought was possible. The fact that being a teacher is an entirely new experience to him is also rather exciting, and what better place to explore that then in a collage that truly is a center for promoting the arts? He likes the faculty, and he enjoys the fact that the classes are small as opposed to what he experience at his own University. He likes being able to know his students because it’s almost impossible to conduct a creative writing course when you don’t know your students habits, tendencies, or personalities.

“My lord, there has been a malfunction with the wheel of the cart.” Balls. Colossal balls. But he supposed it was to be expected. The cart was an old one; faithful, but old, and it was only a matter of time before it was bound to break. Combined with the rusting axles and the impossible mud that coated the ravine at the edge of the forest, conditions were perfect for the untimely demise of the trusted cart. Stony faced and grave, Tyrone stooped beside the wheel, inspecting the dislodged piece of hardware with a clinical eye. “Can it be fixed?” he murmured, his large callused hand sweeping gingerly over one of the wooden spokes, as if touching it might somehow make it magically repaired. One of the many servants that had accompanied him on the afternoon hunt squatted beside Tyrone to inspect the damage and ended up perhaps a little too close than would have been appropriate for lord and servant. Tyrone having noticed this, bestowed a warning glance in the direction of his servant and the situation was quickly rectified with a shuffle to the left on his servant’s part. “I believe we may be able to mend it, however it might take more time than is favourable to get it up the hill. The game may not keep for that long,” his servant spoke, flinching as Tyrone abruptly kicked at the cart, making the wood shudder with surprising force. Sensing his lords displeasure at possibly losing the game he’d collected from the day’s hunt, he hurried to the other men for an impromptu consultation on what the best course of action would be to take.

The sun was beginning to sink low behind the fragrant deciduous trees, its impeccably warm glow casting lengthy shadows upon the forest floor as the minutes passed. His hunting entourage, whilst furiously attempting to salvage what they could of the situation, seemed to have missed the fact that their lord was prepared to take matters into his own hands. Frustrated and not about to have the fresh buck that he’d killed be spoilt, Tyrone in a surprising display of strength managed to hoist the large carcass of the deer over his broad shoulder from up out of the wagon and began to head back towards the manor. “Leave the cart,” he grunted over his shoulder in the general direction of his men who were now all clambering after him to aid in the transportation of the buck, however despite their effort to urge their lord to bestow the weight upon them, Tyrone shrugged them off and continued up the hill with the large animal slung over his shoulder.

After a laborious trek up the ravine, Tyrone by some stroke of luck had managed to reach the manor just as the sun slipped low into the distant hills, and with one last glittering wink, dissapeared into the neighboring valley. He grunted as the weight of the great beast challenged that of the strength within his bones. Though Tyrone was a man of quiet looks and few words, he was perhaps one of the most bull headed and stuborn men in the entierety of Liston, for when one of his men noticed a mistep in his master’s stride that threatened his ballence, Tyrone would give a gruff snarl and continue forward, dismissing any aid that might be offered to help alleviate the weight of the buck. Tyrone was the one who had thought of this alternative solution, and by god he was going to complete it. Perhaps his deturmination was more prideful than anything; a silent display of strength and ability as an outlet for vanity, but more than anything he just wanted to make sure the animal was seen to in the apropriate manner and not left to rot in the depths of that revine. His hard work of capturing that allusive and beautiful creature would not go to waste if he could help it.

After he’d allowed his men to open the door to the manor for him (for he was not keen on ruining the beautiful oak doors by means of kicking them in) he lumbered down the hallway like some sort of concoring hero, his boots clacking against the cold stone and the legs of the buck swaying all akimbo. After passing many of the tapestry filled rooms and rounding the corners that needed to be taken in order to reach the kitchen, he found his way along the familiar route that lead past the dining hall. By chance, he’d snuck a fleeting glance into the elaborate room, and could have almost sworn he’d seen the very image of his younger brother. He took another look, just to be sure that it wasn’t his mind playing tricks upon him in the fading light of the afternoon, and found that things were unchanged; that in fact it was his brother in the flesh, sitting in what used to be his regular seat at the great wooden table. Tyrone momentarily stopped, quietly gazing at his brother in that wordless way that Tyrone seemed to think was apropriate to greet people with. He hoisted the buck to a more comfortable place on his shoulder, and after a moment, finaly spoke. “Supper. Or what was intended to be supper,” he replied, dryly acounting for the dead animal slung over his shoulder so savagely. With a short nod of his head towards Thomas he murmered a brief, “excuse me,” and then proceeded down the hall to unload the animal in the kitchen quarters.

“Why did you not tell me that Thomas was coming?” Tyrone boomed angrily as he paced his mothers quarters after he’d delivered the deer to the cooks. Lady Cauldwell, appearing exhausted and not at all in the mood to soothe her child’s mounting rage, closed her eyes and lifted a dainty hand to her temple. “My dear Tyrone, I did say not but a few days ago that his arrival would be expected.” He shot her a furious glance. “I’d completely forgotton! I should have been reminded earlier this morning so that I could have been spared the embaressment of arriving late with muddied clothing. I looked like a fool!” he growled, moving to flop into one of the armchairs within the room, but remembered that he was still clothed in his bloodied hunting garb, and thought better of it. Though it had been rather awkward arriving in the way that he had, he had to admit that there was some pleasure in arriving with the buck slung over his shoulder in a manner that his brother, due to years of illness as a child, could not. There was some secret saticfaction in knowing that while he was perhaps not as witty or appealing in personality as his brother, he was indeed stronger. “Tyrone…” his mother warned in her quiet, but effectivly dark way. At this Tyrone stopped angrily pacing and took a moment to calm himself by rubbing his temples with his callussed fingertips. “I know… I’m overreacting.” He murmered, repearing the very words he knew that his mother was thinking. “Please try to be civil with Thomas… For my sake?” she urged him, from her place in bed. “I’ll try.... For your sake mother. Shall you be joining us tonight?” he asked edging his way towards the door. “Not tonight. I fear my headache is a little too strong. But do tell Thomas to come visit me once you boys have finished making nice. I should very much like to see him,” Lady Cauldwell said with a weary smile before Tyrone gave her a gentle nod, and exited her chambers.

After having shed his bloody hunting clothes and adorning himself in a more suitable attire of dark velvet blue and antique silver, he returned to the dining hall where his brother sat in wait. Upon entering the room and seeing Thomas once again, he offered his classic lopsided smile as a greeting. “Brother,” he said, perhaps more tersly than he’d meant. “I beg you forgive my lateness. My men had trouble with the old cart and we were delayed because of it. I hope the acomadations have proved sufficient in my absense,” he said, indicating towards the wine and asortment of foods upon the table already. Though acomadating and pleasant at the moment, Tyrone wasn’t sure of how long he could keep up this charade. He wasn’t quite as adept at putting up appearances as his brother.

Hi, I'm FLY and I'm SEVENTEEN years old. I'm CRACKERS. This is my 1ST application. I found Failure's Not Flattering from DEH ELLIE.

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[- JESSE]

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