Jack Fuckin' Twist

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Thu, 15 May 2014 02:15:19 GMT

You can contact me or the cowboy here!

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Wed, 14 May 2014 18:58:28 GMT

Your name or online alias: Laura

Your email: aria.marier@gmail.com

Another preferred means of contact: AIM: lornadooneii

Character's Full Name: Jack Twist

Character's Canon: Brokeback Mountain

Character's Journal Name: jack_f_twist

What would you like your character's tag to be?: Jack Twist

In 300-500 words total, tell us your... Character's background (their past and present):

"You know, friend, this is one goddam bitch of a unsatisfactory situation."

Jack Twist has a talent for understatement.

Just another good old boy raised in Lightning Flat, Wyoming, on hard knocks and ranch work, he managed somehow to hang onto dreams of a better life: making it big in the rodeos, having a ranch all his own, getting the hell out of Lightning Flat. Jack rolls with the punches, getting back up again and again with that same shit-eating grin on his face, observing life's realities and hardships with a philosophical cigarette in his mouth, bitching and moaning without any real malice. Jack clings to some wordless impossible hope, and it keeps him going when sometimes it seems like nothing else will. And though that has always been part of his character, none of it really seemed to make much difference until after Brokeback Mountain and Ennis Del Mar.

Jack, at the time of his entrance, is not yet twenty-four, riding the rodeo circuit and with a few loose ideas of what he's doing, where he's going, and what his general purpose in life seems to be. He is a flirt and a charmer, but behind almost everything he says and does is a barely tangible disdain, a smirk lying just behind his ready smile. There's a core of steel in Jack, and it shows sometimes in the way he raises his head to meet a steady gaze, or in the carelessly graceful way he sprawls against the side of his beat-up old truck. As Stephen King writes about Larry Underwood, there's something in Jack that is like biting on tinfoil. Not that he's the strong silent type--hell no, Jack has a temper and he uses it, lightning-fast and mean. He's mercurial, is Jack, a quicksilver soul bottled up inside holed-through boots, broken-in old jeans and cowboy mentalities.

When the mood comes on him he can go for hours on ranching, horses, rodeoing or whatever topic strikes his fancy. At times of particular abandon, he might burst into song in a cigarette-roughened voice, or pull out a battered old harmonica, which he plays with minimal skill and much enjoyment. He drinks only beer and neat whiskey, and the one thing you ain't never gonna get him to talk about is what really happened that summer up on Brokeback.

Character's personality: Garrulous.

Character's skills/abilities/powers: He can stay on a bull for a full eight seconds...sometimes.

Any special equipment your character is bringing along? This includes weaponry, magic items, etc.: Nope. Not unless you count his harmonica. Which might be considered a weapon.

Are you bringing your character to [Bad username or unknown identity: ten_fwd from another game? Yes. If you are, which game?: Milliways If you answered yes above, briefly summarize how they were changed by and what challenges they faced in the climate of their previous game(s):]

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Thu, 23 Aug 2012 16:53:49 GMT

Seems to him, sometimes, the stables're just as busy as the bar itself. There's forever people milling around: newcomers or stablehands or folks who've just gotten lost on their first day or week, not to mention all the horses that have arrived since he was here last.

And, sure. Ain't like Jack's exactly ever been a contracted employee, so to speak, but nobody's ever given him a hard time about bein there, neither, which is good, because even with the people coming in and out and the work that's never got an end to it and his own loose ends that keep flapping around just out of eyesight, he kinda prefers it here. It's quiet, for the most part, and it's all familiar smells and sounds, which ain't always the case inside the bar or out, considerin.

Not that he particularly sounds like he's enjoying himself at the moment, tugging on a stubborn piece of leather that's supposed to be a useful part of the unnamed mare's halter, and swearing to high heaven while the creature in question lips at the hay in her trough and flicks an ear now and again in response to the frenzy of curses being pelted in the direction of the hapless thing.

Probably a good thing Ms. Kate ain't around just now. It ain't the sorta language appropriate for a lady.

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In The Barn

Wed, 20 Jun 2012 01:56:08 GMT

The barn ain't so bad, as far as barns go, and Jack's bedded down in worse.

(That goddam cat piss-soaked pup tent up on Brokeback springs to mind.)

It smells of homey things: hay, leather, oil, oats and alfalfa, manure. Nope, not bad, whether there's a cot to bed down in or not, and once William's gone, he goes ahead and sees to the horses, making sure they've got feed and water, checking over their tack with nimble, practiced fingers under the light of a swinging, flickering lamp.

That done, he settles down against a bale of hay and makes himself comfortable, the heel of his worn boot scraping across the floor as his leg relaxes. From a pocket, he produces a flask, unscrews the top while those lazy blue eyes of his watch his new acquaintance with more interest than his relaxed posture might let on.

Before he takes a swig, he holds the flask up, eyebrows lifted questioningly, offering.

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