Bits and pieces, really.
That's what I call memory; apparently this isn't normal. I get strange looks when I wake up, like I'm not supposed to be here. I don't figure I do, seeing as a strange-looking car swerved to avoid me. I must've passed out in the middle of the street for some reason. I think that makes sense.
Except I don't remember a junction called Winter and Main. It's bright out. Fresh water's across the road, there. What kind of car was that, anyhow? I don't think it had wheels. What kind of car doesn't have wheels? The driver doesn't look hurt; they just pulled over and stepped out, it seems. I wonder if they know what happened.
There's a man standing outside his automobile, inspecting it for damage, I suppose. He doesn't respond at first when I call his name, just standing there looking rather dumbfounded for a moment. His muscles tense a little, and he turns to face me with a haunted look on his face, as if he thought he'd actually hit me. "How'd you know my name?" he demands.
My eyes hover in tandem with his, both of us disturbed by the implications of the question. "I don't know," I honestly reply, and tighten my unnecessarily warm coat around me. "What happened?" My hands feel light, like the blood in them's turned to helium, and I squeeze my arms yet tighter to hold them down.
"You came out of nowhere, is what happened. You drunk or something?"
The corners of my lips curl upward the slightest bit, but I don't know why. Was that funny? "No; no, I'm just very, very lost. Where am I?" The man's gaze drifts up toward the street sign, and he opens his mouth. And lets it hang open, until he thinks better of himself and shuts his car door.
"Look; you want me to call an officer and have him take you home? You know where home is, right?" Despite his snark, his concerned brows and itchy scalp undermines the tension.
"Yeah; right off Dogwood and Broughton." He furrows his brows moreso, and my heart skips a beat. "Portland."
"Portland?! Lady, you're in New England." Lady didn't sit right somehow; granted, neither did New England. Things are fuzzy, but I remember Portland — it's where I grew up — with all my brothers and ... sister is so empty. Didn't I have a sister?
That's what I call memory; apparently this isn't normal. I get strange looks when I wake up, like I'm not supposed to be here. I don't figure I do, seeing as a strange-looking car swerved to avoid me. I must've passed out in the middle of the street for some reason. I think that makes sense.
Except I don't remember a junction called Winter and Main. It's bright out. Fresh water's across the road, there. What kind of car was that, anyhow? I don't think it had wheels. What kind of car doesn't have wheels? The driver doesn't look hurt; they just pulled over and stepped out, it seems. I wonder if they know what happened.
There's a man standing outside his automobile, inspecting it for damage, I suppose. He doesn't respond at first when I call his name, just standing there looking rather dumbfounded for a moment. His muscles tense a little, and he turns to face me with a haunted look on his face, as if he thought he'd actually hit me. "How'd you know my name?" he demands.
My eyes hover in tandem with his, both of us disturbed by the implications of the question. "I don't know," I honestly reply, and tighten my unnecessarily warm coat around me. "What happened?" My hands feel light, like the blood in them's turned to helium, and I squeeze my arms yet tighter to hold them down.
"You came out of nowhere, is what happened. You drunk or something?"
The corners of my lips curl upward the slightest bit, but I don't know why. Was that funny? "No; no, I'm just very, very lost. Where am I?" The man's gaze drifts up toward the street sign, and he opens his mouth. And lets it hang open, until he thinks better of himself and shuts his car door.
"Look; you want me to call an officer and have him take you home? You know where home is, right?" Despite his snark, his concerned brows and itchy scalp undermines the tension.
"Yeah; right off Dogwood and Broughton." He furrows his brows moreso, and my heart skips a beat. "Portland."
"Portland?! Lady, you're in New England." Lady didn't sit right somehow; granted, neither did New England. Things are fuzzy, but I remember Portland — it's where I grew up — with all my brothers and ... sister is so empty. Didn't I have a sister?
1/3 - Act I
Thank you for your time. I hope you've enjoyed the guts of my muse. Please, feel free to write me about this and other things.
I'm doing this with the hope that it will help me improve my writing endurance and therefore my dependability. I will complete an act each week and by the end of the month have written a short story I hope is worthy of your time.
This also serves as a first-hand narrative of this character's journey through space-time, and I hope to write more about Echo in a roleplay context. If you're interested in that, please let me know.
Or, perhaps, this is a drop in a bucket; in which case I will have at least practiced something worthwhile.
I'm doing this with the hope that it will help me improve my writing endurance and therefore my dependability. I will complete an act each week and by the end of the month have written a short story I hope is worthy of your time.
This also serves as a first-hand narrative of this character's journey through space-time, and I hope to write more about Echo in a roleplay context. If you're interested in that, please let me know.
Or, perhaps, this is a drop in a bucket; in which case I will have at least practiced something worthwhile.
Spencer is his name, and it resonates somehow whenever I look at his face. It's as if I've known him all my life, except that he doesn't know me back and I can't remember a thing about him.
He's offered to lend me his couch as an apology for nearly running me down in the street. He and his wife have been more gracious than I could have hoped for. "Until you can arrange to get back home," they said, and for that I am grateful, because I am beginning to wonder if there is a home for me.
I don't remember my mother's name; I don't know which year I was born; I can't even recall the day of the week. Although, Spencer has informed me that it was, in fact, a Monday upon which he came across me. And his calendar on the refrigerator door reads March 16th, 2097. I don't think I'm from 2097. I don't even think I'm from March (maybe February?), whatever that means.
Spencer and Julie are setting the table, now, in anticipation of the breakfast I'm cooking — just some eggs and potatoes, nothing special — and I realize I've been staring at the fridge a little longer than I should. So I turn and finish the last of the batch and bring the big ceramic plate over.
"You said I came out of nowhere, Spence'," I start. Julie gives me a strange look, almost a glare but perhaps too pleasant. I think she worries that I'm some kind of adulterer, with how chummy I am with her husband. I think I'll avoid calling him that any longer.
"I've been mulling that over, actually. I can't explain what I saw." Julie's odd gaze darts over to the trim-looking man, and I can read the We've talked about this on her face like a teenager's first zit. "You didn't jump out of the bushes or something. I really mean it; you came out of nowhere."
"I was thinking about how much I can't remember." I've finally set all their plates and take a seat with them at the table. They don't seem to be the traditional sort, so I stall a moment and mouth grace to myself before digging in.
Julie, though, she looks at me with this cock-eyed grin with her fingers curled together. I can't tell if she's threatening me or just biting her lashing tongue. It seems she was waiting for me to take a bite, though Spencer's stuffed his face full of hash already. "Elisse, honey, you know we're happy to have you here as long as you need."
I don't know what she's getting at, so I just look at her and nod while I drool savory egg yolk. Julie straightens her neck and goes on. "Spencer can be eccentric at times; I hope you understand — it must be so hard to cope with all these mixed thoughts of yours — but maybe you should save this discussion for a professional, okay?"
She was hardly giving me a choice, and I can't exactly bite the hand that feeds me. "No, you're right. I'm sorry; thank you for letting me stay here for a while." So she sets to eating, and I set to wondering again.
I do remember a few things, and I think they're the most important things. Feelings, my favorite color, blue; I remember my bird's name — I had a bird! A talking baby bird called Rocko! — but the only thing I can remember is that he was white and silky, and sounded like a child yelling in my ear through a tin-can telephone. That's a lot to remember, now that I think that.
Finishing my plate last leaves me alone with Julie, who's enjoying her cup of coffee in silence while Spencer wraps himself in a suit-jacket and waves his hat at the two of us on his way out the door. I look at her while using my napkin and she just smiles.
I can't get used to this. It's nice, but it's wrong. Where do I go? What am I supposed to do?
"Julie," I start while I walk to the sink. The water faucet's noisy, but it's the only noise. I set my plate down just in time to turn and see her stand to face me. "Are you okay?"
She dismisses the thought with a wave of her hand, and I go on. "I don't think I'm supposed to be here." Her gaze drifts up from the cup before her. Something between her and Spencer, maybe? She doesn't have that venomous look anymore.
"No, I don't think so, either. But I do think you're lucky." My face tightens, and I can smell the bile crawling around in my throat. Something about the way she said that puts me at unease.
"Lucky?" She gives me this apologetic smile.
"It's not important. You should probably go." Go where?
"Wherever."
What?
He's offered to lend me his couch as an apology for nearly running me down in the street. He and his wife have been more gracious than I could have hoped for. "Until you can arrange to get back home," they said, and for that I am grateful, because I am beginning to wonder if there is a home for me.
I don't remember my mother's name; I don't know which year I was born; I can't even recall the day of the week. Although, Spencer has informed me that it was, in fact, a Monday upon which he came across me. And his calendar on the refrigerator door reads March 16th, 2097. I don't think I'm from 2097. I don't even think I'm from March (maybe February?), whatever that means.
Spencer and Julie are setting the table, now, in anticipation of the breakfast I'm cooking — just some eggs and potatoes, nothing special — and I realize I've been staring at the fridge a little longer than I should. So I turn and finish the last of the batch and bring the big ceramic plate over.
"You said I came out of nowhere, Spence'," I start. Julie gives me a strange look, almost a glare but perhaps too pleasant. I think she worries that I'm some kind of adulterer, with how chummy I am with her husband. I think I'll avoid calling him that any longer.
"I've been mulling that over, actually. I can't explain what I saw." Julie's odd gaze darts over to the trim-looking man, and I can read the We've talked about this on her face like a teenager's first zit. "You didn't jump out of the bushes or something. I really mean it; you came out of nowhere."
"I was thinking about how much I can't remember." I've finally set all their plates and take a seat with them at the table. They don't seem to be the traditional sort, so I stall a moment and mouth grace to myself before digging in.
Julie, though, she looks at me with this cock-eyed grin with her fingers curled together. I can't tell if she's threatening me or just biting her lashing tongue. It seems she was waiting for me to take a bite, though Spencer's stuffed his face full of hash already. "Elisse, honey, you know we're happy to have you here as long as you need."
I don't know what she's getting at, so I just look at her and nod while I drool savory egg yolk. Julie straightens her neck and goes on. "Spencer can be eccentric at times; I hope you understand — it must be so hard to cope with all these mixed thoughts of yours — but maybe you should save this discussion for a professional, okay?"
She was hardly giving me a choice, and I can't exactly bite the hand that feeds me. "No, you're right. I'm sorry; thank you for letting me stay here for a while." So she sets to eating, and I set to wondering again.
I do remember a few things, and I think they're the most important things. Feelings, my favorite color, blue; I remember my bird's name — I had a bird! A talking baby bird called Rocko! — but the only thing I can remember is that he was white and silky, and sounded like a child yelling in my ear through a tin-can telephone. That's a lot to remember, now that I think that.
Finishing my plate last leaves me alone with Julie, who's enjoying her cup of coffee in silence while Spencer wraps himself in a suit-jacket and waves his hat at the two of us on his way out the door. I look at her while using my napkin and she just smiles.
I can't get used to this. It's nice, but it's wrong. Where do I go? What am I supposed to do?
"Julie," I start while I walk to the sink. The water faucet's noisy, but it's the only noise. I set my plate down just in time to turn and see her stand to face me. "Are you okay?"
She dismisses the thought with a wave of her hand, and I go on. "I don't think I'm supposed to be here." Her gaze drifts up from the cup before her. Something between her and Spencer, maybe? She doesn't have that venomous look anymore.
"No, I don't think so, either. But I do think you're lucky." My face tightens, and I can smell the bile crawling around in my throat. Something about the way she said that puts me at unease.
"Lucky?" She gives me this apologetic smile.
"It's not important. You should probably go." Go where?
"Wherever."
What?
2/3 - Act I
Thank you for sticking with me. By this point, I imagine you're wondering where I'm going with all this, and the answer is really nowhere, yet. I'm trying to pace myself, exaggerating the inaction until it's painful, spending so long on exposition it's a sort of auto-exposure therapy.
Maybe it's an ill-advised practice, but I'm not advised, so this is what I came up with. I'm planning to bring motive to the story in Act II, and nothing but motive. Hopefully this trial by fire will do me some good, and teach me how to measure myself.
Please, feel free to tell me if you have something you'd like to say.
Maybe it's an ill-advised practice, but I'm not advised, so this is what I came up with. I'm planning to bring motive to the story in Act II, and nothing but motive. Hopefully this trial by fire will do me some good, and teach me how to measure myself.
Please, feel free to tell me if you have something you'd like to say.
Everything seems so alien.
When I first opened my eyes, I saw the dark void of the cosmos. I was overcome with an immense vertigo which took me by surprise, and — as if I were flying at an incredible velocity — I watched stardust whiz by. Then I blinked, and I was standing in this strange place I can't explain.
So, here I am.
I'm not the same as the leathery, pink creatures who walk around me. I look what must be my hands, and I see nebulous radiance, like the eldritch visage of an angel. Be not afraid, I whisper to myself, and as quickly swallow the blasphemy.
But I'm relieved to realize they do not stare. I search for a mirror and see granite walls and brilliant, luminescent hues embroidering the nooks and bits. There is a dark window, and in it I see someone like the rest, and for that I am at ease.
It makes no sense, but it's all I know. It's all I've ever known. I am Echo, and I am two minutes old.
I feel silly just thinking that to myself.
The scent of fresh forest air coming with the breeze reminds me that time marches ever onward, and I come to my senses. I can't stay pondering for all of eternity. I need to go.
When I first opened my eyes, I saw the dark void of the cosmos. I was overcome with an immense vertigo which took me by surprise, and — as if I were flying at an incredible velocity — I watched stardust whiz by. Then I blinked, and I was standing in this strange place I can't explain.
So, here I am.
I'm not the same as the leathery, pink creatures who walk around me. I look what must be my hands, and I see nebulous radiance, like the eldritch visage of an angel. Be not afraid, I whisper to myself, and as quickly swallow the blasphemy.
But I'm relieved to realize they do not stare. I search for a mirror and see granite walls and brilliant, luminescent hues embroidering the nooks and bits. There is a dark window, and in it I see someone like the rest, and for that I am at ease.
It makes no sense, but it's all I know. It's all I've ever known. I am Echo, and I am two minutes old.
I feel silly just thinking that to myself.
The scent of fresh forest air coming with the breeze reminds me that time marches ever onward, and I come to my senses. I can't stay pondering for all of eternity. I need to go.
3/3 - Act I
The last of the fluff. Henceforth, I require myself to write passages which involve something motivating. Hopefully you will find this enjoyable.
I hope I will soon learn something from all this.
I hope I will soon learn something from all this.
So, now that I've had a few days to dwell on this, I think the issue is that I walked in without a story. I improvised atmosphere with no direction, and that's causing continuity webs to tangle everything up. Echo is a wanderer, not a plotter, and thus I never gave her a native setting.
I'll be coming back to this once I've reworked the character, and it'll be a fresh start, with more success, I hope.
I'll be coming back to this once I've reworked the character, and it'll be a fresh start, with more success, I hope.
Very cool to watch this process unfold! 
Thank you. I just hope it adds up in the end. This rut has been getting me down for years, and I want to do better.
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