ronnydazzler
thesis, antithesis, synthesis.
Present Day:
Walter sat at his desk, clicking away on an old typewriter. Darkness swam in the apartment, attaching itself to all corners of the room—save for where the lamp lit the tiny desk. The busy city traffic hummed in intervals; the rain punctuated the noise, conducting a musical of taxi cab staccato—of sirens screaming in eighth notes. Scattered papers of crumpled ideas lay beside his feet; the garbage beside the desk could hold no more scrapped ideas.
Knock.
The clacking, clicking and zipping of the typewriter stopped immediately.
'Hello?' The writer asked in the darkness. Bloodshot eyes bloomed behind the lenses of his glasses. He never received visitors—not ever: so why at this hour, late into the night, did he find himself so certain, that just a moment ago, he heard a—
Knock!
He leapt from his chair; it toppled over. There it was again! and this time it was louder. He rose a fist to his lips, and coughed in anxiousness. Slowly, he stepped towards the door; but not before reaching below his bed for his bat.
Smash! the front door was kicked open. A tall, lanky figure stepped forward from the shadows.
'Howdy! Now, gee, I hate that I had to burst in on you like this, but I needed to find you before you made a terrible mistake. And say—what the heck was taking you so long?' The figure spoke, but Walter was paralyzed with panic; he dared not respond.
'Is that a bat? What in the world do you have that for? Have you looked outside? You can't be playing sports out there, now! Say, is that why it was taking you so long to—'
'Who are you?' Walter finally managed to speak.
'I don't have to answer that yet; and so I won't, I'm afraid. However, the reason for my coming to your—this isn't considered a house per se—I've come to your living quarters—'
'It's an apartment.'
'I beg your pardon?'
'Apart—'
'Yes! As I was saying: a part of the reason I'm here, which, I could have exlained to you by now if you didn't keep interrupting me, and I do encourage you to stop as we haven't a moment to lose.' Walter was silent; more from feeling dumbstruck that a man who disrupted his writing hours—via breaking down his door—had just scolded him for having interrupted, then from anything else.
'Good. Yes, I've come because you must not finish what you are writing. You simply cannot tell that story yet. Some writers, well, you're more than just that.' The figure paused for a moment, calculating what he was going to say. 'You have a certain responsibility; and you're not the only one—well, like you.'
(Looking to continue this story idea with a small group of roleplayers who like to write detailed posts. We will build the story together.)
Walter sat at his desk, clicking away on an old typewriter. Darkness swam in the apartment, attaching itself to all corners of the room—save for where the lamp lit the tiny desk. The busy city traffic hummed in intervals; the rain punctuated the noise, conducting a musical of taxi cab staccato—of sirens screaming in eighth notes. Scattered papers of crumpled ideas lay beside his feet; the garbage beside the desk could hold no more scrapped ideas.
Knock.
The clacking, clicking and zipping of the typewriter stopped immediately.
'Hello?' The writer asked in the darkness. Bloodshot eyes bloomed behind the lenses of his glasses. He never received visitors—not ever: so why at this hour, late into the night, did he find himself so certain, that just a moment ago, he heard a—
Knock!
He leapt from his chair; it toppled over. There it was again! and this time it was louder. He rose a fist to his lips, and coughed in anxiousness. Slowly, he stepped towards the door; but not before reaching below his bed for his bat.
Smash! the front door was kicked open. A tall, lanky figure stepped forward from the shadows.
'Howdy! Now, gee, I hate that I had to burst in on you like this, but I needed to find you before you made a terrible mistake. And say—what the heck was taking you so long?' The figure spoke, but Walter was paralyzed with panic; he dared not respond.
'Is that a bat? What in the world do you have that for? Have you looked outside? You can't be playing sports out there, now! Say, is that why it was taking you so long to—'
'Who are you?' Walter finally managed to speak.
'I don't have to answer that yet; and so I won't, I'm afraid. However, the reason for my coming to your—this isn't considered a house per se—I've come to your living quarters—'
'It's an apartment.'
'I beg your pardon?'
'Apart—'
'Yes! As I was saying: a part of the reason I'm here, which, I could have exlained to you by now if you didn't keep interrupting me, and I do encourage you to stop as we haven't a moment to lose.' Walter was silent; more from feeling dumbstruck that a man who disrupted his writing hours—via breaking down his door—had just scolded him for having interrupted, then from anything else.
'Good. Yes, I've come because you must not finish what you are writing. You simply cannot tell that story yet. Some writers, well, you're more than just that.' The figure paused for a moment, calculating what he was going to say. 'You have a certain responsibility; and you're not the only one—well, like you.'
(Looking to continue this story idea with a small group of roleplayers who like to write detailed posts. We will build the story together.)
