The Storyteller

“It’s 5 o’clock somewhere” is a saying for a reason.

There are countless people who find themselves nursing drinks before a socially acceptable time.

Even more are drowning their sorrows, grief, and anger long before the sun goes down.

It is within these people that good stories reside.

Many find it strange, what I do. Most don’t expect to find a young woman in a pub or a bar, sipping on a glass of rum, transitioning between drinking and staring out the window absentmindedly to typing away furiously at her laptop.

More often than not I sit alone, writing, drinking. In part because of the grief I run from, in part because I have the liberty to do so, in part because of the romanticized image of the tortured author.

I listen to those around me, those other tortured souls.

I see the young woman, her pure face covered in tears and disgust as she laments to the bartender on how her husband had been cheating on her for the full duration of their marriage.

I hear the two brothers solemnly discussing their third brother’s death, due to an overdose of heroin, and how their mother in full-time care does not remember that her son had passed weeks ago.

I speak to the excited musician, one who has played all over locally and who is starting a tour across the country after all of his struggles.

I observe as the alcoholic man drowns his regrets, shot after shot, mumbling bitterly as to how he never should have had kids, never moved to this god-forsaken city, never married that cheating whore that was sleeping with his boss in the worst job that he had ever had.

I write stories for each of them, taking the strife that I hear and evolving it, developing it, putting my own spin on it.

Some people have begun to realize what I am doing.

I have a favourite spot, you see. A small, run-down bar with too small of a variety of alcohol, a place that houses local artists from folk to metal. I’ve all but scratched my name into a singular stool at a table near the window that faces out at the bustling city streets, watching adults and kids alike run through the park just within view.

And so, I sit, and I write, and I drink, and I write some more.

The first time I had someone approach me with a request, I was shaken.

A young bearded man came and sat near me, observing me for a while. I thought nothing of it, assuming he was as lost in thought as I was.

When he spoke, his voice was softer than I expected and filled with sadness.

He asked if I would write him a story.

I sat for a moment, stunned. Why would anyone want that? Why would they want some random stranger to write them a story out of the blue?

Still, I opened up a blank Word document and turned to him, meeting his sad blue eyes.

I asked him what he would like me to write.

He told me he had just been evicted, with nowhere to go but home to a place that had never supported him, that had told him that his dreams of being a painter were too far-fetched, too outdated for the times that we lived in.

He told me to take that information, and to write him a story. He would continue to sit there and drink until it was done, he informed me, even if it took me days.

Without another word, I accepted the task.

I began to weave a tale of this starving artist, one that had been through both hardship and beauty with which he used to create his work. But he had never once heard praise. I wrote of his journey home, and the abuse and the pain that he would have to suffer there. Those who never believed him were vile creatures, forcing his self-esteem into oblivion. That is until light found him in the form of an old high school friend, a beautiful woman who was holding an art gallery event in order to raise money for the school they both attended. She asked if she could feature his work. It was that gallery that led this man to revive the art world, shaping the future of this medium in his ideal image.

As I watched the now drunken man read my piece, his eyes welled with tears, a sad smile forming.

He asked me to email this to him, and that he would treasure it.

When he left, I ordered another drink. I needed it after that exchange.

I never heard from him again.

Yet since that moment, I’ve had others come to me, asking me to write their stories, be it their past, their present, or their future.

I’ve written the stories of the lonely, of the abandoned. I’ve written of those who have been lost in life, and those who may never be found.

Sometimes I don’t even get their name, simply the parts of their story that they want me to tell, to transform.

I’ve become the local Storyteller, working herself away, pouring her soul into the souls of others.

And now here I sit, in my spot, in my bar, for once telling not the story of another, but the story of myself.

Sentience Snippet

Everyone was convinced that we were years away from this.

There wouldn’t be enough funding.

The technology would be too cumbersome.

Machine intelligence couldn’t evolve that quickly.

But all it took was a genius with the support of the rich.

After all, every tomorrow is bound to become today.

Boxes

My memories are packed in tight, little boxes.

Unlabelled, and precariously stacked in the back of my mind.

Open the wrong one, and Pandora’s box is unleashed.

Wait too long, and every box will either topple over or vanish.

So, pray tell, how the hell do I win?

 

Sentience Premise Work

The outline follows John Truby’s outline in ‘The Anatomy of Story’.

 

  • Premise: In a world run by artificial intelligence, humans are feared and viewed as a virus to the earth.
  • Possibilities: New take on Artificial Intelligence and how far it could go. A love between machine and human. Show how our lifestyles are dangerous and yet how we will never be able to fix our mistakes unless drastic measures are taken, I.E a Plague.
  • Story Challenges: Being equal on all sides of the story (think of an essay, try to remain as unbiased as possible and argue all sides).
  • Problems: AI rights, emotional range, and politics. Human rights, Human VS World.
  • Designing Principle: Force an AI to awaken humans and a human to love the computer. The human’s beliefs are conflicted.
  • Best Character(s): Ashley’s moral confusion shows the life of the sheltered woman learning of the world. Valerie’s story mirrors in a way that proves her humanity.
  • Conflict: Ashley fights her friend, lover, and family about human rights to live. Valerie fights her father, coworker, and rival for the same.
  • Basic Action: Heroines join forces to fight the systems they were born into.
  • Character Change:Weakness: Ash is naive, a flirt, and a drug user.

 

Change: By involving herself in the business of Revitalizers, she learns her opinions on the world and strives for the good in it, distracting herself from her past ways, and falling for her ally.

Weakness: Valerie is naive, and brainwashed by her father into false loyalty.

Change: By intrigue in humanity, she rebels and gains perspective, love, and true loyalty.

Moral Choice: Ash throws away her riches and safety to set the world right and to be with Val. Valerie betrays her father and the security of her society to give humanity a chance.

Three Words

Describe the most beautiful person you have ever seen in three words.

Following their passion(s)

Because nothing is more stunning in a human being than seeing that spark in their eyes when they discuss what they really, truly love more than anything.

 

Thanks to writing.prompt.s on Instagram for their ever flowing pool of inspiration! I’m sure more works will come that are solely based on their help.

Lead in the Veins

I hear it all the time.

“Poor thing, with those scars on their wrists. They must be so lost.”

“What a freak, covering up their cuts. Daddy must be mean to them or something.”

“They’re too young to know what depression is.”

“What on earth could they be going through?”

“What compels them to hurt themselves, aren’t they going through enough pain?”

I hear this, and it’s all I can do to shake my head.

To look at the poor soul in empathy.

Because I know.

I’ve felt it.

The lead in my veins, the weight that simply comes with living each second.

It hits me even now, in this stage of my life. The desire to feel any other kind of pain than this excruciating numbness.

To finally get the burning poison out of my veins so that I can get out of bed and move on with my day.

But this seemingly counteractive method of healing comes with its scars.

And sometimes, it is the only method of healing people can get.

And I know.

No matter how hard I want to help, it is all I can do to nod in solidarity.

Because I’ve felt it.

I’ve lived with it.

I’ve lived past it.

And I pray that they can live past it too.

Quote: Okami

“When one tries to master something, it ends in either success or failure. But it is in the attempt itself where you find the true value. Believe in your own power and walk your own path.” ~ Oki

I view this as a valuable lesson to live by. As a person constantly finding new interests in mastering different things, from writing, to drawing, to calligraphy, to science, to mythology, to guitar. Each path that I have walked for each interest, be it successful or a failure, has taught me important facets of who I am as a person.

After all, it is my belief that mistakes are what teach you, as opposed to triumphs.

Incarnate: Chapter 1

The beginning chapter of the first novel I wrote can be found below. Note that the novel is not edited, not published, yet still fully my property!

There’s never really a good way to start a story; and that’s a fact I learned a long time ago. Do you start with a flashback? At the time of the event? At the end? The possibilities are endless…But still, you have to start somewhere. I guess the best place to do so in this case would be the day that James Caulfield arrived. He always told me about his first few months here, telling me that he was a nervous wreck when he moved and how exactly things began to change when we met…

Continue reading “Incarnate: Chapter 1”