A "Real" Character

[Loki Wyrd]

I remember it vividly. My parents and little brother had gone out for breakfast. They had asked me along, but at the time I valued an extra hour of sleep more than a nice meal. Nonetheless, hunger eventually drove me out of bed. Maybe I'd go down for a bite to eat, and afterwards I could always return to bed, if it so pleased me. My hair was a mess, but it was the weekend (what did I care?). I was dressed only in boxer shorts. As I walked by one of the upstairs' windows, I could see that my parents were pulling in the driveway, as my chances for a quiet breakfast were pulling out. I went to the bathroom, washing cold water over my face. By the time I reached the stairwell, my parents had made it inside. They confronted me on the bottom of the stairs, as I made my way down them. Both looked quite serious as they looked up at me. They had to "talk to me about something."

 

So there I stood, in my boxer shorts in the middle of the stairs, as my dad motioned for my little brother to make himself scarce. My heart was racing. I tried to think of what terrible things I had done lately. But that line of reasoning quickly drained from me, as would the blood to my face; seeing my parents’ sorrowful expressions told me it was something more. They had read it in the newspaper over breakfast. The locals were talking about it, too.

 

"Your friend was in a car accident. He died," my dad said, with a sad note of consternation in his voice.

 

"Oh. Jeez," I stupidly replied. What was I to say to something like that? There really is nothing one can say. So I just turned around and walked right back up those stairs.

 

"Are you alright?" my mom called up after me, in her concerned but pitiable mother's voice.

 

“Yeah, I'm fine," not stopping on the way to my room to elaborate. It was the truth. I was fine; I wasn't the one who had his life cut tragically short. I would go on doing what I do, for however long this world allows it. I'd lie back down in bed, and by the time I'd get back up I would feel better--or possibly no worse.

 

As little kids, our families had gone camping together in the summertime. We'd go out into the woods to lose ourselves--only to find our way once more. We would spend hours out there. The forest seemed endless in our youth, and the trees grew into the sky. Still, this wouldn't stop us from climbing them, to touch the clouds. It wouldn't prevent us from exploring just a little further every day, until we had to turn back or risk our parents' wrath for making them worry.

 

As the summer (in terms of the school year) neared the end, people began to leave the campsites. We would go around to them to see if anyone had left anything behind. Once, we found something other than garbage. To the eyes of a couple naive little kids it looked like a jug of water. To a keener sort, it was quite obviously a container of gasoline. One of us --which of us it was is lost to time--thought it would be a good idea to drink from it; thankfully, we didn't. Instead, we decided on pouring it out.

 

The problem with pouring out the gasoline was--that the people from the campsite in question had not left at all. And when they returned, they were quite upset about the whole incident. So much so that they went to our parents and demanded they be compensated for their loss. This caused a great scene. My friend's dad insisted that I was the culprit, and his son had no part of it. My dad wouldn't go for that, though. He claimed that my friend was every bit as responsible as I was. Neither of them really knew what happened, but that didn't stop them from acting like they had all the facts. Each of us was at fault; we both knew that. Yet, despite urgings from our parents, neither of us would point a finger at the other.

 

He was a peculiar kid. Which made him a likely friend for me. In elementary school, the thing I found most intriguing about him was that he wouldn't jump up in the air, ever. This became apparent to me one day as I play on the monkey bars. I would jump up, grasping a bar in both hands, and then swing from bar to bar--sometimes even skipping a bar or two, propelling myself forward with motion, without the support of a bar to hold onto as I reached out hopefully with one hand to my next intended bar. As I performed this amazing feat, I encouraged him to come up and try as well. He didn't want to. I wouldn't have usually pushed the issue, but it occurred to me that I had never seen both of his feet leave the ground simultaneously. This was peculiar, indeed. Had gravity some greater hold over him than lesser beings?

 

From then on, I tried to persuade him to jump whenever the subject seemed fitting. It became a little joke, between the two of us. In retrospect, my persistence itself was likely the cause of his perpetuated idiosyncrasy. He was funny like that.

 

Around that same time, his mom had gotten into the habit of having him wear gloves to school everyday. In the winter, this didn't merit much notice. In the summer, however, it was a wonder to me. In reality, it was nothing too amazing: He had a skin condition that would make his hands dry and scaly, and the gloves were supposed to alleviate some of this. But in the mind of a kid, it's something you remember.

 

In middle school, we would collaborate on our writings. We were in the same class, and our teacher would let us write all sorts of imaginary tales. Though, if only for a moment, they were more than just our imaginations. We could live them, as one might relive moments from their past. It was also a medium in which we could be completely uninhibited--a place to vent our dark humor. Many of our stories ended up quite gory. Occasionally, we'd even slip in an innuendo that likely would have gotten us into a good deal of trouble; but the teacher either didn't know, or didn't care; I love him for it, either way. These stories had no real redeeming qualities (as my parents were sure to let me know), but they were fun. And more importantly still, they would allow us an opportunity to push the limits.

 

One day, I can remember that my friend brought a sticky hand to class with him. It had a long, stretchy arm that was used to slingshot the hand forward, which would then stick onto something and grab it. On the sly, one of us would hold the end of the arm while the other would pull back the hand and aim. Releasing the hand, it would shoot forward, and more times than not, hit our target. Piles of paper would scatter, pencils would fly: Nothing was safe. But when is it?

 

Come that day in high school, it was all over. No more mischief for the two of us. No more boundaries to search out, or stories to write. There's only me now. Maybe that's all there ever has been. And this is where things get confusing: Memories distort, perceptions alter, and an imagination can get carried away.

 

There are those out there that believe a person is made up of their memories--that they shape who we are. But what if our memories are unclear, or even false? If I were to create a character that became so real to me that he took form within the archives of my mind, would he, to me, be any less important than if he were real? Perhaps even the memories that this hypothetical character would be shaped around could be true. In the end, how would I know what to trust?

 

These memories, thoughts, ideas--there is one unifying element to them all: me. They define me. So why then should I doubt my very essence of being, that which has made up who I am? I would not wish to be forgotten, myself. Nor another.

Edited September 24, 2004 by Loki Wyrd

[Loki Wyrd]

I'm currently taking a writing class (whenever anyone might see me on IRC, that's where I likely am), and this was written for that. It's suppose to be a "special person" paper, but I like to go against the grain, so this is what I came up with. My problem is that I've never taken a good writing class; they fail to pique my interest, and very seldomly teach me anything. I've gotten where I am today by reading and teaching myself. This class I feel is a little below my skill level, and the teacher really is of no help. The first paper I had turned in as a rough draft she said was perfect as is. Well, needless to say, I wasn't satisfied with it. I'd hoped to have some real input, not just to point out any mispelled words. I guess that's why I'm posting here, because I doubt I'll get any help from my teacher with this, either. My experience with writing in this format is fairly limited, and I'm sure I could use all the help anyone is willing to offer. If you can take the time to read this, and comment, it would be much appreciated.

[Wyvern]

Loki Wyrd,

 

I think that this is a very good story, as the numerous original details you incorporate throughout it make for a provocative read. I thought that the manner that the narrators friend was characterized was particularly well done, as his fear of leaving the ground and the many interesting activities he participates in with the narrator over the course of their friendship were nicely depicted. In addition, with the exception of one or two minor instances ("This was peculiar, indeed. Had gravity some greater hold over him than lesser beings?"), the narrative voice is very consistant and adds a sense of realism to the text.

 

As for potential improvements, one thing that stood out to me as being not as strong as the other elements of the text was the manner that the narrator undergoes a change at the end of the text. The changes that occur within the narrator at the end are interesting, but the manner that they're directly stated in the text is rather blunt and philosophical, which seems somewhat out of character for the narrator. In addition, while backstory is always good to fuel the characterization of a text, you may want to consider bringing the reader back to the present moment and the emotional conflict at hand every few paragraphs. A story that consists of mostly backstory runs the risk of losing the interest of the reader, since the reader is often most interested in the conflict currently at hand.

 

Good story, I'm glad it was well-recieved.

[Loki Wyrd]

I figured that end would be the part that would be criticized. I was trying to work up to it, in a way, by dropping in a few subtle remarks through the story. But it still didn't transition very well, did it?

 

This wasn't the story that was well-received, that was my first one (I'll post that later if anyone is interested). I was a little rushed finishing this first draft, but it didn't much matter--my teacher didn't even read any of the actual content. I'll post a later draft if I can manage to bring it together a little more thoroughly.

[Loki Wyrd]

This is my first revision. Is it better? Worse? Please feel free to pick it apart. I need some honesty, and I need to get better.

 

 

 

Going through old boxes I found a stack of notebooks I had written in during high school. Most of it immediately went in the garbage: math problems, idle scribbling, and other such debauchery. I kept some for nostalgic purposes. Stories I could hardly believe I had written--how far I've come since then--and that which invoked in me memories of times gone by. One group of tattered pages in particular conjured up in me both emotions I had buried and events I had lost. I cannot remember writing it, but the words stir within me still. This is their story.

 

----------------------------------

 

My parents and little brother had gone out for breakfast. They had asked me along, but at the time I valued an extra hour of sleep more than a nice meal. Nonetheless, hunger eventually drove me out of bed. Maybe I'd go down for a bite to eat, and afterwards I could always return to bed, if it so pleased me. My hair was a mess, but it was the weekend (what did I care?). I was dressed only in boxer shorts. As I walked by one of the upstairs' windows, I could see that my parents were pulling in the driveway, as my chances for a quiet breakfast were pulling out. I went to the bathroom, washing cold water over my face. By the time I reached the stairwell my parents had made it inside. They confronted me on the bottom of the stairs, as I made my way down them. Both looked quite serious as they looked up at me. They had to "talk to me about something."

 

So there I stood, in my boxer shorts in the middle of the stairs, as my dad motioned for my little brother to make himself scarce. My heart was racing. I tried to think of what terrible things I had done lately. But that line of reasoning quickly drained from me, as would the blood to my face; seeing my parents’ sorrowful expressions told me it was something more. They had read it in the newspaper over breakfast. The locals were talking about it, too.

 

"Your friend was in a car accident. He died," my dad said, with a sad note of consternation in his voice.

 

"Oh. Jeez," I stupidly replied. What was I to say to something like that? There really is nothing one can say. So I just turned around and walked right back up those stairs.

 

"Are you alright?" my mom called up after me, in her concerned but pitiable mother's voice.

 

“Yeah, I'm fine," not stopping on the way to my room to elaborate. It was the truth. I was fine; I wasn't the one who had his life cut tragically short. I would go on doing what I do, for however long this world allows it: I'd lie back down in bed, and by the time I'd get back up I would feel better--or possibly no worse.

 

As little kids, our families had gone camping together in the summertime. We'd go out into the woods to lose ourselves--only to find our way once more. We would spend hours out there. The forest seemed endless in our youth, and the trees grew into the sky. Still, this wouldn't stop us from climbing them, to touch the clouds. It wouldn't prevent us from exploring just a little further every day, until we had to turn back or risk our parents' wrath for making them worry.

 

As the summer (in terms of the school year) neared the end, people began to leave the campsites. We would go around to them to see if anyone had left anything behind. Once, we found something other than garbage. To the eyes of a couple naive little kids it looked like a jug of water. To a keener sort, it was quite obviously a container of gasoline. One of us--which of us, I can't remember--thought it would be a good idea to drink from it; thankfully, we did not. Instead, we decided on pouring it out.

 

The problem with pouring out the gasoline was--that the people from the campsite in question had not left at all. And when they returned, they were quite upset about the whole incident. So much so that they went to our parents and demanded they be compensated for their loss. This caused a great scene. My friend's dad insisted that I was the culprit, and his son had no part of it. My dad wouldn't go for that, though. He claimed that my friend was every bit as responsible as I was. Neither of them really knew what happened, but that didn't stop them from acting like they had all the facts. Each of us was at fault; we both knew that. Yet, despite urgings from our parents, neither of us would point a finger at the other.

 

He was a peculiar kid. Which made him a likely friend for me. In elementary school, the thing I found most intriguing about him was that he wouldn't jump up in the air--ever. This became apparent to me one day as I play on the monkey bars. I would jump up, grasping a bar in both hands, and then swing from bar to bar--sometimes even skipping a bar or two, propelling myself forward with motion, without the support of a bar to hold onto as I reached out hopefully with one hand to my next intended bar. As I performed this amazing feat, I encouraged him to come up and try as well. He didn't want to. I wouldn't have usually pushed the issue, but it occurred to me that I had never seen both of his feet leave the ground simultaneously. I really found that odd.

 

From then on, I tried to persuade him to jump whenever the subject seemed fitting. It became a little joke, between the two of us. In retrospect, my persistence itself was likely the cause of his perpetuated idiosyncrasy. He was funny like that.

 

Around that same time, his mom had gotten into the habit of having him wear gloves to school everyday. In the winter this didn't merit much notice. In the summer, however, it was a wonder to me. In reality, it was nothing too amazing: He had a skin condition that would make his hands dry and scaly, and the gloves were supposed to alleviate some of this. But in the mind of a kid, it's something you remember.

 

In middle school, we would collaborate on our writings. We were in the same class, and our teacher would let us write all sorts of imaginary tales. Though, if only for a moment, they were more than just our imaginations. We could live them, as one might relive moments from their past. It was also a medium in which we could be completely uninhibited--a place to vent our dark humor. Many of our stories ended up quite gory. Occasionally, we'd even slip in an innuendo that likely would have gotten us into a good deal of trouble; but the teacher either didn't know, or didn't care; I love him for it, either way. These stories had no real redeeming qualities (as my parents were sure to let me know), but they were fun. And more importantly still, they would allow us an opportunity to push the limits.

 

One unremarkable day, I can remember that my friend brought a sticky hand to class with him. It had a long, stretchy arm that was used to slingshot the hand forward, which would then stick onto something and grab it. On the sly, one of us would hold the end of the arm while the other would pull back the hand and aim. Releasing the hand, it would shoot forward, and more times than not, hit our target. Piles of paper would scatter, pencils would fly: Nothing was safe. But when is it?

 

---------------------------------------------------

 

Come that day in high school, the story had ended. No more mischief for the two of us. No more boundaries to search out, or tales to write. There's only me now. Maybe that's all there ever has been. Reading this late at night, everything doesn't seem so black and white to me anymore. And this is where things get confusing: Memories distort, perceptions alter, and an imagination can get carried away. What troubles me most is that I just can't remember. What did my friend even look like? And when was it that I had written this? I seemed so sure of the memories when I first had read it, but now doubt lingers in the back of my mind; a coiled viper, ready to strike when my guard is down.

 

There are those out there that believe a person is made up of their memories--that they shape who we are. But what if our memories are unclear, or even false? If I were to create a character that became so real to me that he took form within the archives of my mind, would he, to me, be any less important than if he were real? Perhaps even the memories that this hypothetical character would be shaped around could be true. In the end, how would I know what to trust? Not my notebooks, the lump in my throat, nor the foreboding sense of decrepit reality that would seek me out where I sleep.

 

These memories, thoughts, ideas--I do know there is one unifying element to them all: me. They define me. So why then should I doubt my very essence of being, that which makes up who I am? I would not wish to be forgotten, myself. Nor another. No matter the substance. No matter the wear of the pages it is written on. It's with me now. He’s with me.

[Cyril Darkcloud]

Loki Wyrd - I've enjoyed both reading your work here and taking a bit of time play around with how its pieces fit together.

 

Keep writing!

 

Feedback posted in the Critics' Corner here.