Post by Quill on Aug 11, 2011 21:05:56 GMT -5
Since this isn't fanfiction, I guess this goes here.
It's a story I started working on. The prologue just sort of jumped into my head the other night and said "Write me!" So I did, and I hope it goes somewhere. So, ah, tell me what you think. c:
Tales Forgone
Prologue
My name is irrelevant at this point. It has become a trivial detail, alongside my age, or place of birth, or my most beloved childhood memory. I highly doubt anyone would be searching for such information, but if they were to seek it, they would most readily find it among stacks of dusty old records in a basement somewhere. You see, the information is irrelevant not only to the world at large, but to me as well- as a matter of fact, I’ve forgotten it entirely. I fail to see anyone finding use in such facts, since I myself, the supposed owner of said face, find no use in them. To cease this lofty runaround, I’ll tell you straight. I’m dead.
Not-so-recently deceased, as it were- without my memories I cannot tell exactly when I died, but I do know it was quite a long while ago. There’s no need to feel sympathetic on my account, I grown quite used to the concept. It’s almost pleasant actually; there’s none of this moaning, chain rattling nonsense we’re told about while living. I’m free to come and go as I please, though I find myself rather fond of this particular spot here. You could say it’s my favorite haunt, if you find yourself a fan of terrible puns. (I happen to be a fan of terrible puns, so a favorite haunt it is.)
Forgive me; I’m sure you didn’t come here to listen to me ramble on about meaningless things like that. I get so few visitors I tend to just drone on and on about anything when one does come around. No, if I had to guess, you came here for a story. Yes, that is it, isn’t it? While memories I have none, tales and stories I have amassed a rather impressive collection since my departure from mortality. Being free to flit here or there without being noticed by those of flesh and blood is incredibly useful for gathering interesting anecdotes. On that note, I believe I have the perfect little tale to start with, an appetizer for the heartier, more robust stories I keep secreted away...if you want to stick around for those, of course.
But, before I begin this particular yarn, I notice a discomfort in your posture. Certainly it’s not your chair- I’ve never once received a complaint about the décor. ...Ah, yes, I see now. It’s so easy to forget, I might have no use for a name, but this conversation will only get increasingly awkward without knowing what to call one another by. For the sake of familiarity, you may refer to me as Gone. As a name, it’s rather short and peculiar...but, should you return to your friends and they ask with whom you were conversing, you may reply truthfully and with a straight face, “He’s Gone.”
It's a story I started working on. The prologue just sort of jumped into my head the other night and said "Write me!" So I did, and I hope it goes somewhere. So, ah, tell me what you think. c:
Tales Forgone
Prologue
My name is irrelevant at this point. It has become a trivial detail, alongside my age, or place of birth, or my most beloved childhood memory. I highly doubt anyone would be searching for such information, but if they were to seek it, they would most readily find it among stacks of dusty old records in a basement somewhere. You see, the information is irrelevant not only to the world at large, but to me as well- as a matter of fact, I’ve forgotten it entirely. I fail to see anyone finding use in such facts, since I myself, the supposed owner of said face, find no use in them. To cease this lofty runaround, I’ll tell you straight. I’m dead.
Not-so-recently deceased, as it were- without my memories I cannot tell exactly when I died, but I do know it was quite a long while ago. There’s no need to feel sympathetic on my account, I grown quite used to the concept. It’s almost pleasant actually; there’s none of this moaning, chain rattling nonsense we’re told about while living. I’m free to come and go as I please, though I find myself rather fond of this particular spot here. You could say it’s my favorite haunt, if you find yourself a fan of terrible puns. (I happen to be a fan of terrible puns, so a favorite haunt it is.)
Forgive me; I’m sure you didn’t come here to listen to me ramble on about meaningless things like that. I get so few visitors I tend to just drone on and on about anything when one does come around. No, if I had to guess, you came here for a story. Yes, that is it, isn’t it? While memories I have none, tales and stories I have amassed a rather impressive collection since my departure from mortality. Being free to flit here or there without being noticed by those of flesh and blood is incredibly useful for gathering interesting anecdotes. On that note, I believe I have the perfect little tale to start with, an appetizer for the heartier, more robust stories I keep secreted away...if you want to stick around for those, of course.
But, before I begin this particular yarn, I notice a discomfort in your posture. Certainly it’s not your chair- I’ve never once received a complaint about the décor. ...Ah, yes, I see now. It’s so easy to forget, I might have no use for a name, but this conversation will only get increasingly awkward without knowing what to call one another by. For the sake of familiarity, you may refer to me as Gone. As a name, it’s rather short and peculiar...but, should you return to your friends and they ask with whom you were conversing, you may reply truthfully and with a straight face, “He’s Gone.”
