Post by Tiff on Jan 24, 2011 21:59:33 GMT -5
Alright, so I know we're all used to role playing our families in a town, but how about if we take a break from that for a moment and explore other aspects of creative writing? I'm going to post a summary and together we'll create one or two characters to put into the story and together write to attain the goal. These one or two characters Should not be from your Riverside families or characters. Please create a small bio/description of your character He or she can be related to any of the other characters and any age as long as it will progress the story.
How many people are given a rare second chance? How many people get the opportunity to see how the other half live? Frankie Conrad, was given the opportunity to live like royalty, well Royalty in the modern sense of the word, simply better than the vast majority but it wasn't always this way and what troubles her most is she doesn't remember but vague details of her brief past and the saddest part, at least to those who are most fortunate, is that she's not sure if she likes how the vast minority lives. Its her second chance, but she might trade all the delicacies, fancy clothes, and comforts for the life she doesn't remember.
Frankie Conrad and the characters in this story live in a country similar to the United States, although it has now become like the feudal systems of the middle ages. The Rich have everything and the poor have little to nothing, and what they do have can be taken away. In Frankie's case, she was taken from her real parents when she was fifteen, but she doesn't remember, it's all a part of the Rich people's idea of the perfect life. They've built a wall around their perfect community and leave the poor people to do the dirty work and suffer. They feed money into the politician's hands to keep the image alive, and the politician's do whatever it takes to make it reality, including getting a replacement child when the original dies suddenly, or an infant when a woman can't conceive. They do whatever it takes to make them happy, to make the fifteen year old forget that his or her life was ever anything, but rich and fabulous.
Character Profile
Name: Frankie Conrad
Age: 17
History: Frankie Conrad has lived with her parents Carter and Victoria Conrad for her entire life. She's had a happy childhood and life, many friends at her private school and hasn't had many reasons to think that her world might not have been what it is now until one night when she woke with a bad feeling and a sneaking suspicion.
I placed my fingers on the keys of our Kuhn-Bosendorfer piano, the name means nothing to me, and mom is always saying how she'd like to chuck the thing from it's place in the drawing room and buy the latest model. Dad won't allow it, he says it's rooted in history and was once one of the most expensive piano's on the market, running the potential buyer around $1.2 million. Mom doesn't care about its history and besides, she says, $1.2 million is chump change. The song I'm playing is in a 4/4 time signature:
My mom hates when I play it because the band isn't current and though they were popular enough during their time its not a suitable piece to even consider playing today. But my mom doesn't even like to hear me play Beethoven or Bach, she's so rooted in the now it's painful. Lately, I've been playing this song repeatedly just to annoy her, but also because I'm torn about something. It's only a dream, I know, but for some reason it feels real.
I stop playing now because the dream I had last night still plays in my mind. I shouldn't even call it a dream because it's not, no it would be defined as a nightmare in my mother's eyes. I don't tell her or my dad about them because it's not like they can stop them. I let my fingers dance noiselessly across the ancient keys and then without any notice I get up and find my mother in the kitchen.
"Mom, have you ever dreamed about being a member of the poor class?" I add a touch of amusement to my voice, but she doesn't catch it, because her face is mortified. She's speechless for a solid minute and her eyes shift as if she's looking for a way out of answering my question. I thought she'd be shocked by my question, but I didn't expect this. She touches her hair in the back, checking to make sure the curls she's so perfectly assembled are still intact, she's nervous, she only does this when dad calls and says he'll be home late, there's trouble afoot in the poor districts. "Goodness mom, I hardly think having a dream about being a member of the poor class is something to fret about." I sigh, wondering if this will ease the tension. "No one will look down on you if you don't tell them, I suppose." I give up, she's not going to be any help anyway.
"Why would anyone of high class want to dream of being part of the lower class?" What kind of aspiration is that?" She ask, she's on the defensive.
"I wasn't..." I pause, what's the point in trying to defend myself. "I didn't mean it to sound as if it were someone's aspiration. Never mind mom, forget I even said anything." I collect a snack packet from the cabinet and cheerfully leave the room, in hopes, that my cheerful exit will make that face go away. As the door swings shut behind me, I pause and stand against the wall. She's slamming things and mumbling something to herself. I didn't think one little question could cause my mother so much strife. The poor class must live horribly if my mother doesn't want me asking about living like them. Just as I'm about to detach myself from the wall, I hear a familiar ping, my dad's ping, my mother must have called him. I shrink back to the wall, but lean closer to the door, careful not to breath to heavily, lest the door should move. She's relating something frantically to my father and suddenly I can understand her better. "Carter she's dreaming about the poor class." Her voice drops to an almost inaudible level when she says poor class, as if saying it any louder would make her one of them.
My father's voice comes through the wall speaker. "I wouldn't get too bothered by it Victoria she was always a wild dreamer, but if it scares you that badly we'll speak with Dr. Holder when I return home and she's busy with her piano practice." Nothing he has said has made an inkling of sense to me, except the piano practice part, it's something I do every night after dinner. I don't remember ever having weird or wild dreams before two years ago and who is Dr. Holder? My primary physician is Dr. Adler, a young gentleman with premature salt and pepper hair, a kind smile, and eyes like the sky. I've only ever seen him once, two years ago when I fell down the stairs and suffered a concussion. I've zoned out of my parents conversation, but my own day dreaming has made me less alert and I now hear my mother's rushed footsteps approaching the door I now stand behind. Her heels make this awful noise and with great effort I have to relocate before she pushes through, smacks me in the face with the door and knocks me out cold giving me another concussion. Luckily for me I'm on this side of the kitchen because there's a hallway I can slip into and make it appear as if I've just emerged from it.
Mom exits the kitchen and walks right past me, she looks troubled and in desperate need of a massage. But as she passes I'm struck with a new question. Why is my dreaming of the poor class putting my mom in such a red alert mode? My head is spinning and I feel as if I've fallen down the stairs all over again, I decide the best thing for me is to lay down, to sleep, but sleeping causes the dreams to come. I choose to host my nap in the drawing room, in hopes that if it's just a short nap, I won't dream at all, and the best bed is the red velvet couch beside the piano. I love this room more than any other, it has the fewest technical advancements, no wall mounted speakers that receive or send ping calls. The only modern thing about it is the wall screen that my dad had installed, it's not like the other wall screens we have in the house that receive televised news, receive and transmit telecommunication pings, or search the net. It does however record and store music. I flip through the many filing options until I come across the file that contains my favorite old time artist, the author of the piece I was playing earlier. My mom doesn't realize I don't just have the sheet music, but also the lyrics. If there's anything she hates more than the music it's the lyrics. I don't understand why she's so stuck on it, because the lyrics aren't vulgar or suggestive. It's about a man wanting to get back to a loved one. He's so focused on getting to her that he's lost track of the days. I listened to it with my dad and he said it's a beautiful song, but that my interpretation isn't necessarily the only one. He said two people could listen to the song and gain a completely different idea. He explained that there was once a song by a band called Stone Sour, weird name I know, and they had a song called Zzyzx Rd. and many people interpreted it to be about a soldier in the military, but the band actually wrote the song in conjunction with his alcohol addiction, but the lyrics could easily represent either.
I asked my dad if the reason mom didn't like "All This Time" was because her interpretation meant something bad. He said he didn't know, that he honestly couldn't see how she could find negativity with it, but shortly after he asked me not to play it when my mom was in hearing distance. Now that I think about it his tone had changed and his previously joking tone was completely gone as if he might have found something in the songs lyrics that would bother her. I've listened to the song with lyrics dozens upon dozens of times and I've yet to solve the mystery.
The first four notes of that very song play and I soon fall asleep, but the dreams that have haunted me for years are not going to leave me alone while I nap either. I'm sitting inside a small shelter, I suppose it's a home of some sort, but the room is tiny and my piano and red velvet sofa wouldn't fit inside this little room side by side, that's for sure. It has a couch, but not much else, a light bulb hangs from the ceiling, but it only flickers occasionally. The main source of light comes from a kerosene lantern on the floor and a handful of candles sitting in plain tarnished sconces. I don't seem to mind the simpleness of the room, the only thing that bothers me is that the woman trying to light a burnt out candle stub looks familiar. Not only does she look familiar she feels familiar to me, as if I've been nestled in her arms before. She turns to face me and gives me one her sad smiles. I smile back and the next thing surprises me, I call her momma. I tell her she's provided more than enough light for me to complete my assignments. She slides her hand across the top of my head and let's her hand stroke my long ponytail. She pats me on the shoulder before exiting the room. I look down at my assignment and finish it with little difficulty. I pack my things into my tattered school bag and join the familiar woman in the kitchen. It's only slightly bigger than the living room, but it's immaculate. She's preparing something, it smells delicious, this is a dream, I know, but I can somehow recall he smell, though I'm not sure I've ever had this particular concoction. She hands me a knife and asks me to chop the tiny scrap of meat. Just looking at it I'm not really sure what it is, but I wield the knife and help prepare the rest of the meal. It's a stew of some sort, and as the ingredients simmer together I feel myself salivating.
A man in a pair of coveralls enters the kitchen and teases the woman. I smile, the sight is simply heart warming and again very familiar. He embraces her with a kiss and then turns to me, he pulls me into a less intimate, but highly comfortable embrace. The smell of him is overwhelming a mixture of sweat, sawdust, and dirt. It sounds disgusting, but it's so familiar that it doesn't repulse me. The embrace ends and he strokes my long ponytail in a similar fashion as the woman had. He gives me a burlap wrapped package and moves away to close the curtains. Instinctively I know not to open the burlap until he has done so and when he finishes, I tear into the package. Inside is a soft piece of cinnamon raisin bread, its no longer warm, but it's fresh. I cross to the counter and wield a knife to slice it. I slice a piece off and dole it out to the woman, a second for the man, and as I cut the remaining piece in half, my hand slips and I cut the index finger on my left hand, it's not deep but I know it will leave a small scar. As I go to the sink, I realize that running water is not a commodity here. The man helps me clean it by retrieving a mason jar of clear water from a secret stash. He cleans it with such care, I know it's going to be alright.
I'm awake now, sitting straight up, my face is wet, but I don't care, I'm trying to wipe the sleep from my eyes so that I can see clearly. The same four notes play again as I stare transfixed on the index finger on my left hand. Why? Because there's a tiny white scar there that I hadn't noticed before. I'm afraid now, the dream felt so real, so like a memory and less like a dream. It can't be so, there must be another explanation for the tiny white scar right? I can't recall a single memory of falling or cutting myself, except for this dream. I'll have to remember to ask my parents, but I'm afraid, what if they react strangely to my question again? I choose to get up to see if my father is home or not and as I push myself from the couch I discover why my face was wet. I'd drooled all over the cushion, the salivating in the dream and in real life is creepy, but not nearly as creepy as this white scar.
I soon discover that my father isn't home and when I'm faced with my mother again I panic. I can't talk to her about this, I could talk to my dad, but not my mom I race out of the house and down the street. It's a stark contrast to the dream I had and I'm so wrapped up in it that I begin to cut away at my surroundings, trying to focus on the dream, even though it scares me. I keep running, I'm not sure where to go or where I think I'm going, but I have to run.
The Good Life
How many people are given a rare second chance? How many people get the opportunity to see how the other half live? Frankie Conrad, was given the opportunity to live like royalty, well Royalty in the modern sense of the word, simply better than the vast majority but it wasn't always this way and what troubles her most is she doesn't remember but vague details of her brief past and the saddest part, at least to those who are most fortunate, is that she's not sure if she likes how the vast minority lives. Its her second chance, but she might trade all the delicacies, fancy clothes, and comforts for the life she doesn't remember.
Frankie Conrad and the characters in this story live in a country similar to the United States, although it has now become like the feudal systems of the middle ages. The Rich have everything and the poor have little to nothing, and what they do have can be taken away. In Frankie's case, she was taken from her real parents when she was fifteen, but she doesn't remember, it's all a part of the Rich people's idea of the perfect life. They've built a wall around their perfect community and leave the poor people to do the dirty work and suffer. They feed money into the politician's hands to keep the image alive, and the politician's do whatever it takes to make it reality, including getting a replacement child when the original dies suddenly, or an infant when a woman can't conceive. They do whatever it takes to make them happy, to make the fifteen year old forget that his or her life was ever anything, but rich and fabulous.
Character Profile
Name: Frankie Conrad
Age: 17
History: Frankie Conrad has lived with her parents Carter and Victoria Conrad for her entire life. She's had a happy childhood and life, many friends at her private school and hasn't had many reasons to think that her world might not have been what it is now until one night when she woke with a bad feeling and a sneaking suspicion.
I placed my fingers on the keys of our Kuhn-Bosendorfer piano, the name means nothing to me, and mom is always saying how she'd like to chuck the thing from it's place in the drawing room and buy the latest model. Dad won't allow it, he says it's rooted in history and was once one of the most expensive piano's on the market, running the potential buyer around $1.2 million. Mom doesn't care about its history and besides, she says, $1.2 million is chump change. The song I'm playing is in a 4/4 time signature:
C, E minor, F, C
A minor, E minor, F, C
C, E minor, F, C
A minor, E minor, F, C.
A minor, E minor, F, C
C, E minor, F, C
A minor, E minor, F, C.
My mom hates when I play it because the band isn't current and though they were popular enough during their time its not a suitable piece to even consider playing today. But my mom doesn't even like to hear me play Beethoven or Bach, she's so rooted in the now it's painful. Lately, I've been playing this song repeatedly just to annoy her, but also because I'm torn about something. It's only a dream, I know, but for some reason it feels real.
I stop playing now because the dream I had last night still plays in my mind. I shouldn't even call it a dream because it's not, no it would be defined as a nightmare in my mother's eyes. I don't tell her or my dad about them because it's not like they can stop them. I let my fingers dance noiselessly across the ancient keys and then without any notice I get up and find my mother in the kitchen.
"Mom, have you ever dreamed about being a member of the poor class?" I add a touch of amusement to my voice, but she doesn't catch it, because her face is mortified. She's speechless for a solid minute and her eyes shift as if she's looking for a way out of answering my question. I thought she'd be shocked by my question, but I didn't expect this. She touches her hair in the back, checking to make sure the curls she's so perfectly assembled are still intact, she's nervous, she only does this when dad calls and says he'll be home late, there's trouble afoot in the poor districts. "Goodness mom, I hardly think having a dream about being a member of the poor class is something to fret about." I sigh, wondering if this will ease the tension. "No one will look down on you if you don't tell them, I suppose." I give up, she's not going to be any help anyway.
"Why would anyone of high class want to dream of being part of the lower class?" What kind of aspiration is that?" She ask, she's on the defensive.
"I wasn't..." I pause, what's the point in trying to defend myself. "I didn't mean it to sound as if it were someone's aspiration. Never mind mom, forget I even said anything." I collect a snack packet from the cabinet and cheerfully leave the room, in hopes, that my cheerful exit will make that face go away. As the door swings shut behind me, I pause and stand against the wall. She's slamming things and mumbling something to herself. I didn't think one little question could cause my mother so much strife. The poor class must live horribly if my mother doesn't want me asking about living like them. Just as I'm about to detach myself from the wall, I hear a familiar ping, my dad's ping, my mother must have called him. I shrink back to the wall, but lean closer to the door, careful not to breath to heavily, lest the door should move. She's relating something frantically to my father and suddenly I can understand her better. "Carter she's dreaming about the poor class." Her voice drops to an almost inaudible level when she says poor class, as if saying it any louder would make her one of them.
My father's voice comes through the wall speaker. "I wouldn't get too bothered by it Victoria she was always a wild dreamer, but if it scares you that badly we'll speak with Dr. Holder when I return home and she's busy with her piano practice." Nothing he has said has made an inkling of sense to me, except the piano practice part, it's something I do every night after dinner. I don't remember ever having weird or wild dreams before two years ago and who is Dr. Holder? My primary physician is Dr. Adler, a young gentleman with premature salt and pepper hair, a kind smile, and eyes like the sky. I've only ever seen him once, two years ago when I fell down the stairs and suffered a concussion. I've zoned out of my parents conversation, but my own day dreaming has made me less alert and I now hear my mother's rushed footsteps approaching the door I now stand behind. Her heels make this awful noise and with great effort I have to relocate before she pushes through, smacks me in the face with the door and knocks me out cold giving me another concussion. Luckily for me I'm on this side of the kitchen because there's a hallway I can slip into and make it appear as if I've just emerged from it.
Mom exits the kitchen and walks right past me, she looks troubled and in desperate need of a massage. But as she passes I'm struck with a new question. Why is my dreaming of the poor class putting my mom in such a red alert mode? My head is spinning and I feel as if I've fallen down the stairs all over again, I decide the best thing for me is to lay down, to sleep, but sleeping causes the dreams to come. I choose to host my nap in the drawing room, in hopes that if it's just a short nap, I won't dream at all, and the best bed is the red velvet couch beside the piano. I love this room more than any other, it has the fewest technical advancements, no wall mounted speakers that receive or send ping calls. The only modern thing about it is the wall screen that my dad had installed, it's not like the other wall screens we have in the house that receive televised news, receive and transmit telecommunication pings, or search the net. It does however record and store music. I flip through the many filing options until I come across the file that contains my favorite old time artist, the author of the piece I was playing earlier. My mom doesn't realize I don't just have the sheet music, but also the lyrics. If there's anything she hates more than the music it's the lyrics. I don't understand why she's so stuck on it, because the lyrics aren't vulgar or suggestive. It's about a man wanting to get back to a loved one. He's so focused on getting to her that he's lost track of the days. I listened to it with my dad and he said it's a beautiful song, but that my interpretation isn't necessarily the only one. He said two people could listen to the song and gain a completely different idea. He explained that there was once a song by a band called Stone Sour, weird name I know, and they had a song called Zzyzx Rd. and many people interpreted it to be about a soldier in the military, but the band actually wrote the song in conjunction with his alcohol addiction, but the lyrics could easily represent either.
I asked my dad if the reason mom didn't like "All This Time" was because her interpretation meant something bad. He said he didn't know, that he honestly couldn't see how she could find negativity with it, but shortly after he asked me not to play it when my mom was in hearing distance. Now that I think about it his tone had changed and his previously joking tone was completely gone as if he might have found something in the songs lyrics that would bother her. I've listened to the song with lyrics dozens upon dozens of times and I've yet to solve the mystery.
The first four notes of that very song play and I soon fall asleep, but the dreams that have haunted me for years are not going to leave me alone while I nap either. I'm sitting inside a small shelter, I suppose it's a home of some sort, but the room is tiny and my piano and red velvet sofa wouldn't fit inside this little room side by side, that's for sure. It has a couch, but not much else, a light bulb hangs from the ceiling, but it only flickers occasionally. The main source of light comes from a kerosene lantern on the floor and a handful of candles sitting in plain tarnished sconces. I don't seem to mind the simpleness of the room, the only thing that bothers me is that the woman trying to light a burnt out candle stub looks familiar. Not only does she look familiar she feels familiar to me, as if I've been nestled in her arms before. She turns to face me and gives me one her sad smiles. I smile back and the next thing surprises me, I call her momma. I tell her she's provided more than enough light for me to complete my assignments. She slides her hand across the top of my head and let's her hand stroke my long ponytail. She pats me on the shoulder before exiting the room. I look down at my assignment and finish it with little difficulty. I pack my things into my tattered school bag and join the familiar woman in the kitchen. It's only slightly bigger than the living room, but it's immaculate. She's preparing something, it smells delicious, this is a dream, I know, but I can somehow recall he smell, though I'm not sure I've ever had this particular concoction. She hands me a knife and asks me to chop the tiny scrap of meat. Just looking at it I'm not really sure what it is, but I wield the knife and help prepare the rest of the meal. It's a stew of some sort, and as the ingredients simmer together I feel myself salivating.
A man in a pair of coveralls enters the kitchen and teases the woman. I smile, the sight is simply heart warming and again very familiar. He embraces her with a kiss and then turns to me, he pulls me into a less intimate, but highly comfortable embrace. The smell of him is overwhelming a mixture of sweat, sawdust, and dirt. It sounds disgusting, but it's so familiar that it doesn't repulse me. The embrace ends and he strokes my long ponytail in a similar fashion as the woman had. He gives me a burlap wrapped package and moves away to close the curtains. Instinctively I know not to open the burlap until he has done so and when he finishes, I tear into the package. Inside is a soft piece of cinnamon raisin bread, its no longer warm, but it's fresh. I cross to the counter and wield a knife to slice it. I slice a piece off and dole it out to the woman, a second for the man, and as I cut the remaining piece in half, my hand slips and I cut the index finger on my left hand, it's not deep but I know it will leave a small scar. As I go to the sink, I realize that running water is not a commodity here. The man helps me clean it by retrieving a mason jar of clear water from a secret stash. He cleans it with such care, I know it's going to be alright.
I'm awake now, sitting straight up, my face is wet, but I don't care, I'm trying to wipe the sleep from my eyes so that I can see clearly. The same four notes play again as I stare transfixed on the index finger on my left hand. Why? Because there's a tiny white scar there that I hadn't noticed before. I'm afraid now, the dream felt so real, so like a memory and less like a dream. It can't be so, there must be another explanation for the tiny white scar right? I can't recall a single memory of falling or cutting myself, except for this dream. I'll have to remember to ask my parents, but I'm afraid, what if they react strangely to my question again? I choose to get up to see if my father is home or not and as I push myself from the couch I discover why my face was wet. I'd drooled all over the cushion, the salivating in the dream and in real life is creepy, but not nearly as creepy as this white scar.
I soon discover that my father isn't home and when I'm faced with my mother again I panic. I can't talk to her about this, I could talk to my dad, but not my mom I race out of the house and down the street. It's a stark contrast to the dream I had and I'm so wrapped up in it that I begin to cut away at my surroundings, trying to focus on the dream, even though it scares me. I keep running, I'm not sure where to go or where I think I'm going, but I have to run.
