I'm not sure if you'd be interested, but I'd love to do something based on Orphan Black. I've only seen a couple of episodes of the actual show, admittedly, but it seems like the sort of premise that could be the basis of an original RP. Plus it feeds into that low-key genre of sci-fi...
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Stories Beyond Summer | Seeking roleplayers with longevity ~
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8 yrs ago
Forum: 1x1 Interest Checks
I'll keep that in mind!
I'd be cool with a Doctor Who/Marvel crossover?
I'd be cool with a Doctor Who/Marvel crossover?
I haven't yet seen Daredevil, but if you're happy to write with other characters from the Marvel universe, say the Avengers, I'd be willing.
Crazy thought (I don't know if you'd be into it): these same characters could be transplanted into another setting, say the Harry Potter-verse, or the Doctor Who universe?
Crazy thought (I don't know if you'd be into it): these same characters could be transplanted into another setting, say the Harry Potter-verse, or the Doctor Who universe?
The gas station, bathed in fluorescent light, felt bare. Chocolate bars and candy lined the checkout counter, a security camera overheard. There was only one employee working – a wide-eyed teen with several nose piercings and a forehead slick with make-up. Grace glanced out the window. She was only fifteen miles out from Seymour, low on petrol, and beginning to feel the strain of a journey that had, for three of the four Carson children, become something akin to a rite of passage. And yet, she had left Los Angeles several states behind, the glory of its palm trees and boulevards slowly fading.
“That’ll be twenty-four dollars, ma’am,” the teen said, drawing Grace back into the present. Silently, she pulled a folded note out of her purse and passed it across the counter. The silver foil of the candy wrappers gleamed. The walls of the store were lined with fridges, some containing energy drinks and soda, others liter bottles of milk. “Good time to be heading into Seymour, huh?”
“Sorry?” Grace asked, holding her hand out for the change. It was hard to imagine that there was a good time to be back in Seymour, and over the past few weeks she’d had to pause and remind herself that she was actually returning by choice. The sort of choice that was born of necessity, or perhaps some kind of blind desperation, rather than enthusiasm.
“The Wine Festival. It’s coming up. You’ve probably read about it, it’s in all the brochures. I mean, it’s the only thing that happens in Seymour that anyone cares about, so.”
Grace refrained from telling the girl that she had grown up in Seymour, celebrating the Wine Festival year in and year out, wearing the customary wreaths or crowns, drinking the customary drinks, and spending time with the customary crowds. Instead, she thanked her and ducked back through the entrance. A neon sign flashed Welcome / $2 Coffee & Donut.
Her gas store groceries were unceremoniously dumped in the backseat, nestling between two suitcases. Wedged in the hard pocket beneath the window was an old muesli bar. The seats smelt of leather treatment and salt – the residue of a place that had, for the better part of three years, flashed past with such ferocity that it sometimes felt as though it might have been imagined.
Outside it was beginning to rain. Droplets streaked the windscreen. On the horizon, the clouds loomed huge, blurred and grey.
Grace had compiled a list of things to do upon returning to town. Firstly, drink one (or several) cups of coffee. Secondly, find the house that she’d be sharing with Graham, the brother who still lived in Seymour. Thirdly, and finally, sleep. Re-arranging the options on this list was nigh impossible. Coffee – a good cup of coffee – was a form of respite. And so she had pulled over at the only café she remembered and trusted with some degree of clarity. The drinks were hot. The booths were comfortable. There was music, almost folk-ish, playing over the radio.
“Gracie!” Her entrance was greeted with a loud cry from Alice, the café owner. Alice had a round face, sturdy looking arms, and she had been waiting tables and fussing over pastries, usually croissants, for as long as any of the Carson children could remember. “Welcome home, love. Your mama told me you’d be back soon, but not this soon.”
It was hard not to feel some fondness for Alice, and Grace accepted, and was engulfed by, her hug. From one cursory glance upon entrance she had managed to recognise most of the patrons - retirees, old faces from high school, the occasional storeowner or middle-aged gossip. There was only one girl who stood out. Blonde. Sipping at a cup of cocoa. For the briefest of moments Grace felt unsettled, as though she was experiencing some kind of déjà vu, and as though time, for a second, had paused and transported her either forwards or backwards into some faint memory.
Alice, still talking, guided her to a booth near the window. Grace looked away from the girl, realizing that her gaze had probably lingered at a second too long, betraying her own obvious curiosity.
Which, well, perhaps there were worse things.
“That’ll be twenty-four dollars, ma’am,” the teen said, drawing Grace back into the present. Silently, she pulled a folded note out of her purse and passed it across the counter. The silver foil of the candy wrappers gleamed. The walls of the store were lined with fridges, some containing energy drinks and soda, others liter bottles of milk. “Good time to be heading into Seymour, huh?”
“Sorry?” Grace asked, holding her hand out for the change. It was hard to imagine that there was a good time to be back in Seymour, and over the past few weeks she’d had to pause and remind herself that she was actually returning by choice. The sort of choice that was born of necessity, or perhaps some kind of blind desperation, rather than enthusiasm.
“The Wine Festival. It’s coming up. You’ve probably read about it, it’s in all the brochures. I mean, it’s the only thing that happens in Seymour that anyone cares about, so.”
Grace refrained from telling the girl that she had grown up in Seymour, celebrating the Wine Festival year in and year out, wearing the customary wreaths or crowns, drinking the customary drinks, and spending time with the customary crowds. Instead, she thanked her and ducked back through the entrance. A neon sign flashed Welcome / $2 Coffee & Donut.
Her gas store groceries were unceremoniously dumped in the backseat, nestling between two suitcases. Wedged in the hard pocket beneath the window was an old muesli bar. The seats smelt of leather treatment and salt – the residue of a place that had, for the better part of three years, flashed past with such ferocity that it sometimes felt as though it might have been imagined.
Outside it was beginning to rain. Droplets streaked the windscreen. On the horizon, the clouds loomed huge, blurred and grey.
Grace had compiled a list of things to do upon returning to town. Firstly, drink one (or several) cups of coffee. Secondly, find the house that she’d be sharing with Graham, the brother who still lived in Seymour. Thirdly, and finally, sleep. Re-arranging the options on this list was nigh impossible. Coffee – a good cup of coffee – was a form of respite. And so she had pulled over at the only café she remembered and trusted with some degree of clarity. The drinks were hot. The booths were comfortable. There was music, almost folk-ish, playing over the radio.
“Gracie!” Her entrance was greeted with a loud cry from Alice, the café owner. Alice had a round face, sturdy looking arms, and she had been waiting tables and fussing over pastries, usually croissants, for as long as any of the Carson children could remember. “Welcome home, love. Your mama told me you’d be back soon, but not this soon.”
It was hard not to feel some fondness for Alice, and Grace accepted, and was engulfed by, her hug. From one cursory glance upon entrance she had managed to recognise most of the patrons - retirees, old faces from high school, the occasional storeowner or middle-aged gossip. There was only one girl who stood out. Blonde. Sipping at a cup of cocoa. For the briefest of moments Grace felt unsettled, as though she was experiencing some kind of déjà vu, and as though time, for a second, had paused and transported her either forwards or backwards into some faint memory.
Alice, still talking, guided her to a booth near the window. Grace looked away from the girl, realizing that her gaze had probably lingered at a second too long, betraying her own obvious curiosity.
Which, well, perhaps there were worse things.
Name: Grace Carson
Age: 20
Species: Human
History: Seymour, the quintessential American small town, described by unread travel brochures and residents alike as 'idyllic'. For many artists the natural surroundings, lush areas of greenery and clear lakes, would serve as inspiration enough. For Grace, the youngest of four siblings, this was never so. The desire for more, for the big city experience, presented itself in every facet of her childhood and adolescence. By age five she was already enamoured with the piano and could play a broad repertoire of songs by memory, by age ten she had already performed one of her own songs (admittedly a little embarrassing in retrospect) at the school's annual talent show, and by age sixteen she was bored, restless and ready to leave. And so she did.
Leaving at such a young age was, imaginably, the most difficult thing that Grace had done. Two of her older brothers were at college in California. The other was still in Seymour, eighteen, and living with several friends. They had all chosen safer paths than she had - were studying subjects and had jobs that ensured security and stability. And yet Grace made the move work, at least for the first few years. She wrote music, she performed, she was even mildly successful for a small town girl who had no connections and wasn't yet versed in the technicalities of the music business. And then, with no warning, her inspiration vanished. Writing was impossible. She could still play, but nothing new presented itself.
Three years after leaving, stuck in a cycle of artistic frustration, Grace chose to return to Seymour. It would be temporary, she told herself, a couple of months at most.
Age: 20
Species: Human
History: Seymour, the quintessential American small town, described by unread travel brochures and residents alike as 'idyllic'. For many artists the natural surroundings, lush areas of greenery and clear lakes, would serve as inspiration enough. For Grace, the youngest of four siblings, this was never so. The desire for more, for the big city experience, presented itself in every facet of her childhood and adolescence. By age five she was already enamoured with the piano and could play a broad repertoire of songs by memory, by age ten she had already performed one of her own songs (admittedly a little embarrassing in retrospect) at the school's annual talent show, and by age sixteen she was bored, restless and ready to leave. And so she did.
Leaving at such a young age was, imaginably, the most difficult thing that Grace had done. Two of her older brothers were at college in California. The other was still in Seymour, eighteen, and living with several friends. They had all chosen safer paths than she had - were studying subjects and had jobs that ensured security and stability. And yet Grace made the move work, at least for the first few years. She wrote music, she performed, she was even mildly successful for a small town girl who had no connections and wasn't yet versed in the technicalities of the music business. And then, with no warning, her inspiration vanished. Writing was impossible. She could still play, but nothing new presented itself.
Three years after leaving, stuck in a cycle of artistic frustration, Grace chose to return to Seymour. It would be temporary, she told herself, a couple of months at most.
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