post! post! post!
i'm just eager :P
i'm just eager :P
WanderBug Member
- Last Seen: 3 yrs ago
- Joined: 10 yrs ago
- Posts: 217 (0.06 / day)
- VMs: 1
-
Username history
- WanderBug 10 yrs ago
Status
User has no status, yet
Bio
I've been RPing for about 10 years on and off, and I secretly want to be a writer. I'm a casual/advance RPer with a distaste for character sheets and extensive templating. I just want to write well with others.
Creative collaboration brings me so much joy, so please don't hesitate to message me if you're interested in telling a story together!
Currently in: San Francisco
Creative collaboration brings me so much joy, so please don't hesitate to message me if you're interested in telling a story together!
Currently in: San Francisco
Most Recent Posts
weee, sorry it took a while, i was just procrastinating a little. looking forward to your response!
The Photojournalist
Name: Anis A. Müller
Age: 28
Appearance: Anis is short and slightly plump at 5’ 3’’, but has a easy grace in her movements. She has long hair which is normally pinned up in a bun, and often wears her mother’s longyi, orange with blue lining, or other variations of the traditional Burmese dress. She has olive skin with brown eyes, and people often say that they feel comfortable around her. Is clearly asian.
Background: She was born and mostly raised in Philadelphia to a Malaysian-Burmese mother (who immigrated as a teenager) and a American-Swiss father, both faculty at University of Pennsylvania. Her father is an economist and her mother was a chemist. Growing up, Anis lived with her family in Myanmar and Switzerland for a few years at a time, before they moved back to Philadelphia.
Name: Anis A. Müller
Age: 28
Appearance: Anis is short and slightly plump at 5’ 3’’, but has a easy grace in her movements. She has long hair which is normally pinned up in a bun, and often wears her mother’s longyi, orange with blue lining, or other variations of the traditional Burmese dress. She has olive skin with brown eyes, and people often say that they feel comfortable around her. Is clearly asian.
Background: She was born and mostly raised in Philadelphia to a Malaysian-Burmese mother (who immigrated as a teenager) and a American-Swiss father, both faculty at University of Pennsylvania. Her father is an economist and her mother was a chemist. Growing up, Anis lived with her family in Myanmar and Switzerland for a few years at a time, before they moved back to Philadelphia.
yahoo!! will post up a basic CS for you, so you at least have an understanding of the photojournalist's outward appearance.
It was mid morning, and the patrons of The Sunflower Diner had already made themselves comfortable.
They chattered over the soft jazz from the vintage jukebox, voices lifted by the rising steam of hot coffee. Eggs and bacon sizzled in the kitchen. The owner, a cheery middle-aged man with a receding hairline, stood behind the counter engrossed in conversation. An infant at a corner table laughed as it spilled a bowl of scrambled eggs onto the floor.
And a woman sat alone at a booth, smiling to herself she sipped the last of her coffee.
A large backpack sat across of her, poised upright as if another patron of the establishment. A digital camera, film camera, notebook, pens, and a few plates lay scattered on the wooden table. She absentmindedly swiped at a crumb on her lips, dabbed her hand on a napkin, and resumed thumbing the arrow buttons on her Nikon. Photos which she’d taken in the past couple months flashed in quick succession: old, young, middle aged people of various genders, race, political alignment—some in their homes, the streets, in cafes—any space they chose and felt that they could be intimate in. She paused at a photo of two women sitting side by side, loving gazes fixed on each other, made soft and unearthly by candlelight outside the frame.
“Hi, ma’m," A voice chimed to her right, "anything else for you? More coffee?”
After a beat, the woman at the table smiled and said with a indistinguishable lilt, ”Yes, that'd be lovely. And the check, please.”
“Sure thing.”
She placed the camera on the tabletop and leaned back, peeking out the window. Northampton was a lively city known for its counterculture, youth, and politically liberal leanings. Its personality announced itself the moment she arrived; she had been invited to a concert by the same lesbian couple that had helped her fix her car on the way here. She’d later interviewed them, delightfully surprised to find that they were the co-founders of an queer artist commune in the city.
The woman absentmindedly smoothed out the fabric of her longyi, a traditional Burmese wrap. It was adorned with an orange floral pattern with velvet blue lining that muted with the years, but retained a grace that her mother oft likened to “the spirit of our tiny, resilient country.”
She glanced up with a gentle thank you when the waitress dropped the tab and more coffee. Traveling had been easy on this side of the states. For the past couple months, she'd stayed with friends and family up and down the east coast, but the rest of America was a friend waiting to be made. She had never witnessed the deserts of Central US, the wild coasts and crags of California, the towering redwoods and graceful pines and grand mountains—this must have been how the first American pioneers felt, she mused, beyond their inhumane treatment of millions of Native Americans.
She stared out the window and thought of the past weeks; of the people that had welcomed her into their homes, of the all-too-human suffering and happiness she was privy to, and of future friends that would inevitably humble her.
The west was calling, and it was time to go.
They chattered over the soft jazz from the vintage jukebox, voices lifted by the rising steam of hot coffee. Eggs and bacon sizzled in the kitchen. The owner, a cheery middle-aged man with a receding hairline, stood behind the counter engrossed in conversation. An infant at a corner table laughed as it spilled a bowl of scrambled eggs onto the floor.
And a woman sat alone at a booth, smiling to herself she sipped the last of her coffee.
A large backpack sat across of her, poised upright as if another patron of the establishment. A digital camera, film camera, notebook, pens, and a few plates lay scattered on the wooden table. She absentmindedly swiped at a crumb on her lips, dabbed her hand on a napkin, and resumed thumbing the arrow buttons on her Nikon. Photos which she’d taken in the past couple months flashed in quick succession: old, young, middle aged people of various genders, race, political alignment—some in their homes, the streets, in cafes—any space they chose and felt that they could be intimate in. She paused at a photo of two women sitting side by side, loving gazes fixed on each other, made soft and unearthly by candlelight outside the frame.
“Hi, ma’m," A voice chimed to her right, "anything else for you? More coffee?”
After a beat, the woman at the table smiled and said with a indistinguishable lilt, ”Yes, that'd be lovely. And the check, please.”
“Sure thing.”
She placed the camera on the tabletop and leaned back, peeking out the window. Northampton was a lively city known for its counterculture, youth, and politically liberal leanings. Its personality announced itself the moment she arrived; she had been invited to a concert by the same lesbian couple that had helped her fix her car on the way here. She’d later interviewed them, delightfully surprised to find that they were the co-founders of an queer artist commune in the city.
The woman absentmindedly smoothed out the fabric of her longyi, a traditional Burmese wrap. It was adorned with an orange floral pattern with velvet blue lining that muted with the years, but retained a grace that her mother oft likened to “the spirit of our tiny, resilient country.”
She glanced up with a gentle thank you when the waitress dropped the tab and more coffee. Traveling had been easy on this side of the states. For the past couple months, she'd stayed with friends and family up and down the east coast, but the rest of America was a friend waiting to be made. She had never witnessed the deserts of Central US, the wild coasts and crags of California, the towering redwoods and graceful pines and grand mountains—this must have been how the first American pioneers felt, she mused, beyond their inhumane treatment of millions of Native Americans.
She stared out the window and thought of the past weeks; of the people that had welcomed her into their homes, of the all-too-human suffering and happiness she was privy to, and of future friends that would inevitably humble her.
The west was calling, and it was time to go.
Two idiots travel across America.
Two idiots travel across America.
Summary
A photojournalist takes to the backroads of America to document the lives of everyday people, and along the way she picks up an artist. The two journey from east to west, engaging with all sorts of characters and circumstances, some of which are more strange than others...
Background
This is an old RP that never took off, so here I am! I have a huge thing for road-trips, and wanted to include supernatural elements in this narrative (inspired by American Gods). I don't actually have a plot, so we'd have to brainstorm the different story arcs and what form the supernatural elements would be. My main character would be the photojournalist, and yours would be the artist (poet, musician, painter, dancer, novelist, whatever...), but the idea is to build a cohesive world with various characters, both primary and secondary.
I want to practice my creative writing, so I ask that my partner similarly put effort in plot/world building and writing quality. If you're interested, please PM me with a writing sample so as to aid in the selection process; it will not be first come, first serve. If multiple people are interested and willing, I may make it into a small group collaboration!
I'm excited to write! Let me know if you're interested and/or have ideas!
Inspiration for areas in Merridel from right to life: random image of fantasy town, Zurich, Lisbon.“Well,” Esme cocked her hip playfully and put her hand to her chin, ”I have to pick up something at the tailor. It’s in the Retiro district—yes, the fancy one—but there’s also a weekend market in the area. Crafts, food, colors all around.”
They started walked, and soon from grass they transitioned to the cobble stone streets of the city. The sound of her boots clacking on the stone was a familiar one, and she immediately felt more relaxed; hands in her pockets, she whistled a sprightly tune, and led the way to Retiro.
Yellow trams powered by magic cut down the middle of the streets, and the buzz of city life increased as they neared its center. Children scampered through alleyways and parks, chasing each other and giggling, while every man and woman seemed to be outside, either seated near tables outside of restaurants or on benches or just standing and chatting, soaking up the day. Summer tended to do that to a city.
Meridell was one of the biggest port cities in the country, situated on a river connected to the ocean a little further down, from which other countries could reach the inner continent. From where they were, they had to cross a small strip of the river to reach Retiro, which existed on it’s own isolated peninsula of land. It was mainly home to upscale establishments and a few noble homes, so you’d rarely find reason to go there except sightseeing—but the weekend market was something of note.
Lines of triangular steamers connected the stands in the main square of Retiro, vibrant blues, reds and yellows alluring the passing visitor to stay and look. Trinkets lay on the stands of many merchants, who chatted amiably with whomever took took time to pass. The smell of baked bread and pastries drifted amongst the stands, wafting from bakeries in the area that opened their doors and windows. Birds chirped, people chattered, money traded—she was always hit by the stark richness when she visited; this was the greatest deception of the district. Had someone taken the time to look across the river, to where there was bridge, they would see the shanties and poor that piled up in a peninsula of their own.
“Esme!”
She stopped where she was, gently putting down the glass vial she’d casually examined back onto the clothed merchant’s table and looked over her shoulder. It was Edward, the uncle of Lord Edmund Rivers whom she hadn’t seen since the night at the bar. Impeccably dressed, he bounded towards the trio with a grin under his bobbing mustache, thick and perfectly groomed.
“What a pleasure to see you here! I figure I’d come down to grab my nephew something a little more humble than the lavish gifts he’s accustomed to."
“Edward, It’s good to see you, too." She plastered on an easy grin, and cocked her head, “and here I thought you’d still be recovering.”
“You scoundrel,” he guffawed, cuffing her on the shoulder again, “Let's have another go, and we’ll see who the victor is this time.”
“Most surely,” she lowered her head in joking acquiescence.
An awkward pause. Esme moved quickly to introduce her companions, to whom Edward had spared no glance.
“—and these are my good friends, Trill and Mara. We’ve known each other for some time. Trill is a talented bard and Mara a skilled healer."
A switch turned on as he turned to her friends.
“Any friend of Esme is a friend of mine!” He boomed, exuding jubilance. As Esme watched him turn his attention to Mira and Trill, she was hit by relief at how fond, almost trusting, Ed had become of her. It made everything a little easier.
dude have fun!! i have yet to see it, but i've only heard good things. :)
@shylarah go for it!
© 2007-2024