Nickname: asian, aattk, attack, choey, choo choo, glucose ...
Writing Preferences (Poet, Novelist, roleplayer...): novelist, roleplaying
Example (Can be anything; must be a good length):
the first part of a story that I'm planning on writing, but I haven't figured out the complete plot for sure, yet. I'm basically posting my drabble in short story parts, therefore, because I have no idea what else I'm supposed to do with them.
It must've been the summer of 1956 when I first met him. I was a tottering, teetering, awkward four year old child whose hair was to big for her head and couldn't find the dexterity needed to walk in a straight line. Mama had taken me to the park to play with all the other nice children in polka dot skirts and smartly ironed pants. I never liked going because I didn't like standing at the side of the swings while the other children screamed in delight without me. Hide-and-seek, tag, cops and robbers...I knew of them, but I never experienced them first hand. Mama like it very much, though, because she got to talk to all the other mamas about her problems, so naturally I ended up going, too.
He was standing next to the empty bench farthest from the playground. It was shrouded under a huge oak tree, its leaves casting him in a cool, well-welcomed shade, I'd imagine, in the shimmering heat of that July fourteenth, 1956. I remember watching him because of how badly he stood out in the park. He was incredibly tall--especially to a four year old child whose mother seemed like an absolute giant to her. He must have been, by my estimation, an inch or so over six feet. Underneath his slate hat, his hair was steel gray and peppered with black and white. Despite the sun that we had been getting that past year, he was as pale as a sheet. And all he did was stand in place and watch the children run without rhyme nor reason. But why he had my childish attention, however, was because he looked out of place, like me. It was because of this strange connection, perhaps, that I wobbled over to him under the oak tree. He did not turn to look, acknowledge, or ask who my other was as others would have, although I could tell that he knew I had approached. He continued to watch the children run about and squeal like piglets. I followed his gaze but failed to see anything incredibly engaging, so I finally asked curiously and shamelessly in the way children do, "Do you want to play, too?"
Regardless, I remember feeling strange asking this question because I was addressing a towering mass that did not seem to betray any sort of emotion. He turned his head to consider his pudgy form for a moment as if to check if I was serious before he smiled a little, finally bringing brightness into his deadpan eyes. He had the smile of a man that had seen many things. The slight wrinkles in his face became deeper and his almost colorless eyes seemed even more tired. He looked haggard, worn, and almost as if he was lost and searching for something essential to his very existence. Why was he alive? Why was he standing there at that very moment? Who was left for him? Those were the sort of questions his eyes held.
But as a child, of course, I failed to recognize these things. All I saw then was the sparkling laughter that arose onto his face as he said with amusement, "No, dear, but thank you for the offer." He had to stoop over almost half his height to come even close to eye-level with me without completely crouching down.
His voice was always something I could never quite place to this day. It was rich and heavy, very pleasant to listen to and easy to fall asleep to, and mixed with such a variety of accents that it was impossible to tell from whence he came. Some parts lilted and rumbled with arcane aura while more predominating timbres made his voice go up in tone at strange places. It made his "th"s slur into "z" and his "r"s throaty. If I were to try and label it in modern dialects, I would claim it to be French in some areas, German in others, distinctly Spanish for these parts, and incredibly Eastern Asian for the remaining ones. It was the sort of tongue that had spoken so many languages in his lifetime that they had all blended together into something exotic. It was obvious then, even to a four year old, frizzly haired child, that he had seen and been to many places.
"Annie?" mama called me then. I turned to give her my attention and eagerly gestured to the man beside me, excited to show off my new friend. Her face, however, was stony and pale as she approached me. I abruptly dropped my grin and my grin as she extended her own, glaring at the man at my side.
"Didn't I tell you to stay at the playground?" she scolded me as she seized my hand. She had not told me to stay at the playground.
"Yes, mama," I said as I allowed her to drag me away, staring over my shoulder at the man watching me leave, his back now straightened.
"Don't leave like that," she was saying to me, shaking my arm a little and making it wobble. I did not tear my gaze away from the man's.
"Annie Banbury!" mama suddenly snapped, squeezing my chipmunk cheeks in one hand and whipping it around to face her's. "Pay attention when I am speaking to you. Do not talk to strangers. Do you understand? That man might've been dangerous!"
I had no idea what sort of "dangers" mama could've been referring to, but nodded as best I could in her vice-like grip. She gave a heavy, regretful sigh as I did so and continued, "If you don't listen to mommy, we can't come to the park anymore. Do you understand?"
I nodded because that was the answer she was expecting, and I even partially feared never coming back to this place ever again. The children, in my mind, were no loss to me, but where else was I to meet this mysterious stranger? My reasons, of course, were kept secret. Mama's expression softened as she tried to flatten out my unruly hair.
"Don't be mad, sweetheart," she begged me. "Mommy's just doing this because she loves you."
"I know mama," I said to appease her. She smiled and rose, taking my hand in hers and leading be back to the other children. I looked back, hoping I could steal one more look of the man once more, but he was gone.
Links to stories / roleplays: short stories/oneshots/drabbles/basically anything. my sample is from here ^^
Other: I don't think so ...
pud / demigirl / pan
