Stories About People [All writers welcome]

[yaracyrrah]

Hi!  I'm Yara.  I have a lot of people living in my head, and it gets really crowded and noisy unless I let some of them out by putting them in stories.  My favorite stories involve other people reacting to my people in ways I don't expect.  Therefore I like to collaborate with other role-players and writers.  Like, perhaps, you.

Alas, you might not want to write with me, because different kinds of people prefer different kinds of stories.  I'll help you decide for yourself by telling you what kinds of stories I like.  Bring on the bullet points!

*My favorite characters are people I wish I could be.  They're female, relatively young (16-26 or so), and gifted in some way.  They are not perfect, but neither are they broken.  They're just ordinary people who are capable of extraordinary things.

*My favorite settings are fantastical in the broadest sense: not constrained by the rules that govern our so-called "real world".  I grew up with superheroes and Dungeons & Dragons and I rely on that background to fill the gaps in my creativity, but I enjoy all kinds of settings as long as they make sense on their own terms.

*My favorite stories involve mutually positive relationships, such as cooperation, friendship, and/or love.  (Not that the course has ever run smooth.)

That's basically it.  I have some sample ideas in the next post, but in general I look for the right partner first and let the right story evolve through dialogue.  So, if you like the same kinds of stories I like, please contact me.  If you have a specific idea, great, I want to hear it!  If not, don't worry: I'll read about your preferences and come up with an idea that I think might suit you.  But in my experience, the best stories grow out of conversations, not the other way around.

I suppose I sound simplistic.  I'm not simplistic.  My style is unconventional, but I'm a skilled and dedicated role-player, world-builder, and story-crafter.  My breadth may be limited but my depth is not.  I'm worth your attention :).

I look forward to hearing from you.

--Yara

[yaracyrrah]

An idea

Miranda Jones had always loved to run.  Soccer and basketball were fun too, but running was her joy, her escape, her meditation.  Even as a sophomore she'd been the star of her high school track team--though it was all of eight girls--and as a junior she had qualified for the All-State meet in four different events.  Coach Lewis had said that she had a real shot at a college scholarship: maybe not from a Big Ten school, but certainly from the MAC.

And then the Pop had ruined everything.

Ironic: now Miranda was the fastest girl in Indiana, and maybe the entire Midwest, but she had no chance at a scholarship at all.  But that--the abrupt death of her teenage dream--was the least of her problems.  Coach Lewis at least sympathized with her, wasn't afraid of her, said he'd do what he could to help her.  But Coach Lewis didn't go to her family's church.  The Joneses' church--and most of the churches in little Rochester, Indiana--believed that the Pops were the work of the Devil.  The church wasn't so callous as to instantly throw Miranda out, but she was a sinner now, obviously: she must have been to merit her ungodly fate.  Pastor John was obviously troubled by his flock's dearth of Christian charity, but even he could only tell her that only God could help her now, and that all she could do was pray.  He had prayed with her, laid hands on her, faithfully represented the best of the Lord's people.  But almost everyone else had simply shunned her.  And their avoidance was almost a blessing.  When people did have to deal with her, they couldn't hide the fear--digust--*revulsion*--with which they now viewed her.

The second Sunday after her Pop, Miranda's parents had decided that she shouldn't even attend regular services anymore.  Her presence would be too disruptive, they said; she should go to church privately during the week.  That morning was when Miranda decided to leave.

She had waited a few more days, just to be sure of her decision.  But Tuesday night--Wednesday morning, more accurately, because she waited til 1AM to leave--she filled her backpack with necessities and clothes and ran away from home.  She didn't need much.  Since her Pop, she didn't seem to need food, water, or even sleep.  Nor did she feel cold, despite the unusually severe winter.  She was wearing her winter jacket anyway--she didn't feel hot, either, even when she was running hard--but only for disguise.  The cars she passed on the roads might catch a glimpse of her, but they would not be able to recognize her.  Not that there were a large number of people, in Indiana or in the world, who could easily outrun cars even on the highways.  But Miranda was pretty sure that her parents would not *want* to find her, even if they did find out where she had gone.

She was headed for Chicago, of course.  Even before the dawn of the paranormal era, Chicago had been messy enough to easily hide in.  (Or so it was commonly thought; of course Miranda had never actually been to any of the grittier parts of the city.)  Normal Miranda wouldn't have lasted a day there, of course, but super Miranda had nothing to fear.  She wasn't absolutely certain that she was bulletproof, but she was definitely knife-proof, and definitely strong enough to fight off any number of normals.  And if a bullet happened to kill her, so what?  Problems solved.

She cruised through the suburbs toward the city, only slowing when she began to see run-down buildings.  She was looking for signs of outright abandonment... like that big old brick warehouse with half its windows empty, not even boarded up.  She could shelter in something like that.  That particular area didn't seem abandoned enough for her purposes, but she kept looking, and soon she found an even more destitute neighborhood.  She leaped lightly down from the elevated interstate and became a normal pedestrian, ambling along the rough sidewalk of an intermittently-lit street toward another big brick ruin she had seen.

An idea

In the third week of July, [year], Rachel Carter began to get stronger.

At first, of course, she was pleased.  Rachel was an athlete: she played soccer and lacrosse at Arizona State University.  Stronger meant better.  But then shit got weird.  Rachel wasn't just getting a little stronger, she was getting a lot stronger.  Ridiculously stronger.  Impossibly stronger.  On Tuesday she comfortably squatted 280, a personal best.  Two days later, when she broke her usual schedule and tried squats again because she needed a comparison, she squatted 360 with ease.  Friday she broke 400.  That was when she forced herself to see the doctor.

She was terrified, of course: the only obvious hypothesis was that she had somehow ingested something illegal, and that would mean at least suspension for the upcoming season, and possibly even the loss of her scholarship.  But she had to know.

The doctor's eyebrows rose when Rachel recited the data on her gains.  They both knew that even the fanciest performance-enhancing drugs shouldn't have been able to produce anything resembling those results.  But in any case, the first step was blood tests.  The doctor ordered them, Rachel visited the lab that same morning, and the results came back on Tuesday.  Rachel's blood was perfectly normal.

Before dawn that morning, in the approximate privacy of the nearly-empty varsity weight room, Rachel had squatted more than 900 pounds.  And by then she was visibly gaining muscle, too.  When Dr. Candelle called to report the good news, Rachel had to report the bad news.

"Well," said Dr. Candelle, after a long silence, "I'm sorry, Rachel, but I can't in good conscience let this go.  I have to report it to the NIH.  And I guarantee that they'll want to haul you to Bethesda and keep you there until they figure this out.  I hate putting you in that situation, but I have to.  It's not just my job, it's my moral duty as a physician.

"The good news," she added hopefully, "is that it's the off season.  Hopefully they'll figure it out quickly enough that it won't ruin your whole year."

"Yeah," Rachel said, but she knew better.  Even if they figured out *why* she could now lift nearly half a ton, she wasn't likely to be allowed to play sports with such an extreme and potentially dangerous advantage.  In truth, she shouldn't be.  Unless her condition reversed itself, her competitive career was over.  And if she wasn't an athlete, she might as well be a case study.

"And I agree with you," she said.  "I do have a duty to get this checked out.  What do I need to do?"

"Start packing, I suppose," Dr. Candelle said glumly.  "I'll file the report, and I imagine you'll get a call tonight or tomorrow.  Probably they'll send a private jet."

Bureaucracies move slowly, but emergency response teams move quickly.  Rachel was in Maryland before twelve more hours had passed.

An idea

Graves Davis was in a spot of trouble.  His truck had overheated in the worst possible place at the worst possible time: the middle of Nevada, 15 miles from anywhere, with the late-summer sun on the rise.  Cell phones weren't worth owning out here, and Graves hadn't seen the need for an expensive satellite phone, since he'd lived 50-odd years without one.  He was prepared for this emergency, of course: no fool he.  With the sun shade up in his windshield and the doors open, he could rest in shade in the cab of his truck without suffocating.  He had a big thermos full of water, beef jerky if he needed it, and even emergency flares to convince passersby to stop even if all they saw was an empty car.  And State Road 140 wasn't as isolated as all that: he could reasonably expect to be rescued, so to speak, within an hour.  But it would be an unpleasant hour, and he'd lose the rest of the day getting a tow, let alone getting a repair done.  This was definitely not the best day of his life.

He lit his second flare, turned around to head back to the truck, and there was a woman standing by the truck.  Exceptionally thick build, but obviously female, even apart from the long black hair.  Absurdly, she was wearing what looked like a bathing suit, a plain black one-piece.  Her skin was fair enough it was a wonder she wasn't getting burnt before his eyes.  Even more incredibly, she was barefoot.  Yet she was standing on the gravel-littered asphalt like it was... well, like it was anything but gravel-littered asphalt in Nevada summer heat.

Graves Davis figured he was hallucinating.  He tried not to trip over his own feet as he walked along the rocky shoulder toward the mirage.

"Hi," the woman called, as he approached within conversational distance.  "Want a lift?"

Graves swallowed dry and said, "I sure could use one, ma'am, if it's not too much trouble."

Closer now, he could there was no other vehicle parked behind his dusty old red pickup.  Not even a motorcycle.  This woman had come out of nowhere.  And she was the most remarkable woman he had ever seen.  Her beauty was flawless, like a touched-up photograph of a supermodel.  Yet her build was so muscular it would have been remarkable for a man, let alone a woman.  Yet, again, her figure was indisputably, eminently feminine, with attractive curves and a pert and ample bust.

"I'm a paranormal," she said.  "I can carry you wherever you want to go.  You and the truck, I mean."

He only half heard most of that.  The first sentence had reoriented him with explosive force.  In hindsight it seemed obvious: even under the effects of heatstroke, he could never have imagined such an astonishing young woman.  What else could she have been but a "paranormal", one of the mysterious superhumans who had somehow begun to appear over the past few months?  Some folks around here still insisted that the whole thing was a hoax, but Graves Davis was canny enough to be skeptical even of skepticism.  Other folks believed that new paranormals should be killed immediately to forestall another disaster like Wichita, but Graves knew better than that, too.  And now, as if to reward him for his magnanimity, a paranormal had shown up to help him out of a spot.  It didn't quite balance the scales against mass murder, but it was something.

He finished processing what she had said.  "If you can bring the truck along," he said, "I was headed for Winnemucca," he said.  He tried to keep his eyes on her face.  It was hard.  Her eyes were too intense, her chest too prominent, her shoulders and arms too spectacular.

The woman didn't complain.  "No problem," she said.  "Anywhere in particular, or just the first decent mechanic?  It's a crack in your coolant hose, by the way, if you hadn't found it yet."
He wasn't about to ask how she knew that.  He wasn't about to doubt it, either.  He nodded.  "Better the hose than anywhere else," he said.  "I usually go to Manzo's, right on Winnemucca east.  Jim Manzo is an honest man."

The woman nodded acknowledgment.  "Good to know."  And then she bent slightly at the waist, reached her left hand beneath the side of Graves's truck, and lifted the whole thing off the ground, easy as if she were passing a dinner plate.  She held it off to her side and held out her other hand toward Graves.  "If you don't mind holding my hand for a second...."

Graves swallowed dry again and very gingerly took her hand.  Her gentle grip felt all the smoother against his own rough, calloused skin.

A literal second was all it took, if even that.  He felt only the slightest acceleration, and saw only a vague blur, mostly blue and a little reddish brown.  Then he was standing in the lot behind Manzo's.  His truck--doors and windows still wide open, sun shield and everything else still in place--was already wheels to pavement in a parking space.  Belatedly Graves realized that the woman had already released her grip on his hand.  He let go of hers and drew back his arm.

"Oh," she said, before he was composed enough to thank her.  "I didn't think to bring the flares.  I'll be right back."  She was gone less time than she'd needed to say the words.  She returned holding his two flares, extinguished.  She set them down in the back of the truck.  "Anything else I can help you with?"

"Ah, no, can't see what else would need doing.  I'm mighty grateful, ma'am--you've saved me hours of trouble, not to mention standing out on that road.  Thanks."  More by instinct than intention, he offered his hand.

"My pleasure," the young superwoman replied, shaking his hand with the same gentle grip.  Then: "I'd appreciate it if you don't tell anyone I helped you.  I'm not really supposed to yet.  When you see me on the news you can tell this story.  Thanks."

Her smile alone would have been payment enough for that little favor.  He couldn't help smiling a little in return.  "Not a problem, ma'am.  Our little secret."

He kicked himself: that sounded utterly childish.  But it made the woman's smile grow.  "Thanks," she said again.  "Take care, Mr Davis."  And then she vanished.

* * *

"I helped someone just now," said Sarah Marshall.

Few other people would have noticed the subtle changes in James Ryan's expression: the almost microscopic twitches of small muscles at the left corners of his mouth and left eye.  General Ryan was out of uniform, and at the moment even sans coat and tie, but everything about him shouted "soldier".

Sarah had expected no response; she continued without pause.  "I asked him not to tell anyone, and I think he won't.  And I don't think anyone else saw me.  I'm just telling you in case I'm wrong."

The general nodded.  His keen blue-gray eyes turned toward the floor.  After a moment he said, "Do you want me to report it?"

"Do you think it would help?"

He thought about it.  He answered honestly, as he had learned he must with Sarah.  That had been very liberating.  "It would probably give them a push.  Can't guess what direction."

"Then no," Sarah decided.  She was running out of patience with the government, but if she chose to act without approval, her action had to be grand and public, to move public opinion toward her side.

General Ryan nodded.  They both knew his feelings: he was as frustrated as she with the government's dithering, but he felt it unwise to attempt to rock the boat.  Sarah, on the other hand, measured the delay in lives she might have saved.  How long, O Lord?

They had no need to repeat that conversation.  They were as close to the same side as the general's duties allowed.  "Thank you, General," said Sarah, signaling an end to her visit.

"Thank *you*, Ms Marshall," said General Ryan.

She vanished.  He returned to his paperwork.

A story