Sample Entry:meme thread, older meme thread on older account ha ha also i wrote a sample?? [Here is the problem: this phone (he thinks it's a phone, it looks phone-like) is very small. And it has buttons, instead of a dial, and doesn't have any wires, and now that he's stared at it a while he's going to talk to it and hope it does something helpful to him. It's on voice, and he puts it up to his ear and waits a moment, to give it a chance to connect - one, two--]
Hello.
[... .... ...alright. Come on, Reim, you can do this. He clears his throat.]
I hope someone is listening to this... I have some questions. [Another little pause before he continues, suddenly businesslike. If his hands were free he'd be counting off on his fingers:] First, where might I find some medical supplies? Bandages, specifically, and some gauze. Second, my notes--
[his voice cracks because he's a colossal dork, oh god The Notes] --my notebook, in my pocket when I arrived, appears to have been... emptied. What kind of person would do such a thing...?
Third. [He actually hadn't thought of a third question, but now he has to say something-] What- what does one do around here, to pass the time?
[how lame, how embarrassing, stop abort mission abort]
--Thank you.
Sample Entry Two: The first thing Reim says upon waking is, "Ow." His face hurts, and the beeping is just piercing enough to suggest to the throbbing pain in his cheek that it creep slowly up into the rest of his head. He doesn't open his eyes at first, due to the ache, and he wonders vaguely what he's doing in bed - hadn't he just been talking about something important...? Something involving Master Rufus, and...
And that thought gets him to sit up abruptly, which makes his head throb more persistently, which makes him wince and oh goodness this is not at all the small, respectably tidy room he expected to be waking up in. Not even slightly. He bites his thumb - don't panic, don't panic - and only then seems to notice the wailing alarm. (The time on the clock is wrong, too, he'd never get up in the middle of the day--)
"That's quite enough, thank you," he says, and turns it off. The next five minutes are spent pacing up and down the middle of the room, while he busies himself creating a mental list of Everything Wrong With This Situation. It starts with the obvious, Item one: unknown location, and continues until Item seven: wearing shoes to bed. Feeling slightly more calm, Reim looks out the window ("How reassuring...") and idly pats the pockets of his vest, intending to return to what he was busy with before this rude interruption. His pockets are empty. At least, empty of what they ought to contain.
That is decidedly a problem, and Reim mutters a few aggravated, colorful words as he immediately drops to his hands and knees to check under every. Single. Bed. He's lifting the mattress of the one he woke up on, just in case, when his glasses slip down his nose and he drops the mattress on his fingers when he draws his other hand back to fix them. There is a moment he considers shouting, but he contains it to an upset kind of whining noise and tenderly removes his hand. From the bed.
This is not his day. With a sigh, Reim sits back on the floor, resting his shoulders against another bed. He reaches into a different pocket and tugs out a small, leather-bound notebook, bursting with little colored bookmarks and dog-eared corners. Closing his eyes - that headache is threatening to come back - he opens to the next clean page before looking down at the mysteriously blank page beside it. He flips back a page, then another, then five more, then tens more, becoming increasingly anxious as he does. When he reaches the front cover and finds not a single drop of ink the notebook falls from his hands into his lap and he stares down it. Then he shouts in anguish, which comes out as more of a low, pitiful wail. (The notebook, to its credit, lies slightly open on his thigh, looking politely ashamed of itself.)
The rest of the day is spent lying on the floor looking stricken, until someone happens upon him, and he never does find what he was looking for.
3/3
[Here is the problem: this phone (he thinks it's a phone, it looks phone-like) is very small. And it has buttons, instead of a dial, and doesn't have any wires, and now that he's stared at it a while he's going to talk to it and hope it does something helpful to him. It's on voice, and he puts it up to his ear and waits a moment, to give it a chance to connect - one, two--]
Hello.
[... .... ...alright. Come on, Reim, you can do this. He clears his throat.]
I hope someone is listening to this... I have some questions. [Another little pause before he continues, suddenly businesslike. If his hands were free he'd be counting off on his fingers:] First, where might I find some medical supplies? Bandages, specifically, and some gauze. Second, my notes--
[his voice cracks because he's a colossal dork, oh god The Notes] --my notebook, in my pocket when I arrived, appears to have been... emptied. What kind of person would do such a thing...?
Third. [He actually hadn't thought of a third question, but now he has to say something-] What- what does one do around here, to pass the time?
[how lame, how embarrassing, stop abort mission abort]
--Thank you.
Sample Entry Two:
The first thing Reim says upon waking is, "Ow." His face hurts, and the beeping is just piercing enough to suggest to the throbbing pain in his cheek that it creep slowly up into the rest of his head. He doesn't open his eyes at first, due to the ache, and he wonders vaguely what he's doing in bed - hadn't he just been talking about something important...? Something involving Master Rufus, and...
And that thought gets him to sit up abruptly, which makes his head throb more persistently, which makes him wince and oh goodness this is not at all the small, respectably tidy room he expected to be waking up in. Not even slightly. He bites his thumb - don't panic, don't panic - and only then seems to notice the wailing alarm. (The time on the clock is wrong, too, he'd never get up in the middle of the day--)
"That's quite enough, thank you," he says, and turns it off. The next five minutes are spent pacing up and down the middle of the room, while he busies himself creating a mental list of Everything Wrong With This Situation. It starts with the obvious, Item one: unknown location, and continues until Item seven: wearing shoes to bed. Feeling slightly more calm, Reim looks out the window ("How reassuring...") and idly pats the pockets of his vest, intending to return to what he was busy with before this rude interruption. His pockets are empty. At least, empty of what they ought to contain.
That is decidedly a problem, and Reim mutters a few aggravated, colorful words as he immediately drops to his hands and knees to check under every. Single. Bed. He's lifting the mattress of the one he woke up on, just in case, when his glasses slip down his nose and he drops the mattress on his fingers when he draws his other hand back to fix them. There is a moment he considers shouting, but he contains it to an upset kind of whining noise and tenderly removes his hand. From the bed.
This is not his day. With a sigh, Reim sits back on the floor, resting his shoulders against another bed. He reaches into a different pocket and tugs out a small, leather-bound notebook, bursting with little colored bookmarks and dog-eared corners. Closing his eyes - that headache is threatening to come back - he opens to the next clean page before looking down at the mysteriously blank page beside it. He flips back a page, then another, then five more, then tens more, becoming increasingly anxious as he does. When he reaches the front cover and finds not a single drop of ink the notebook falls from his hands into his lap and he stares down it. Then he shouts in anguish, which comes out as more of a low, pitiful wail. (The notebook, to its credit, lies slightly open on his thigh, looking politely ashamed of itself.)
The rest of the day is spent lying on the floor looking stricken, until someone happens upon him, and he never does find what he was looking for.