White Room - A Personal Test in Writing.

WHAT IS THIS?
I was bored and started wondering what would happen if I just started writing with no plan what I was going to write and where it was going to go. Usually I plan out my stories before I write them but I wanted to see what would come out if I just winged it and wrote the story as I made it up. This is the original rough cut with no edits. This is what I wrote as I wrote it. It is kinda strange but interesting now that I look back at what I came up with on the spot.
The other thing I did was not end it at first. The first draft I posted on here didn't have an ending. The ending is the only part not writen on the spot, and I came up with it about a day after writing this.



I awoke in a large white room. There were no windows, no doors, and no lights. Still the room remained illuminated somehow.
I wasn’t alone, 4 other people were surrounding me. They had the same confused look on their faces that I do doubt wore. No body spoke for a while, eventually I was the one who asked if anybody knew where we were. No one had a clue.
We all sat around and introduced ourselves. I started, “Dave.”
“Alice,” said a young girl next to me.
“Rob,” said an older man next to her.
“Rebecca,” said a middle-aged woman next to him.
The last man didn’t speak. He stared with great interest at his own feet, chuckling from time to time like a mad man. It didn’t take long for us to figure out that was indeed what he was.

We started up some small talk, but didn’t get very far. No one could really follow anyone else. We all agreed we liked sports, but no one could name any teams I knew, and no body had heard of any of my favorite teams.
I told everyone I was from Pittsburgh, they gave me a blank look.
“Pennsylvania,” I continued, they still didn’t respond.
“United States,” I went even vaguer. Still nothing.
“North America,” also had no effect.
“EARTH,” I yelled. They all knew this one, but how they could not have known the others was beyond me. Alice said where she was from, but like before nobody (not even me) had ever heard of West Wizzletonpoint, or Hickterpots, or Southern Tasslelands. She too ended with Earth. We keep going around and eventually came to the conclusion that we all came from different Earths. This sounded mad, but was the only sane conclusion.
Out of curiosity I reached into my pocket and found a pencil I carried around. I always carried it around for I was a writer. I had neglected to put any paper in my pockets though. Nonetheless the white floor seemed to work just fine.
I did my best to draw the United States, and for once we all agreed we knew what it was, sort of. After some more confusion we came to the conclusion that we were all from different places, that looked the same but had different names. We soon also discovered that Pittsburgh, West Wizzletonpoint, Jabberquick, and Lopgun were all in the same general place.
Rob requested the pencil. He was a much better artist than me. He drew Japperquick from memory. The town looked like nothing I had ever seen before, but its location was unmistakable. It sat just along two rivers, which met and combined into one. This was no doubt the same land, or at lest a very similar area to Pittsburgh. We all agreed that the rivers were where our versions of our home cities sat. I declined to draw mine, telling them I was a writer and not an artist. It was when Alice did the same, saying she was more of a musician that I started to make the connection. I quickly asked Rebecca about her occupation. She was currently unemployed but wanted to be in the film industry.
We were an author, an artist, a musician, and a director . . . and a total lunatic. The man with no name sat in a corner and said nothing.
We were from the same area (in a sense), we were all creative in our own ways, and we were all clueless as to where we were. The conversations after all that were much easier to follow. Everyone knew not to mention any proper nouns. We let our conversations stay very vague, knowing that even the slightest amount of detail would probably cause a tremendous amount of confusion. After what seemed like ages we all decided we needed to figure out where we were and how we had gotten there. I couldn’t really remember anything except going to bed, and the rest said the same.
“I really wish we were out of here,” I said half to myself. The room seemed to shake in response, and the next thing we knew they walls were no more and the floor was replaced by dirt and grass. The room was gone, and in its place was a large green meadow. Everyone gawked at what had to be the most beautiful meadow ever made. The grass gently swayed in the wind, the wildflowers were all in bloom, and a small clear spring wound through the center. For some reason Rob seemed the most amazed. He didn’t speak, and he soon began to cry. The rest of us quickly ran over to see what was wrong.
All he could say at first was, “Its exactly the same.” This only seemed to make sense to him. Finally he wiped the tears away and said, “this is my meadow. I painted this years ago, it was the only painting I’d ever sold,” he started to tear up again, “but I didn’t base it on any real meadows. I couldn’t find one beautiful enough so I made one up. The stream, the flowers. When I picked those flowers to paint I knew they would never bloom together in the wild, and yet, there they are. I painted blue roses, those don’t exist in the wild, yet there they are.” He collapsed. Seeing his creation come to life was to much for him.
“Please no more,” he pleaded. The meadow faded into nothing, the room had returned. No one knew what to say. What had just happened had no logical explanation and for the first time we knew that what was going on was like nothing else that had ever happened. The artist eventually regained his sanity and gathered the strength to sit up.
“Do you think I did that?” I asked, “I wished to be somewhere else, and then we were somewhere else. Then Rob wanted to leave and we came back.” The others thought it over, and figured it made as much sense as everything else that had happened, and we agreed that its lack of sense made it more sensible in this senseless situation.
“So if we wish we were out of here-” Alice began. Before she could continue the room began to shake again. The walls stopped being walls, and instead a city sprang up around us. The building were all brick and stone. The streets were packed with old vintage cars and the air was thick with smog. In the distance a clock tower rung 12. I had a feeling where we were, but I didn’t know if it could be. To answer my question all I had to do was look up. The sky was filled with small zeppelins and other flying machines. I was in my book.
“This is Parallel City, I said.”
“I though you said your city was called Pittsburgh,” Alice pointed out.
“This isn’t my city. I mean, it is, but,” I couldn’t figure out how to start, “This isn’t the city I was born in, it’s the city I wrote about in my book. Its shouldn’t be real though.”
“It’s like the painting,” Rob made the connection, we are living our creations.
“I’m a musician though,” Alice said, “how you live music?” A beautiful song began to play, the city disappeared and was replaced by a black landscape. Notes sprang up all about us as the song went on, colors floated around to the tune, the music itself seemed to become visible.
“It’s a shame it’s so complicated,” Robe said with a sigh, “if I could paint this I would make millions.” The song came to an end and the room returned around us.
“So I’m next?” asked Rebecca.
“I would guess so,” I answered.
“Did you make anything special that you could visit?” Alice asked.
“I never was able to direct a big hit, just some small indy movies.” To nobody’s surprise the walls began to fade out again. We where in a house, Rebecca looked around and nodded as if she knew exactly what was going on.
“It figures,” she said, “this one always was my favorite.” A woman entered the room. She looked exactly like Rebecca, only younger. She walked past us without noticing us.
She walked to the window and looked out. The rest of us gathered around the other windows to see what she was looking at. It was a small car with two men in military outfits. The outfits looked like those of the US Army, but the flags on the sleeves were much different. They got out of the car and came to the door. The woman opened it and began to talk to them.
“Marge, I’m sorry,” one of the men said, “but Bill was wounded and killed in battle.” The woman began to cry and the scene faded out, then the white room returned.
“What did you think,” Rebecca asked, “I was always good at crying. That was always my favorite scene, I remember filming it. It was strange to see it like that though. No cameras, no lights, just the scene itself.”
We complimented her acting. We all talked like good friends did now. We talked about how beautiful Rob’s painting was, and how creative my city had been. We talked about how Alice’s song made us feel, and what it was like to see a scene from a movie in a whole different way. Then the room went quiet. We all turned to the fifth man. The man with no name. The man who had remained quiet the entire time. The madman. It was his turn.
We all gathered around him.
“Sir,” I tried to get his attention. For the first time he seemed to notice us, “Sir, have you ever created something special?”
He nodded, then turned away.
“Sir, it’s your turn,” Alice said.
“No it’s not,” he spoke for the first time, his voice harsh and rough, “I was first.”
We all looked at each other, puzzled.
“What did you think up?” I asked.
“All of you."