William Hughes

Character Sheet

You are William Hughes, the son of a librarian and an English teacher. You were born in the suburbs of New Hampshire in 1972. You have one younger brother who went off to be a background actor in television. You grew up listening to stories told to you by your father, who taught you everything about literature and fiction. When you grew up you eventually went to UMass, majored in English Literature, and attempted to write the next great American novel.

After graduation, you moved to San Fransisco, got a small apartment you couldn't afford, and tried to write. A week later, having run out of money and having written five words ("It was a cold day."), you went to get a job in a bookstore, ended up being the barista at the cafe there and just stopped trying to write. After a while, you became manager of the cafe area, then the manager of the bookstore as a whole.

You were happy there, starting a used and antique book section of the store, inviting authors and musicians, but a part of your mind kept going back to "the great american novel."

Two years ago, you got a call from your mother, telling you that your father had gotten sick. He had late stage lung cancer. You shortly thereafter sold the bookstore, and moved back to Boston to be with your father. Your father, being a strong man, lived for quite a while with his illness. You got an apartment in Cambridge, close to the hospital. You got a job at the cafe in a Borders in Cambridge and went to be with your father almost every night, reading with him. You read the paper, new novels and so on. Fourteen months ago, your father died suddenly, in the middle of the night.

After the funeral, in the middle of the night, you were sitting on the roof of your apartment building, not able to sleep. You pulled out your laptop and started writing. You didn't even think about what you were writing, you just wrote what entered your head. You had been drinking a little bit and you couldn't even remember what happened. You woke up the next morning, still on the roof, slumped over his battery-drained laptop. When you went back to your apartment and plugged it in, you found a short story on the screen. You didn't even remember writing it. So you read it.

It was a story of a regular guy, who had just broken up with his long-term girlfriend (who was cheating on him), just lost his job, and was very down and out. He was depressed and contemplating death. He was standing in front of the tracks in a train station, watching the lights of the approaching train. He contemplated jumping. The man realized that life was worth living, and it would have been a cop out to give up. He was about to turn around and walk home when he felt a shove from behind, throwing him down onto the train tracks. He missed the third rail, and scrambled to get back on the platform before the train came, fear and adrenaline pumped through his veins. He jumped to grab at the lip of the platform, grabbed on, started to pull himself up, saw a man in a baseball cap walk away as the train slammed into his side, horn blaring.

You read the story, aghast that you could write such a tale. You considered deleting it, but something told you to keep it. You went to work two days later, pouring coffee and just sleepwalking through your assignments. After work you got on the train to go to the hospital, and got as far as Longwood before realized that you had no one to visit.

Life went on, seemed to pass by you, like you were standing on an escalator, with the building passing around you. On a particularly slow day, you were cleaning up the cafe and were putting back a magazine that a customer had left when you noticed what you were holding. In your hand was one of those magazines that prints short stories and essays that anyone can mail in. On a whim you bought it, and read it while sitting behind the counter.

You thought about your days when you first got to San Fransisco, sitting by the bay, imagining your life as an author. When you got back to your apartment you took out your laptop and brought up the short story. You hadn't looked at it since that night when you found that you had written it. You hadn't even thought about it. You read it over once, twice, a third time. You sat for a while, looking at the screen, and then emailed it to the editor of the magazine. Promptly, you forgot all about the story and went to the bar to sit quietly, drink and watch the Red Sox game. A few days later, you came home from work to find an email from the editor of the magazine telling you that your story would be published in the upcoming issue. This kind of surprised you, and a part of you wanted to call all of your friends and family to tell them. But you kept quiet. You felt that it would be too soon after your father's death to celebrate about anything like that. So you went back to your normal life, pouring coffee and wiping down tables. You didn't think about anything to do with the story.

You went to work and twice a week visited your mother for dinner to keep her company. Three weeks later, the next issue of the magazine arrived at the bookstore. Again, you was cleaning up the cafe and he found it. As you were putting it back on the shelves, you mindlessly flipped it open to find your story, in it's own section, with your name in bold letters. You looked it over, still not believing that you wrote it. You felt a pang of guilt, that maybe you hadn't written it. You shook your head and put it back on the shelf, ignoring it and going back to work.

A few days later, you were getting ready to go to your mother's house in southern New Hampshire when you got a phone call. It was your mother, asking you why you hadn't told her about this story. She had gotten a call from one of her old author friends who read the magazine who noticed your story and your name. He said that all of his colleagues had read the story and that it was one of the best short stories that they had ever read. She berated you for not telling her about the story, and told you that she was going to have a party to celebrate your new found glory.

A day before the party, you got an e-mail from Furry Lobster Publishing, a small, upstart publisher in the area that wanted to see if they could get you to work for them. You didn't give them an answer, but after a few days, decided that if the short story was that good, you might as well give it a try. What's the worst that could happen, you thought. At the very least, you might have the chance to write the great American novel that you wanted to write when you was younger. You announced this new deal at your mother's party and she started to cry, telling you that your father would be so proud of you, that this is what he would have wanted, as this is what he wanted to do when he was young.

A year later, you finished your first book. It's not exactly what you wanted to write, but a book of short stories, which you called Crumbs of Life. It included the short story you had written in San Francisco, "Last Stop." The book was a critical success, becoming a bestseller. With this newfound bit of money and fame, you quit your job and started working on his next piece, which was a detective novel, called "Blood and Fire." This was also a critically acclaimed novel, and is on it's 3rd printing now. All of this writing, while good, was never up to the standards set by "Last Stop". None of it had the same realism and strength.

Now, he is working on your latest book, a novel involving a conspiracy within the American Government. It's called "Circle of Ashes". However, what you don't tell anyone is that you has a notebook with him. In that notebook are countless short stories. All of them similar to "Last Stop" but none of the rest of them named or published. Every once in a while, you will take a drink up to your roof (now of your more posh apartment building) and just clear your mind and write. It's an almost spiritual experience for you. It's as if getting those short stories out on paper allows your mind to write the novels that you want to write. The short stories are all about normal people, leading normal lives and the experiences they have. You have never told anyone about these short stories, and you've never wanted to publish them. You feel that they are too much a part of you. They seem too personal to you to release to the public. You felt almost guilty for publishing "Crumbs of Life". It was as if you were publishing your diary.

In the last few days, though, you seem to have run out of ideas for "Circle of Ashes", and even going up to the roof and writing isn't working. You can't seem to write anything. It reminds him of the time when he first moved San Fransisco. It's like the words in your head are closed off to you. Thinking back, it almost seems like those short stories come to you easiest when you're in some kind of emotional stress. After your father's death, when you were feeling bad after breaking up with a girlfriend, money issues and so on.

So you've decided to take your notebook to Fred Caithness, your agent, and now good friend. You have decided to tell him about the stories and ask for his advice. You're going to meet Fred at a coffee shop near Harvard Square. There has been some issues within Gold Standard Entertainment, the parent company of Furry Lobster. You never found out the details, but Fred has made some comments about accounting errors. Fred told you in passing at one point that some of the money that should have gotten to you somehow got lost in transfer. This is one of the topics you plan on bringing up at the meeting as well

The Short Story

LAST STOP by William Hughes

He stepped onto the first step down to the train station. Stepping to the side of a puddle of dirty rainwater pooling on one of the steps, he bumped into a man in a well pressed blue suit.

When was the last time he wore a suit? Darren thought about the day he applied for his job at Nation Magazine. He had just bought his suit and he hadn't had time yet to get it tailored. The arms were too long and the pants were a little tight, but he felt confident and excited so these things didn't matter to him. This was going to be the start of the new stage of his life. He had just moved into a new apartment, his girlfriend had just moved in with him, and he felt great. He had walked into that office with such a determined face and a confident air that he felt that there was no way he couldn't get the job.

He remembered the hard face of the editor who was interviewing him. He remembered how nervous he felt as soon as he sat in the uncomfortable chair placed in front of the imposing mahogany desk. He remembered sweating though his new white button down shirt. However, when the editor stood up and shook his hand, he felt so relieved. He remembered letting go of the arm of the chair and feeling the blood rush back to his fingertips.

He stepped off the bottom step, slipping a bit due to his nostalgia. His left shoe fell into a puddle of dirty rainwater. Shaking off the water, he walked to the ticket machine.

Looking into his wallet, he flipped through his useless credit cards, his cancelled membership cards, and old pictures of himself and his girlfriend. He fished out a couple of crumpled one dollar bills. Stuffing them into the machine, he remembered where all his cash went.

He had been sitting in his apartment, working on an article for the magazine. He had been working there for a month, and he'd finally been allowed to write a short fluff piece. He had done all his research, and he was ready to write in quiet with his cup of tea. His girlfriend wasn't due to be home until late at night and he was going to take advantage of the time alone. He booted up his laptop, added sugar to his tea and cracked his knuckles to get ready to type when the door slammed open and his girlfriend walked in.

"Hey, sorry, I knew I said I wasn't going to be home for a while, but I need to pick some stuff up. Some clothes and whatnot. Yeah, I think I'm going to be out all night. You know how it is when I go out drinking with the girls. Oh, I'm going to need some money too... Is this your wallet here on the dresser? I'm just going to borrow some of this cash. I'll pay you back later, I promise. Alright, I'm out. Don't wait up for me, I'll be back tomorrow morning, maybe tomorrow afternoon, don't wait up. Bye."

He had found out that he had been cheating on him a week or two before. She tried to hide it by saying that she was "going out with the girls." He hadn't found out who it was at that point, so he was still giving her the benefit of the doubt, focusing mostly on his work and such. But her blatant lies and taking advantage of him had left him in an unworkable state. He then slumped down onto the couch and stared out the window until he fell asleep.

Taking the train ticket out of the machine, he replaced his wallet back into his pocket and walked to the gate. The platform beyond was mostly empty, and smelled vaguely of vomit. He walked through the gate, inserting his ticket into the slot, needing to take it out and reinsert it when the machine rejected it.

He stood on the platform, looking out onto the tracks. He reached into his bag, pulling out a small framed picture of himself and his girlfriend, hugging on the beach one year when they were on vacation. Up until that morning, that picture had sat on his desk, along with all the rest of the contents of the bag slung over his shoulder. That morning, he had been called into his boss' office to talk about his first article. He had been distracted in writing it because of two separate arguments with his girlfriend. He knew it wasn't his best writing, but it wasn't horrible. His boss felt differently, apparently. His boss had already been watching him because of some comments that some of the senior staff had made. This fluff piece was to be his last chance, and he failed. His spelling and grammar were all off, it was all disjointed and his citation was in the wrong format. His boss had said that he was sorry, and that he was sure it was due to personal problems, but he can't let someone who writes this kind of piece stay on the staff.

That was the beginning of his day. He had then packed all of his belongings and headed off to the train station to go home. It was on the way that he got a phone call from his girlfriend. She finally confessed that she had been cheating on him, and that she knew that he knew. She didn't want to tell him, and she still loved him, but that she's going to stay with this new guy. She then told him who this guy was. She was apparently now sleeping with his old college roommate. A male voice came on the phone and told him how he shouldn't feel bad, but he hung up before the sentence was finished.

Now he's standing at the edge of the platform, looking out over the tracks. The PA announced that a train was coming. A thought shot through his head that he could jump into the tracks thirty seconds before the train comes and all of this crap would be over. He might even hit the third rail. He shook his head. There's no reason to think like that. He could figure things out, find a new job, he still had a place to live. Hey, he might even find someone new to go out with. He has to think of this as blank slate, a new beginning, a chance to start over. He probably wouldn't die anyways.

He took a step back from the edge of the platform as the horn of the oncoming train blared. He looked into the somewhat annoyed eyes of the train conductor. he took another step back to feel a hand on his shoulder. He looked at it to see a black leather glove. He started to turn around when the hand shoved him forward. He stumbled forward, trying to retain his balance. There was nothing nearby to grab onto, so he fell forward over the edge of the platform onto the tracks. He heard a crack as his leg hit the track. He turned to see the train coming towards him, blaring its horn, the conductor's eyes wide open.

He tried to stand up, feeling incredible pain in his leg. He managed to get onto his knees, and reached up for the lip of the platform. The screeching noise of the train's brakes rang in his ears as he tried to pull himself up. He managed to lift his head over the lip of the platform to see a figure walk up the stairs out onto the street. He stood there for what seemed like an eternity, watching his murderer leave as the train came closer and closer.

Last Thoughts before game start

You don't like riding the T. Ever since writing that short story, it's always been a little creepy to you. It's especially creepy to you when people you know are randomly there, like that "biggest fan" of yours, or the detective you asked for help, or the head of the company that publishes your books.

It'll only be a couple minutes, though, so you should be alright.

People you know here

01. - She reminds you of those girls in high school whose primary concerns were fashion, beauty, and always being the center of attention.

02. A young man who seems to be attached to the pretty girl. He must have a great deal of patience.

03. Louis Dalton – He’s a big fan of yours. He’s even written you letters… lots and lots of letters.

04. Colt Carson – A private detective, one of the picturesque old-fashioned gumshoe type. He acted as a background consultant for your book “Blood and Fire.”

05. Madame Zostra - You believe she is the star of a call-in psychic show that is owned by the same company that is producing your book. From the way she's dressed, she certainly seems to play the persona to the hilt. You don't put much claim into that psychic stuff, though.

07. - A young woman in professional dress. She looks like she's got a lot on her mind.

08. - It's clear from this young man's face that he's gone through some tough stuff lately. Poor guy.

09. - This guy seems to be one tough customer. Not the sort of person you want to get on the wrong side of.

10. - A good-looking guy in hipster clothes who seems like he's used to all eyes on him. You wonder who he might be, to have that sort of air of importance.

11. - A big, tough-looking man with stern features. He doesn't seem to be in the mood to put up with any nonsense right now.

12. - A quiet, unassuming guy who gives off the vibe of never really being noticed.

13. Solomon Gold – The CEO of Gold Standard Entertainment, whose publishing division is going to be producing your book. He’s the boss of your boss’s boss.

14. There seems to be a... a transient is the most polite word you know. He may be a hobo, but you try not to be too put off by him. He's still a person, after all.

15. The conductor. From the way she's so distracted and nervous, something must be really troubling her lately.