Entry 1

From the Audio Journal of Niles Dantes

November 14^th, 1981

*As the recording begins, there is the sound of footsteps slowly pacing back and forth. The patter of rain against glass can be heard, with the occasional crack of thunder in the distance*

Five weeks. It’s been five blasted weeks since the bank notified me that I was “freed from contractual obligation as part of a new and exciting restructuring program.” That sure is a nice and fancy way of saying, “You’re fired. Get your worthless self out on the street by midday, or we’ll call security”, but it certainly doesn’t make it more bearable. 

Since then, I’ve traveled all over town and spent hours on the phone, only to receive thirty-eight variations of the same reply: No, we’re not hiring. I normally take the sensationalist news reports with a grain of salt, but they’re sure right about the nation’s economy being a wreck right now. Chicago’s no exception.

For all its lousy policies and despicably cheery severance packages, the bank paid well, at least. Got enough money saved up to last the better part of a year if I’m careful. That’s something to be grateful for, at least, but it’s not enough. Not when there’s no telling when the job market will open up again. I have to do something...if I can’t find work, I’ll just have to make it. Come up with something myself and sell it.

Trying to start up my own business or service would never work out, of course, even if the economy were booming. I don’t have the background, the training. Those four years at the university didn’t leave me with much beyond a knack for crunching numbers and a mountain of debt. Never was the Renaissance Man type anyway. There’s a delusional ideal for you.

Delusions...now there’s an idea. Much as it’s something I’d rather leave buried, writing might be my only ticket out of this mess. The entertainment industry’s just about the only thing that is holding up right now. Rather irrational, but it makes sense. People want escape, a way to forget their troubles. After alcohol, fiction’s the surest way to do that. So if I were to take up the pen again, there’d be a market, at least. If…

Hard to believe I’m seriously considering this. The whole reason I gave up writing in the first place was because of the creative prison that comes with doing it for profit. Deadlines, publisher restrictions, the need to cater to a wide audience…it’s disgusting. Defeats the purpose. Creativity’s not some product manufactured off an assembly line; it needs to be nurtured, given absolute freedom to grow. And pricing? It’s absurd. How in the world can one monetize the contents of my mind? Who’s to say what they’re worth?

Still…it could very well be my only shot. Artistic indignation’s not going to get me very far if I starve, now is it? Might as well give it a try. Guess I’ll just start putting ideas on paper and see what sticks.

*The scraping of a chair across wood can be heard, followed by the rustling of paper. The recording ends.*

Please vote for one of the following opening phrases in the comments section below:

1. It was a dark and stormy night.

2.The clothes and food of children are plain and simple.

The option that receives the most votes will influence the progression of the story in a most unusual way.