Hi guys! I’ve had writer’s block for a while now, so this story right here is a shot at sparking some creativity. Wish me luck! (Note: Until I feel like it, I will not be continuing previous stories, such as The Zwillings, The Unappreciated Princess Society, and The Incredible House of Duggins.) Enjoy!

Entry for Day 1, written after the events inscribed occurred. (I had not yet received the journal at the time.)

“Hello?” I hear a strong, young, and female voice. About fifteen years old, and deeper than is considered normal for a person of that age and sex. All of these observations run through my mind in the course of about 2 seconds.

“Are you dead?”

The listener (myself) opens his eyes, and looks at the girl addressing him. He sees a person that fits his mental description: a teenage girl with long, dark, hair pulled tightly into a ponytail, and with eyes the shape and color of almonds wide and observant, darting to and fro. Her lips are full-ish and dark. There are several small blemishes on her skin, which is between coffee and tan, and her ears are small and round. The detail that is first noticed, though, is that this is a person that is always and ever joyful, and even now is smiling with a happiness I can find no reason for. Once again, all of these observations occur in a very short amount of time. This is one of the first things I notice about myself.

“Hi there, sleepyhead! Welcome to the world! I’d tell you my name, but I can’t remember it. Do you know yours?” I am caught off guard by her upbeat attitude and and in result do not respond for a moment.

“Hey, man, are you okay?” The happy girl leans towards me to see if I am well, and I presently regain my wits.

“I am well, thank you.”

“He speaks! Glad to see you’re finally up. If you don’t mind me asking, who are you?”

This exceedingly simple question is also strangely impossible to answer. I search my mind for any identification of any kind, and fail.

“I am – I do not recall – that is to say, I do not remember who I am.” This concept is frustrating and difficult to comprehend.

“Hey, it’s all right, bro. I don’t either.” We both are silent for a few moments. “Hey, I think we have amnesia. We are in a hospital, after all. It makes sense.”

“I do not think we are in a hospital.”

“Why’s that?”

“There is no medical equipment that I can see. And no windows or beds. We are sitting at a picnic table. Have you ever been in a hospital with a picnic table inside?”

The happy girl’s smile gets even wider. “Have you?”

I laugh at her witticism. “Touché.”

“How did you look around so fast? You haven’t been awake two minutes!”

“I do not know. I suppose that I have a fast mind.”

Happy girl chortles. (Her laugh is much too strong to be a chuckle, and definitely beyond giggling.) “I suppose you do. So, if we’re not in a hospital, where in the world are we?”

It may suit future circumstances to recount the setting in which these events have so far taken place before I go on. When I awoke, I found myself in a large – I dare not say room, for there was no ceiling my naked eyes could perceive and only one wall to speak of, a large expanse stretching out and up from the lone wall out to what could be infinity. The floor was of the whitest, plainest, brightest tiles possible, square, and having sides measuring 6 inches. There was no details in the expanse, and I would have very much liked to venture into the bright nothingness to document what was there, if we had not decided against this notion. The lone wall did not hold anything up, as it was only 36 feet high, and therefore did not come close to reaching the top of infinity. So instead of being a wall that one might find in a room, it was the sort of wall that prevents one from entering an area. The wall differed from the floor in only one aspect: it was vertical. It was made of the same tile as the floor and as precise and consistent as the floor. The wall had no end that I could see, and again, I would have liked to find it if there was one.

We sat at a table made of whitewashed wood, clean and smooth, the kind of table one might find at a park, with benches built into the X-shaped legs. The whitewash was so much less white than the expanse that I would like to call it grey, but it was white all the same.

The last details are of us. I have described to you already what the happy girl’s face looks like, but like all people, she is more than a face. Her forearms are darker than her upper arm, which means she is outside in a sunny place often. She is muscular, but not strangely so, and very tall, even sitting down, which we are doing at this point of the documentation. I also do not know what my face looks like at this point, but I observe that I am rather plump and freckled, with red hair that is continuously falling before my eyes. I can deduce from my accent that I am from England, and from the girl’s that she is from the American South, probably Texan. I am definitely of mixed European heritage, and hers is Asian-European/American. We both wear strange clothes that are like the attire people wear when doing martial arts, but without the floppy sleeves. They are of thick and durable cloth, and very loose-fitting, but both of us wear belts of white leather and with white buckles. So far I do not wear any other clothes but the white shirt and the white pants and the white belt, and in result suffer from an uncomfort where one would normally wear another layer. I would document the same details for the happy girl if not for the absurdity of the question.

These are what I observed in my first conscious moments. After thinking over them for a moment, I respond to the girl’s question. “I cannot think of any sensible answer.”

The girl groans. “Think of a nonsense one then!”

I try to awake what imagination I have, and discover I have none. I shake my head, to which the girl chortles again.

“Oh, come on! Brainstorm!” We both sit and think for a while. It doesn’t take long for the girl to come up with an idea.

“What if,” she says slowly, “we’re in the Matrix? You know when they get plugged in to that white place? This could be it!” I suggest that this is a very improbable situation, and explain that The Matrix is fiction. The girl reluctantly agrees.

We do not talk for a while after this, and we do not come up with any more ideas. The girl suddenly jerks her head to the side, listening to something. Then I hear it too – the flapping of paper in the wind.

“Bro, look!” She points at something above us, and when I look I see what it is. Two little bits of paper, floating down slowly. We watch without blinking as they make their way to the table. The girl plucks hers out of the air the moment it gets close, but I watch it until it lands gracefully in front of me.

“Huh.” The girl cocks her head slowly, squinting at her paper, and her smile returns. “I think I have a name, buddy.”

“I think so too.”

“What’s yours?”

I read the paper again. “Charlie Liang-Jones.”

“Hm. Want to hear mine?”

“Yes.”

“Adriane O’Harra.” We both sneak glances at each other, seeing each other with our new names.

“I think,” She says carefully, “I got yours.” I nod quickly, and give her my paper. She slides mine over to me.

“So,” Charlie ventures. “We have names.”

“That seems to be the case.”

“But Adriane, we still have no idea what’s happening.”

“That,” I say as I put my head in my hands. “Is also the case.”