This is not meant to be good writing. This is a story that I weave as I go along. No planning or editing (apart from spellcheck) will go into this story, only words. No going back on what I write. I present:
“Improvised Writing #1″
I look over the city. The wind is blowing strong here, on top of the mountain. I think back to the times of old. Those were the times when one could simply be a child. No longer do those days exist for me. It has been a long journey, but a new journey is only beginning. What will I do while moving forward?
It’s getting late. I should be down by sunset, lest the creatures of the night overtake me. It’s amazing that just an hour from a mega-city, there are dangers from wildlife such as bears and mountain lions. My area was established as a preservation site, a place where the city cannot reach with its tendrils of civilization. The forest will always be a special place in my heart. I come down off the mountain as the sun’s rays disappear from the sky and reach my home as the last light dims.
Let me tell you a brief history of this land. This is not the land you, reader, know. While the terrain may have remained more or less the same over the centuries, the people that dwell have not. I am not human, or rather, not the human you may be. My race is very similar to yours, but… better? Is that the word? My race started from a genetic experiment gone rampant. The goal was to develop disease-resistance to the common viruses and bacterial infections that plagued the world, and one that would be delivered easily and effectively. Something was not right. The vaccine latched onto the common cold’s retrovirus and suddenly infected hordes of people. Now, this new vaccine-virus wasn’t harmful, but it contained significant portions of modified human DNA which it would inject into the human cell and replace entire chromosomes. An estimated 200 million worldwide were infected in Generation I. Resistance to the virus was inherent in most of the population, which is why it was not a pandemic. The virus modified the bodies of the infected with some distinct characteristics such as pointed ears and pale skin, as well as mental effects such as an attraction to nature. The cure was not developed until three generations were exposed, then the virus was eradicated. The genetic effects, however, stayed, forming a new race of elves.
That, reader, is my family’s story. I am Generation Seven. We are still discriminated, but the creation of our race is long out of memory to the populus. My story is more exciting. I am a Historian. Not like a traditional historian you might find at a university, but rather a Historian with a capital H. Historians have lasted for centuries, stretching back to the medieval times. I will not bore you with the details of how our order came to be, but I will explain my role. I can control time and events. This, reader, is how you are reading this journal that you hold in your hands. My power is limited, and I can only influence minor details of the world. It took considerable energy to transport this book to the past. Tell no one. I will be communicating more often from now on. Take care.