Hello Orin Moretta

Julie Cohen

The group of writers I meet with each month had invited over Julie Cohen to discuss character generation. We spent an hour stepping through key areas and spending five minutes here and there fleshing out our freshly minted character. Not usually a fan of writing lessons over actually writing I thought it was HUGE fun.

Two chairs further around the table was @daddyhoggy (known in wider circles as John Hoggard). He posted detail of his character to the writing group's website. A great post that got me thinking, so much I slept little last night. Instead I spent an hour between 3 and 4AM editing the product of my character generation and ended up with this.

     Orin Moretta is 41 years old although it would be hard to tell if you were ever close enough to properly look. She is just under six foot and walks with the poise of a dancer despite never having danced, not in the traditional sense at least. Orin wears her hair in a dark bob with carefully woven yellow strands, complimented by the reflective yellow lenses of her glasses. She is a woman that few dismiss, sticking in the memory from that first glance. It is her calling card, a warning as much as anything.
     Orin is moving against the flow of distracted commuters and shoppers, turning into a shadowed side street of high bricked walls and metal fire escapes. Through to another street with less people by some magnitude, lines of locked garages, litter molested by trapped breezes. She walks to the last garage in a long row, a dark blue shutter and peeling paint. Lights a cigarette while leaning against the wall and waiting. The ash burns and she blows smoke that's instantly whisked away. Her attention is entirely consumed by this quiet street and all it might offer, eventually flicking the cigarette, arcing end over end into a small restless pile of rubbish, where it glows and then dims.
     Orin is on the move, back into the alley, beneath a fire escape and she jumps, little more than a hop for her, a brief moment hanging from the metal, and then a pivot through her hips, her legs creating downward force that results in a screech as metal moves over metal. She lands crouched and sure, as the ladder unfurls behind her. She turns and steps onto it and climbs.
     The crumbling warehouse is store these past years to vagrants and vermin. Glassless windows and damp that creeps as a fine moss across the grey concrete floor. A dirt streaked crate has been placed central, beneath this cavernous space. The crate is hip height, a little taller than it is wide. It speaks of time. A stamp on all sides barely legible through the grime. The stamp an icon of four rotating right angles joined at their core.
     Orin's considered gaze takes in the passage of scuffed footfall not yet layered beneath the dust that swirls and settles. She studies the crate, light enough to be carried by a single pair of feet. Arcing around she completes a full circle before kicking forward, a quick blur that connects and a crack of wood. Loosed enough to leverage the lid with her hands, noiselessly placing it beside the crate.
     The object inside is on a plinth, held in place by protective rubber strips. She removes them and takes the object into her hands. At first glance you might think it an anvil with the edges all rounded, made of metal but not weighted enough to be solid. She holds it to her breast as if cradling a child and runs a hand over the smooth cold metal.
     Orin's problem is not the object she now holds or what she might do with it. It is simply that it's now in her possession. She had been taught how to use it, without ever having touched, or seen it. Just as her guardian had trained her never having seen it himself. Orin's problem is that possession has been triggered by her guardian. Her journey begins with discovering why.
     Her conflict is not dismay at being the one chosen from a long line of guardians, now the watchman and protector. It isn't that she doesn't believe she is equal to the task stretching before her. The conflict is having been trained for this very moment, she has during this time grown to despise the needy mass of people she is sworn to protect.
     A vibration in her thigh and she presses her hand to her ear, answering the call. 'Where are you?' The woman asks.
     'Not close.' Orin answers.
     'You didn't call last night.'
     'I was busy.'
     'Doing what?'
     'You know what I was doing.'
     'You switched off tracking.'
     'I did.'
     'So?'
     'You don't need to know.'
     'The customer is waiting.'
     'The customer will not need to wait.'
     'There aren't any flights.'
     'That is correct.'
     'So you're going to miss the deadline.'
     'The customer's deadline will not be missed.'
     She disconnects although the conversation is not over. She runs her hand over the metal, then each smooth end held in a hand, focusing on the metal, seeing now not with her eyes. Her pulse slows and her mind fumbles then joins. She flicks through the vast array of pathways, letting her lifetime's imagination of this moment calibrate with the dizzying reality. Choosing her pathway. The air around her vibrates, an enveloping haze and a crack of sound not heard by any human, sending starlings in a screeching swarm to the sky. All that remains is the dissipating haze and the lidless crate on the old warehouse floor.

Not perfect by any means but great fun and it shows how quickly you can generate a well rounded character (in this case two hours). If you're looking for some great ideas in writing or looking for an entertaining read, then be sure to check out Julie's website. She is a much published author as well as an engaging tutor. Be sure to check out John's original character posting too.