Right, so we should start somewhere. But Let It Be Noted that I generally write in the Present Tense. And I dislike to write A Whole Lot of Dialogue.

Errol flattens himself on the side of a building, breathing heavily. His glasses hang askew off one ear. "Should be gone by now," he murmurs, looking around the corner. Indeed, the bozos chasing him had vanished. Errol breathes a sigh of relief. The Wings have got nothing on me, he thinks smugly.

He pushes up the sleeve of his oversize jacket to reveal a clunky, ancient-looking watch strapped to his slim wrist with giant leather strips. Its analog face is backlit with a faint green light.

The watch beeps twice - short, staccato notes pierce the stagnant air of the alley. Errol rolls his sleeve back down, flips up his coat collar, and strikes out along the dimly lit corridor in the red brick.

His wrist begins to feel warm. Errol shakes off the sensation as merely a figment of his imagination, one that will disappear in a second.

It does not. The warmth continues to pulse and spreads, up his arm and throughout his entire body. Soon, the very texture of the air seems to warp around him as he continues to walk. Errol stops, removes his glasses, and examines them for scratches. Figures. I get one lucky break and manage to mess my glasses up directly afterwards. I can never win! He whispers a curse word, wiping the lenses on a corner of his shirt. Deeming them clean, he replaces them on his face and continues on his journey, oblivious to the changing landscape around him.

~

That good or should I continue? He's in 2012 now, just saying.

Dehlia Luddington sat on her wooden swing underneath a large, old oak tree, gently swinging herself to and fro. Night had come upon quickly, though Dehlia took no notice. She was gazing at the stars, and, as usual, having, as to put it, "unique" thoughts. At least for a girl her age, or, a girl at all for that matter. She was thinking about what it would be like to fly, see other places, what the wood nymphs were up to, where a leprechauns treasure went when there wasn't a rainbow, and mostly, what it would be like in the future. Would America be free from the British? Would life be easier for the colonists? Mostly though, would anything imortant or special happen to her? Like her older sister, Sybil. Now, SHE was worth something! Riding like Paul Revere to worn that the British were coming. She sighed, as reality brought her back to earth. She would never be anything great or special. She was just Dehlia Luddington. Or so she thought! Suddenly there was a shimmering in the air, like a mirage. An old, leather bound book lay on the ground, just ten feet away. Cautiously, she approached the book. It looked like any typical book, except most typical books didn't just appear out of thin air. She bent down and picked up the book, then went back to her swing and flipped through the pages. In the beggining there were pictures of castles, princesses, knights. Things and places Dehlia had heard and imagined about. Then there were pictures of places like Dehlia's own home. Small wooden cabins, and towns like Boston. Then.. there were pictures of places Dehlia could never even IMAGINE! Tall building that practically scraped the sky! Strange box-like things with wheels that people were riding in, like a horseless carriage! "Wow," thought Dehlia, as she stared at a street with houses like the ones in town, except there were the strange lights outside, and all the houses were dark and shut up, like nobody lived there anymore. "I wish I could go there," Dehlia said to herself, looking at all the pictures of this wonderous place. And suddenly, Dehlia wasn't sitting on her wooden swing beneath the oak tree anymore. She sat, shivering. She lay on a dark street, hazely lit with lights. She stood up and looked around. There was nobody in sight. She walked over to one of the lights, which at least provided some light, and a little comfort. A wet, soggy piece of paper was stuck to the light. It read about some sort of festival here in.. Boston! "Boston!" Dehlia thought. At least she knew where she was. Then she saw the date, and her heart nearly stopped. The date was November 10, 2012!

What do you think? I was thinking at some point, our characters can meet, and realize they each came from a different time, and work together to get back to each of their times!

I believe that was the idea from the get-go, but okay.

Errol emerges from the alley's narrow entrance and scans his surroundings. His mouth, usually placidly curved upwards, now quirks to the side in a confused frown.

I swear I left them in the newer precincts, he thinks. So why does this place look so ancient? It isn't uncommon for a larger city such as Nashville to have its pockets of antiquity, but this is something else entirely. The buildings look positively archaic. Akin to ones he sees in the museums, with one crucial difference.

They all look brand-new. The metal-and-glass storefronts selling the obsolete device known as "tablets" a hundred years ago are in pristine condition. All of the windows are intact, with bold fonts declaring Christmas sales. But it's nowhere near Christmas, he puzzles. It's not even Thanksgiving yet.

His mind races. This is like one of thise nostalgia joints. Cliche and in the way. But it's so... so new looking. That is the critical detail. 

Errol's dark green eyes widen behind his thick-framed glasses. "Oh... well, this is different." His heart thuds against his ribcage, so loud he could swear that the miscellaneous collection of passers-by could hear it. 

He sprints across the street, very nearly avoiding the path of a groundcar. The horn beeps loudly and the driver yells at him. Errol backs onto the sidewalk warily, his scuffed sneakers catching on the yellow-painted curb. He stumbles into a woman pushing a small child in a stroller, speaking agitatedly on a cellular phone.

Apologizing profusely, Errol wends his way toward the blue plastic newspaper kiosk squatting at the building's corner. The woman snorts derisively, muttering something that sounds to Errol like the word "hipsters". 

Hipsters? Oh, that's right. They were the nostalgics of a hundred years ago. There are a lot of correlations between the two groups, Errol's history professor had said.

"No!" He smacks his forehead. "Shut up!" I don't need Donnelly quoting at me now. He tries to pull open the kiosk's door, but it won't budge. A small, weathered sticker on the front reads "Insert 75 cents." Rummaging through his pockets, he surfaces with a handful of wrappers, a nickel, and an impressively large wad of lint. Discarding the lint, he crouches in front of the translucent plastic window.

The date on the display paper reads November 25, 2012.

Errol removes his glasses, and the world recedes to a reassuringly distant blur. He scrubs them thoroughly and replaces them on his nose. The traitorous numbers remain in their positions.

2012.

He rests his head against the cold plastic in defeat. Oh geez.

Oh derp. I just realized you said November 10. Just pretend Errol's newspaper says that too.

Yea! It has started! I am going to do what I did in my NaNo.~

"Well, here we are, Dora." My Father's gentle smile eased me of my anxiety. "Aunt Clara will be glad to see you." He stopped the horses in front of the huge house in Maryland that my Aunt Clara Barton, Father's sister, was living in. Aunt Clara was an old maid, but she was not old, nor did she act like it. A tomboy, as my brother said, always ready to help those in need. A Civil war nurse, who had founded the American Red Cross, she was my favorite aunt yet. But that didn't mean that I was looking forward to a day helping her with lending a hand. I wished to do as much as possible to help people, but blood or something to gross made me pass out.

The front door opened, as I hopped out of the wagon. "David!" Aunt Clara's voice floated out of the house. "How are you?" Now Aunt Clara stepped out of the house now. She was dressed in a simple dress, with an apron on top of it. "And Dora! Ready to work and help?"

She was right. We boarded the ship wich would bring us to the victims of a recent flood. Then we gave, unloaded, built, ran, played, ... and nursed.

I was exhausted by the time an old lady came to us, her face white. "My daughter-giving-help." Her daughter was giving birth, and Aunt Clara was to help, as the doctor was away.

I dutifully followed my aunt to the spot where the woman lay. But we didn't get there. A screaming girl was in the middle of the path, her hair dirty, her face red, and her dress muddy and . . . bloody. She had cut it while playing with a sharp kitchen knife. Aunt Clara rushed over to the girl. But this time, I couldn't follow. I stood stock still, staring at all of the blood pouring from the poor girl's hand. I couldn't move my gaze, no matter how hard I tried.

The girl  screamed in pain. My head grew dizzy. Screaming. Dizzyness.

"Dora!" Aunt Clara cried out, but her voise was far away. Then all went black.

I awoke to the rattle of carts. No, a rumbling. Motercars! I had seen a few before, but never so many at once. I was on a bench in some busy street. Washington DC, I supposed. But why was I here?

I opened my eyes. What! Where was I ?! These were like no other motercars I had ever seen. And there, a woman in pants! But, that is undignified! But, even so, no one is paying attention to her. And there, another!

Where was I? A woman dressed up, in skirts. walked by, talking loudly into some small gadget. Weird.

"AND TODAY, THE 10th OF NOVEMBER 2012, I DECLARE THIS FLEET, THE GERGIA, A SHIP FIT FOR THE OCEAN AND SEA," a voice boomed from overhead.

2012?! That is about 200 years from now. What has happened to me?

Then a girl caught my eye. She was staring at a piece of paper in her hand. She was wearing a dress like mine!

Not thinking, I rushed over to her. "What is going on?" I whispered, scared and relieved to find someone that might be able to help me.

I was going to post, had one all worked out, then THE TERROR! I deleted this wonderful tab! I tried to open it again, but it was to no avail: My wonderful words were lost to the perils of the Internet. And that is why you should always know where your towel is.

Felix and his sisters will come soon, I swear. And do not worry, Maria and Lucy will only stick around for one post. But he will speak of them muchly.

((Awright, herewego))

Felix whistled into the cold clear air. Was that an A flat? He couldn't tell. His older sister, Maria, scuffed her shoe on the brick wall she leaned against.

"When will Lucy come back?" he asked. "I can't wait around all day."

"Then why don't you go look for her?" she replied testily.

He set his jaw. "I just might." Springing up from a sitting position, he set out down the almost-empty street. It was late, and everyone with a brain in their head was trying to make it back to their homes before it got too dark. Everyone except us, he thought sourly. 

Felix headed for the riverbank. It seemed like the logical place for Lucy to hide. Maria was terrified of water, and they liked to stay as separate as possible. He vaulted over the wooden slats of the fence. Picking his way over the rocky banks, he could see the gaping maw of a sewer pipe. The faint sound of humming emanated from it, just audible over the sound of the river.

"Luce?" Felix called uncertainly. "Are you there?"

"Of course I'm here," replied his seven-year-old sister, as if it should be obvious. "Where else would I be?"

He looked into the pipe. It was tall enough for his father to stand upright at the bottom, with a thin trickle of mucky water traversing across the bottom. A short girl stood to the side, scratching at the cement walls of the pipe with a piece of chalk that had long ago worn down to a stub. "Lucy, what are you doing?"

"Drawing." She stepped back to admire her handiwork. Felix couldn't quite discern what the figure was supposed to represent, exactly, but it seemed to be a building of some kind, with a simple sketch of a person standing next to it. "Our house. With you."

Felix smiled, and hugged his sister. "It's very nice, Luce," he told her. "But where're you? And Maria and mother and father?"

Lucy scowled at her chalky hand. "I didn't have enough chalk for that."

He touched the outline of the house. "Maria's waiting for you, and she's not getting any happier. Maybe you two can stop fighting?"

"Maybe." Her expression was dubious, but Lucy walked toward the entrance of the pipe.

He turned back to the drawing and rubbed his finger along the bottom of the "house", smiling. Somehow, it managed to remain unblemished. He frowned, and rubbed his finger across the drawing. When he withdrew his hand, the chalk lines were intact.

That's not natural. Felix wondered what kind of chalk it was to behave in such a way. Well, he almost wondered. He would have, if he had the time to. As it was, there was none for any kind of expletive, even the most basic scream. He was gone before he knew it.

~

Stumbling backwards, Felix expected to eventually collapse onto the other side of the pipe, but he did not. Instead, he managed to trip over a curb of some sort and promptly sat down on the sidewalk.

It was midday, the complete opposite of the dusky twilight that had been present when he found Lucy in the sewer pipe. Felix couldn't make heads or tails of it. Maybe it's just a really big streetlight, he rationalized. But then how did he get outside? And sitting on the curb, watching the most absurd vehicles pass by? And there were so many of them. How on Earth had his own town gotten that many in the space of a few minutes?

A thought dawned on him, one that his mind had been denying ever since he found himself in this strange new place.

Maybe I'm not at home. Maybe... maybe I got taken somewhere else. Some time else.

((Is it okay if I put him in with Errol? You know, for the sake of having people meet up?))

((Garthwumpian Flopp says dnya. Dynamite!))

I would post, but am waiting for Delilah to say something, as she is the one I am with right now.

Sorry! I haven't been able to log on in over a week.

Dehlia stood, at a cross between shock and terror. How had this book taken her here? Why? So many questions crowded Dehlia's head, she feared she'd explode! She yanked the paper off the pole, trying to make sense of it all. Maybe this was just a dream? Yes, thats it! She'd fallen asleep on the swing reading! This was all an illusion! She tried pinching herself, but to no avail. She still remained in this world, cold, wet, and scared. Suddenly, a girl ran up to her, maybe a little younger than Dehlia and whispered; "What's going on?" Instantly Dehlia could tell she was like her, taken from her time and placed in the future. Dehlia considered the girl a moment, trying to think how to respond. What was going on? "I don't know." Dehlia finally answered the girl. "But you're like me, aren't you? You aren't from here, suddenly taken away from where you're home." "Yes," the girl answered quietly, but evidently relieved someone was like her and understood. Dehlia's mind whirled. So other people had been taken from their time too? But how many, and where were they? Could they all get back to their times, or would they be stuck here forever. Finally, Dehlia looked back at the girl. "I'm Dehlia Luddington, from Fredicksburg New York. In the year 1777. Who are you?"

@ True: I'll let you introduce Dora to Dehlia.

"Who are you?" the girl--Dehiliah Ludington--said.

"i am Doralyn Barton. But please, call me Dora," I said, my mind whirrling. "Wait! Luddinton? As in Sybil Ludington?"

Deliah scowled. "So even in your time--whenever that was--my sister is the celebrity! Yes, Sybil is my famous sister, and I am her boring one."

I felt my face grow red. I didn't mean to hurt her feelings. "I did not know you disliked your sister, but I do not think that you are boring. You are fascinating! You must be to be here."

~

So sorry that I must leave off here, but I must go!