OLIVER MCGRATH
"Like anything worth writing, it came inexplicably and without method." - Karen Eiffel, Stranger than Fiction
NATURENATIONALITY • Irish
BORN • Dublin, Ireland LIVES • Varies AGE RANGE • 23 to 32 BIRTHDAY • August 12th SEXUAL ORIENTATION • Straight HEIGHT - WEIGHT • 5'10" - 135 pounds HAIR - EYES • Brown - Green GLASSES • No |
NURTURELANGUAGES • English
OCCUPATIONS • Writer, Unemployed EDUCATION • Some College NERVOUS TICK • Finger tapping WEAKNESSES • Illness, Crowds TIME OF DAY • Early Bird PIERCINGS • None TATTOOS • None (but has scars) SMOKES • No |
NOTESHOBBIES • People watching
EXERCISE • Walking MUSIC • Band of Horses, Fleet Foxes MOVIES • Stranger Than Fiction BOOKS • Fight Club, Cloud Atlas FOOD • Potato Chips DRINKS • Water COLORS • Tan, Green PET • None |
CHARACTER SAMPLE
SCIENCE FICTION • CIRCA 2016
"I am going to die.
I knew I was sick. I knew something was wrong – but I had hoped for more.
What had I hoped for? I am not even sure, but what do I have to hope for now? Now.
This moment, a turning place in my life in which I have to toss away everything that was set before me. Now all I know is, I am going to die.
I have radiation sickness. I am now a terminal case, a number. No longer a citizen. A number. Six digits.
Numbers like me are hidden away from the public view like a monster from a child’s story, or an affair you wished would dissolve away.
I am now someone else’s problem. Pushed away, given up on. I’ll be forgotten. Ignored until all that is left is the number.
How did it come to this? How did we let it happen? How did I let it happen?
Why did I let myself sink into a glowing world, my own little sphere where nothing could possibly go wrong?
I let this happen. I ignored all the signs; I ignored the medical corporation restrictions. I assumed this would never be me.
I ignored the government. I never voted. I was a voiceless mind right? My vote didn’t matter; I was just one person.
Well now I am a number. Six digits.
I had been comfortable. I had a good job, an apartment. Food and drink, I could buy things as I pleased. I was comfortable.
I was blinded by that comfort. I ignored the voices on the streets, the restrictions as they continued to creep up each day.
Enforced silently, not affecting me… until now. Now.
I am a number."
Oliver swallowed, his eyes looking up from the journal spread across his lithe, small set lap. His pen lingered on the page as he
watched a man and woman seemingly burst into the waiting room. Words passed back and forth between them, inaudible in the noise of the room, but their expressions and body language was different. They were not sick, or hurt. Watching them Oliver wondered exactly why they were there.
Quickly his thought was answered, his blonde doctor coming out from the back and joining them. The three leaving in a quick rush,
their mouths moving and talking, the steps filled with a sense of purpose. Thinking Oliver’s knuckles danced,
the pen propped between his fingers bouncing against the page as he let his tongue dart across a chapped lower lip.
“I am Oliver McGrath. I am not a number. I have to do something”
"I am going to die.
I knew I was sick. I knew something was wrong – but I had hoped for more.
What had I hoped for? I am not even sure, but what do I have to hope for now? Now.
This moment, a turning place in my life in which I have to toss away everything that was set before me. Now all I know is, I am going to die.
I have radiation sickness. I am now a terminal case, a number. No longer a citizen. A number. Six digits.
Numbers like me are hidden away from the public view like a monster from a child’s story, or an affair you wished would dissolve away.
I am now someone else’s problem. Pushed away, given up on. I’ll be forgotten. Ignored until all that is left is the number.
How did it come to this? How did we let it happen? How did I let it happen?
Why did I let myself sink into a glowing world, my own little sphere where nothing could possibly go wrong?
I let this happen. I ignored all the signs; I ignored the medical corporation restrictions. I assumed this would never be me.
I ignored the government. I never voted. I was a voiceless mind right? My vote didn’t matter; I was just one person.
Well now I am a number. Six digits.
I had been comfortable. I had a good job, an apartment. Food and drink, I could buy things as I pleased. I was comfortable.
I was blinded by that comfort. I ignored the voices on the streets, the restrictions as they continued to creep up each day.
Enforced silently, not affecting me… until now. Now.
I am a number."
Oliver swallowed, his eyes looking up from the journal spread across his lithe, small set lap. His pen lingered on the page as he
watched a man and woman seemingly burst into the waiting room. Words passed back and forth between them, inaudible in the noise of the room, but their expressions and body language was different. They were not sick, or hurt. Watching them Oliver wondered exactly why they were there.
Quickly his thought was answered, his blonde doctor coming out from the back and joining them. The three leaving in a quick rush,
their mouths moving and talking, the steps filled with a sense of purpose. Thinking Oliver’s knuckles danced,
the pen propped between his fingers bouncing against the page as he let his tongue dart across a chapped lower lip.
“I am Oliver McGrath. I am not a number. I have to do something”