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Heydoka on the Creative Writing thread: This smells strongly of a poorly disguised homework thread. I am glad the subject has interested people and inspired some good sharing though, one of you feel free to make the thread with a better OP. Done! This thread is all about posting fiction and discussion creative writing.
Writing Resources + Show Spoiler +Education: These are the resources that have helped me the most. The first two are free and recommended for all writers. The others are writing books best for noobs, but still good stuff for all: Writing Excuses PodcastDavid Farland's Daily KicksThe First Five Page -- A Writer's Guide to Staying Out of the Rejection PileThe Plot Thickens: Eight Ways to Bring Fiction to LifeA Dash of Style: The ART and Mastery of PunctuationI really loved that last book, made me care about punctuation as an art form, rather than a bunch of obnoxious rules. Software: I don't know how I'd make it without these. Here's a video I made showing the below stuff off: WriteMonkeyA distraction free editor that keeps me focused on the story. It comes with a ton of features. Everything is geared toward the novelist, unlike Microsoft Word and the plethora of other word editors. I <3 its auto backup. Google DocsFor collaboration with pre-readers and editors, I don't know if you can beat Google docs. It doesn't support massive files well, but it's instant collaboration and online functionality make it a joy to use and let you work on the document with another person in real-time. Drop BoxI'm able to use WriteMonkey as my main editor because of the awesomeness of Drop Box. Anything you put in the dropbox folder is uploaded to their servers and other computers with the dropbox folder on it, so your files are synced and backed up with each save. It even has a rollback feature, keeping 10 previous saves of each document in case you make a bad save and lose a bunch of work. And talk about peace of mind! Free up to 2GB (which is a lot of text!). WikidPadThis is convenient and easy to keep track of the every expanding fantasy worlds. If there is a "best way" to keep notes, I think this is it. It's a wiki for your home computer. Make sure you put it in your dropbox folder so it's backed up automatically, too. FreeMindMy second note-keeping software, FreeMind is invaluable to mapping out complex ideas that need to be seen in ways the wiki can't. It helps especially when my idea of what's actually going on in the story is less concrete, and I need to think my way through it. I hope those help you in your writing quest!
A note to those Soliciting Feedback Be Specific. Make sure to indicate what kind of feedback you're looking for, being very specific. Does the characterization feel solid (realistic)? Is the plot too slow, and why? How are my sentences? Is it lacking anything? Is there unfulfilled expectations?
If you just ask for general feedback, without being specific, we'll probably assume you're looking for a pat on the back. That's fine, we all need it as writers, but this probably isn't the place for that. If you imagine writing is forging, we're hammering here, and the strikes need precise, so you need to be specific. It also makes it more likely that you'll recieve feedback. We're not all pros here, and while a reader can tell you whether or not things felt slow for them, most probably won't tell you why your plot's themes have a poor delivery if you just ask for "general feedback".
Be tough. If you're not, perhaps go find a forum that has a history of being delicate with writers, or PM one of the contributors to the thread that gives feedback in a style you can take. Don't cry if you get your feelings hurt, and don't take the feedback here too seriously unless it really seems to resonate. You've been warned.
A note to those Giving Feedback Unless they ask for you to be brutally honest, find a nice way to say things. Seriously, hate can just shut the creative drive off as well as if the author decided playing bloody knuckles with a cement wall for an hour -- and who wants to do that? You're not cool if you can insult someone, you're cool if you can help make them better.
Please keep literary elitism out. This is about sharing stuff and having fun, and helping. Literary elitism has no part in that.
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Now, as for stories, I'll start! This story is for your enjoyment, if you like dragon-y things. (But if someone wants to type feedback, that's cool.) + Show Spoiler +She looked down on the body of the dragon. It no longer strained against the chains, but it's swirling orange eye watched, tracking her as she knealed near it.
"It's time?" she asked in a small voice. She knew knew the answer
"Yes," Haydar said, his voice gentle. He stayed back, giving them the space they needed.
"And I have to do it?" She looked up to Haydar, eyes asking for reassurance. The dragon looked between them.
"Yes." She'd told him not to let her back down. It still made his stomach twists. Our lives only depend on it, he thought, but kept it inside.
She gave a week smile and took a deep breath. "Okay."
He didn't care about his ending that much, except for the knowledge he'd worked so hard for being lost to the world. For reasons he couldn't quite explain, it was her's he cared about -- after all she'd been through so far, he wished to see her live a good life.
She reached out, hand and fingers floating through the air like whisps, toward the dragon's head. He urged her in his heart. The dragon jerked against the chains, their clicking filling the silence of the cavern. But they change bare let it shift an inch. The dragon's whole body fought to pull away, and Yauna's just closed the distance.
In the middle of the dragon's head, between it's eyes, rested a perly protrusion. Underneath, the power of the dragon flowed. Humans were not to touch it. According to the dragon, at least.
The truth was, in all the research Haydar had done, in all the countless hours over dusty books and scrolls, days with blackened fingers as he traced with charcole the etchings of stone...
Dragons needed their powers taken, even if they never wanted it. It served as an incubation, and brought them from their animistic rage when their powers returned.
But, it would not be an easy task for either.
Yauna's hand pulled back. "Why does it have to be me."
She knew why, of course. Haydar was crippled in ways the dragon's power could not touch. She may not have been the ideal candidate either -- a small girl, not the broad shouldered and magically potent men who had been used in ancient days -- but she was their only option. Time was running out.
"I know I know," she said before Haydar could answer. She took another deep breath, this time stead. She thrust her hand forward and placed her fingers on the pearly protrusion.
Nothing happened. Not like the texts said it should. Did I miss something? Can only a certain race or bloodline use it?
No, that can't be right, many races did. It's unlikely they shared any born trait.
Then what's wrong!
He glanced over her, looking. She looked fearfully at where her hand touched, fearful that it wasn't working. They could all die now.
Don't think about that.
He looked over the dragon. If anything, the hate in it's eyes had grown, driven by the defiling it must be feeling. This is for it's own good, Haydar reassured himself.
Then, he noticed the eyes. The swirling orange and red energies had slowed. Then, the pupil began dialiting, and it ceased fighting the chains, as if thrust into a trance.
Beams of light shot from the pearly protrusion, beaming through her fingers. "Grip it!" Haydar shouted.
Yauna didn't respond. She can't hear me, is that enough contact? He stopped himself from racing over and making sure her hand had good enough contact. He could not interfere; it had to be enough.
Yauna herself began to cast a subtle orange light, strongest on the hand that touched the dragon. On her finger, just behind where the fingernails began, the flesh rose up. The fingernails darkened, and new, thick, pointed nails like claws pushed out the old ones. Her fingers lengthened and muscles snapped taunt. The orange glow climbed her arm, lengthening it. Where it once was skinny, almost anemic, mucles began to appear.
She hunched forward suddenly. A scream ripped from her throat. The orange light began covering her torso, beaming through the cuts in her shirt. Something moved under the shirt. Haydar only took a moment to decide: he grabbed one of the cuts and tore the back open; as a schollar, he needed to see this.
Bony protrustion peirced the skin in her back from the shoulder blades, and Haydar's jaw slackened. Two trails of blood ran down her back, but before the would could bleed in ernest, the edge of the cuts darkened to the look of dragon skin an healed. It almost seemed as if the shoulder blade spikes had always been there, as if it was natural. Almost.
Her other hand grew claws to match the first, and her torso lenghtened, as if blessed with a sudden growth spurt to make up for all those years of malnutrition. The light reached her legs. She fell to the ground, hand still touching the dragon as if glued. Here, the texts had said, the growth would be the most painful.
In a matter of seconds her upper leg grew six inches. Yauna didn't scream, but it was only because no air remain in her lungs to make a sound; her mouth remained open. The glow reached her lower legs, growing six inches more. The glow finally reached her foot. Toes grew claws as they lengthened, making it more able to grip. The foot grew larger all around, an inch wider and several inches longer. A claw burst from the skin on her heal, and like the bone plates, grew dark skin around the edges, this time before any blood could escape.
The dragon shuddered, and finally her hand dropped from its brow. The glow of her skin recceded. She didn't gasp for air; Haydar knew she was unconcious. Instead, he saw the gentle rise and fall, the stretching of the skin around her shoulder protrusions.
She was Dartorrad -- one who has stolen the heart of a dragon. Well, really, it was the power, but the ancients liked to be poetic about it.
Haydar tore his sleeve and tapped the trails of blood on her back. Once it was unmarked, clean and, perhaps aside from the bony protrustion, beautiful, he grabbed the tear of the shirt, intending to pull it closed. He wanted to inspect…
Purely for research? he asked himself.
He knew the answer. Beside, what she'd just done for them, she certainly deserved her privacy. He pulled the shirt closed and carefully rolled her over, cupping her head. He laid it gently against the stone and looked at her new face. Of all the things that changed, this would certainly be the most...
He remembered when he first met Yauna, malnurished and hollow eyed. It had taken so long to get her to eat right, and even longer for some light to return to her eyes. When it did, they looked like a clear sky. He couldn't help but love to see her alight. She'd gone from hollow faced to an almost healthy weight, filling out the hollows and hiding the bones.
He could see the bones again, but it wasn't the marks of starvation. She looked like some yet-undiscovered race, ones with sharp cheekbones and pronounced brows, and very strong, almost pointy chins. It looked nothing like starvation. It looked like agression, carved into her face.
Pulled her eyelid up. Yes, as the text had said, her irises were now a luminescent red. Dialated and empty in unconciousness. He let the eyelid closed.
People would fear her. He only hoped she wouldn't take the rejection too hard. He glanced down at her feet, and the spike protruding from her heal. Ha, she'll be needing new shoes, too.
He held her hand and ran his thumb over the back of one of her claws. It was meant to be an inspection, but he felt a rush of tenderness behind it. He couldn't help but smile at her.
"I wonder how long until she can breathe fire," he whispered in the quiet. Thinking about what was coming to their enemies, that smile couldn't help but become a bit vindictive.
WEEKLY WRITING BLAST Every week we're have a writing prompt to keep the juice flowing and flex our writing muscles. 1000 words or less. This week, our first week, is:
Write a reconciliation – with a friend, lover, parent, mentor, horse(?), whatever – but it still has a build up of tension and release. In other words, you can't just start and end with everyone being all happy, he needs to have an element of suspense.
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A short story I wrote recently. Don't really need feedback on it but i thought I would share to get the thread moving. It's about two players playing a game of Russian roulette. (I added the spaces rather quickly, word does not copy past cleanly to forum)
Six shots at life:
Chapter 1 + Show Spoiler +Round 1
Smoke slowly danced from the cigarette to the flickering lamp that prevented the room from turning pitch dark. Prevented it only so slightly.
“You mind?” he asked? A sincere question in most cases, but the way he blew his smoke into my face I doubted his sincerity.
“Smoking kills” I responded, a poor attempt to make light of the situation. His mouth curled up to a grin “funny.”
The man pulled a big shiny revolver from his belt, the sound that revolver made when he slammed it onto the table made could have scared the daylight out of anyone too stupid to get scared at the sight of big guns. A real cowboy gun I thought. The damn thing must have been as impractical as any gun could be but I suppose something can be said for the showmanship.
“The rules” he dictated “are as follows. I will open the gun.” He proceeded to click open the iconic revolver. “There are six chambers in this gun, correct?” I nodded. “I will place one bullet into the chamber.” He placed an impressively sized piece of lead into the chamber. “We will both spin the chamber. If the other player disagrees with the spin then he can demand that we both spin again. We repeat this process until both of us are satisfied with the spin.” The man’s gaze never seemed to break from mine. I simply continued to nod in agreement to his explanations.
He took another hit from his cigarette “I provided the gun so I will spin first and you spin after me. After that we flip a coin to decide who begins.” The man threw a coin from his pocket down onto the table.
“A turn is not completed until the trigger has been pulled. When a player pulls the trigger the gun may be in one of three positions.” He placed the giant silver barrel onto his temple. “This is the first position, straight through the temple means instant death.” The man seemed to give the situation no more weight than as if he was instructing someone on how to use a drill. He shifted the barrel from his temple to his forehead. “This is the second position, make sure the end of the barrel completely touches your forehead, if you tilt it the inflicted wound is not always instantaneous in delivering death.” He opened his mouth and shoved the barrel into it. An easy joke could have been made in any other situation.
He placed the gun back onto the table, not a trace of saliva, I would have hated to get spit on me during a game like this, that would really ruin my day. “That is the third allowed position, if that’s what you decide on then remember to keep the gun aligned with your spine. The kill is delivered by shattering your spinal cord, if you miss it then…well…you don’t want to miss.” All this time he never took his eyes of me.
“Any preferred ways?” I asked him. He placed his index finger on his temple “bang.” “The other ways are messy, you can screw up, this one is so easy even a kid could do it.” Supposedly he found that to be the height of comedy and he chuckled to himself. “Well then, are you ready?” he asked without comedy in his voice. “Yeah, let’s get started.” Four little words that began our adventure. He slammed the revolver’s chamber shut, raised the barrel towards the ceiling. Dead silence made way for the rattling of the revolver’s chamber as it made countless spins. “Satisfied with that spin?” he asked. I nodded, somehow talking felt…inappropriate at this point. He placed the revolver onto the shaky wooden table and in one smooth motion he slid the revolver towards me.
The gun had seemed big when the man across me had been handling it. Clearly I had judged wrong, the gun was outright massive. The weight of the gun proved fitting for its size as I lifted it towards the ceiling as I had seen the man do it. I placed my left hand on the side of the gun and again the silence made way for the cold sounds that the spinning chamber produced. “Satisfied?” I asked. “That will do,” he affirmed.
I placed the revolver into the middle of the table. The man grabbed the coin from the table and with an almost violent spasm he threw the coin. The coin struck the bulb, it ringed with an ear piercing noise. The coin fell back onto the table and the man slammed down onto the coin as if crushing a fly. “Heads or tails?” he asked.
The man’s clothing stood in sharp contrast to the expensive watch he had on his right hand.
“Heads,” I responded. The man moved his hand, the coin showed heads. “Yes!” I shouted. Perhaps more jubilant then was appropriate given I had only won the right to decide who got to put a gun against their head first.
“You first,” I said. “Hah, predictable,” he said. His voice seemed to say that I should feel ashamed for such a boring and predictable choice. “Nice watch by the way” I said. “Ooh you like it?” he said as he reached across the table to grab the gun. He sat back into his chair and seemed to weigh the gun.
“Whatever I own, you own, you know?” he said. “How so?” I asked. “Well I won’t have much need for it if I lose will I?” he responded. True enough I suppose, although I had given little thought to plundering the dead. “And if you lose,” he pointed the gun towards me “you won’t really need it either” he smiled. “So if you want it,” he tapped on his golden watch “it’s already yours,” he said with a smile.
He placed the gun against his temple, not a shred of hesitation in his movements.
Click.
Chapter 2 + Show Spoiler +Round 2 Why? Why did I feel so relieved that the gun didn’t go off? Maybe instinct overtaking logic? Glad to see someone not die, forgetting my odds had just taken a turn for the worse. Every time a chamber proved to be empty there would be two consequences. Not only did the odds of the bullet being in one of the remaining chambers go up, I also had to take a turn.
“Phew.” The man sighed. “Glad it didn’t go off, that would have been a snooze” he said. He seemed more cheery then anyone who had just put a gun against his head should be. He slid the silver revolver back across the table, pointed straight towards me. “Your turn amigo”.
I took the revolver into my hand. It’s weight seemed to only have increased, it should have been no surprise the thing grew more beastly with every chamber that proved empty. “If you don’t mind me asking…why are you playing this game?” I asked.
“Game?” he responded puzzled. “Yeah, why are you doing this?” I asked again. He simply shrugged “same reasons as you I recon.” I wouldn’t push him, if he didn’t want to tell then he didn’t have to I supposed. I placed the gun on my temple as the guy had showed me, not as messy he had said, last thing I wanted was messy.
I closed my eyes. Back in that dark room again. No…That wasn’t right. This wasn’t the same room, this was my room. I walked over to the blinds covering the window and pulled them up. Blinding white light, a world covered in snow, nothing magical about it though, just where I was born. I turned from the window and looked across what had once been my room.
I asked my dad for a racecar bed once, only once though, my dad taught me quick. I had to do with posters of those racecars. Modern day knights, little light on the princess saving, little heavy on the metal.
I had to leave, I had spent a lifetime in this room, I didn’t need to spend another in it. I walked into the living room. Two chairs, one for dad, one for me. Lucky us we didn’t have any friends so two was fine.
The TV was probably the most expensive thing in the apartment but calling it an expensive TV would be overstating it by a good mile. The walls were bare of any decoration. There was only one thing up on that wall, right above the TV. I couldn’t watch TV without seeing that stick hang above it.
I once read about a sword of Damocles. But you could run from that sword, this stick seemed to always find me no matter how far I ran. The quiet buzzing sound of the refrigerator filled the room. I sat down at the dinner table. Some bad nights I sat down at this table for what felt like years.
“God fucking damn it,” he roared as he threw the door open. He dragged me into the living room and slammed the door behind him. “You told me you had gotten a what?” he shouted at me. I just kept sitting at the dinner table. It was a strange sight seeing myself stand in the living room from the dinner table.
I never understood why in my dreams I was so old. My father kept shouting at the me in the living room, a full grown man crying and sobbing. “You said you got an A, does this look like an A?” he yelled as he flaunted the paper with the red F on it.
I didn’t even remember what class it had been.
“I feel like I have to ask because I’m not even sure if you can read.” Ooh how witty he was that father of mine. “You’re not just worthless, you’re a fucking idiot too aren’t you?” he turned to grab his sword of Damocles from the wall. “You are all your mothers work” he sighed. The stick had made place for an actual sword.
That was new.
I looked on as my father began to cut me apart. He shouted obscenity after obscenity until I stopped protesting. He fell into his chair and started watching the TV. I stepped up from the dinner table and walked over to the pile of gore that used to be…Was me. The heart still pumped for whatever it was worth.
“Every day you’re a disappointment.” My father grunted as he watched TV.
The pile of gore began to creep away, down the hallway, back to my room. It always ended there.
That stick would find me no matter where I ran, so I kept running for the rest of my life. As I opened my eyes the cold winter landscape made place for the dark smoky room.
Click.
Chapter 3 + Show Spoiler +Round 3
My heart was racing, how long had I let the gun rest against my temple?
“You alright buddy?” he asked me. I threw the gun back onto the table and stood up. “Your turn,” I simply replied. I pulled off my tie, who the fuck offs himself with a tie on anyway. Sweat had turned my cheap blue shirt dark blue at the chest and armpits. I pulled the shirt from my belt, shuffled it around a bit to get some air in.
“You know, we can stop this at any moment,” he said. His chair stood tipped on the back legs, the gun casually spinning around his index finger.
My look must have said it all as he was quick to respond. “Just kidding, you don’t back out of this one.” “Now sit down, you’re making me nervous as shit with that walking around,” he said in a commanding tone of voice.
“Fuck you,” I said. “I’ll spend whatever time I got left whatever fucking way I feel like.” He grinned at that, little I did or said seemed to faze him in the slightest.
I leaned against the wall and looked at the floor. The best thing that you could say for it was that it matched the wall and the ceiling. They all looked like shit and they all looked like they were housing some killer mold, if not two.
“Take your time, but at least look at me when I pull the trigger, no fun if I blew my brains out when you’re not looking right?” The gun continued casually spinning around his finger.
“I just…give me a minute ok?” I said. “Sure, sure, take however long you feel like man,” he said. He placed the gun back on the table and fished a lighter and a cigarette from his pocket. The metallic lighter lit up the cigarette with that iconic glow.
I felt it coming from my lungs but I never could keep it down, god knows I tried. My body pulsed rhythmically to the beat of the coughing.
My legs gave out and I crashed knees first onto the wooden floor. My arms kept me from going stretched but the coughing didn’t seem to have a mind of leaving me quite yet.
Like an old friend the taste of blood filled my mouth. The coughing had finally broken, I loudly gathered my spit and cleaned out my mouth. More blood then spit. Given the state of the floor I figured that I probably cleaned that up too. He still calmly sat in his chair smoking, the son of a bitch had even put his feet up on the table. “Smoking…kills huh?” he said. I simply grunted as I lifted myself back onto my chair. “I’ve been smoking all my life,” he said almost proud. I didn’t feel like talking about this with him, hell I didn’t want to talk about this with anyone.
“Congratulations, now you know what nobody else knows, secret for a secret?” I asked. It took a good while before he finally nodded and said “sure, what you want to know?”
That was a good question, I had simply wanted to change the subject, any subject would do really. “What…is it you do?” I asked. “Hah,” he exclaimed. “I guess I can tell you.”
He threw his cigarette on the floor, putting it out by placing both his feet solidly back on the floor. “Now that I think about it, this is like the perfect shrink,” he said. “How so?” I asked. “Well no matter what I say in here, either you end up dead and can’t tell a soul, or I end up dead and I won’t be around to give a shit,” he said. In a twisted way I suppose he had a point.
“So what is it I do?” he said. “Well, no need to put it lightly.” “I’m a criminal, plain and simple.” Not an answer I found entirely unexpected. Your everyday nine to five suburbia man wouldn’t find himself in a room like this.
“What kind of a criminal?” I asked. “Ooh, I go with the wind, it’s been drugs, it’s been robberies, it’s been anything in between,” he said. “Tell me about something” I said. “Something?” he asked confused. “A crime,” I stated resolutely. He laughed. “You know, I’ve told a dozen stories for a beer, no need for all these theatrics,” he concluded. I simply kept looking at him. “Alright, you want a crime story, here you go,” he placed his elbows on the table.
“One early morning I woke up to this ungodly shrieking, so I stumble out of my bed thinking the world is coming to an end.” He began solemnly.
“I walk out into the hallway and I find my kid crying like…well, like he thought the world was ending,” he said. “I sorted him out good, taught him quick,” he said with a smile as he faked a punch on his own cheek.
“So the kid calms down and I ask him, why he was making all this noise, and he tells me his mom is nowhere to be found.” He placed his hands on the table. “At this point it kind of starts to sink in, his mom feeds him every morning, no shit the kid is freaking out without his mom to get him some food, get him ready for school and whatnot,” he said. “Of course the kid knows better than to bother me with that shit so he was practically starving there.”
“So where is that mother of his I wonder?” he places his finger on his head to show me he was thinking real hard. “Well I don’t got a clue where she was at so I decided to go scope the usual places, placed some calls around, see where she was at you know?”
I don’t know why I nodded as if I understood the guy.
“So she isn’t at work, she isn’t at any of her friends either, what’s up I wonder at this point.” The guys hands wrap around the side of the table.
“So eventually one guy gives me a call, a real champ, and he tells me he saw her at a train station, like I said, this champ tells me which train she gets on.” His grip on the table tightens.
“Lucky me I could still get on a few stops later, ask this nice women of mine why she was wasting my whole god damn day.” The table seemed to shake ever so slightly when he cursed.
“So I get on the train, a train going straight out of the city, so that’s enough for me to wonder about already, and I walk from back to front to find her.” His demeanor seems to take a turn for the better “then I spotted her,” he said.
“I walk right up to her.” He slowly taps on the table to show his steps
“I tap her on the shoulder like this.” Two taps. “Then I put the gun, this gun in fact, up against her head, like this.” He pushes the barrel up against his forehead.
Click.
Chapter 4 + Show Spoiler +Round 4 “Even the gods must be on my side to let me get away with that one.” His bombastic laugh echoing through the entire room.
“That wasn’t a crime story though,” I said. “Ooh?” he asked, fake surprise on his face. “Most countries count shooting women in the face as at least a misdemeanor.” His snide remark seemed to bother me more than his confession of murder.
“Glad you’re on my side slick, tell you what, if you make it through this one I promise to tell you another story, catch.” With an underhanded throw the revolver was sent flying through the air. I reached for it…A miracle catch if I had ever seen one. Maybe I just put more effort into catching guns then I ever did footballs.
As I sat back on my chair the light flickered. “It’s not going to last very long,” I said. “You’re right, that lamp is really priority number one,” he said. He sounded tired. “Focus on what we need to do.” His eyes never seemed to leave mine. “Do what we are here to do.”
I raised the gun up against my temple, once more my eyes closed and the dark room made way for my life. “Do you know where I can find professor…” I turned to meet the voice. “I’m sorry…professor who?” I asked the girl. She said the name again, but I couldn’t remember it.
I could remember the white stone path that cut through the impossibly green grass like a maze. I could remember her face, her bright blue eyes and long blonde hair. But I couldn’t recall her question, I never could. The park made way for graduation, I sat amongst a sea of faceless people, on the stage she stood radiant amongst faceless students.
Even in my dreams, she was more than I ever seemed to be.
She walked up to the microphone to give that speech, had it been anything special? I hoped that it wasn’t because then it would have been a shame that I forgot.
“I never loved you,” she said. The crowd erupted into applause. I tried to wrestle through the crowd, trying to get to the stage. The further I got, the more violent they turned, they always did, but I always tried.
The crowd climbed over me, burying me alive in their numbers.
A hand wrapped around mine and dragged me effortlessly from the pile.
“I’m afraid I have some bad news,” the doctor said as he shook my hand. “I don’t want to hear it,” I said calmly. “I insist that you hear it.” He truly insisted. “I DON’T WANT TO HEAR IT,” I roared. I smashed my fist into the doctor’s arrogant face. His thin framed glasses gave way, the glass shattered and rained against the hospital floor.
This rage…how long had it been my companion. Did I get it from my mother in birth or from my father in life? The victims of my rage probably didn’t care either way.
This life of mine. I had seen it pass me by every day of my life, always serving as reminder of what I had been deprived of. Rather, I thought, is there anything this world has not deprived me of?
My parents, my only love, my education, my job and even my body. All had betrayed me, stole from me. Was I not justified to strike back? When you steal from a man, can he not steal back? An eye for an eye, a coin for a coin, a life for a life. This world has treated me like shit since the day I was born, I deserved the world but the world felt entitled to me. “Greedy little man,” she whispered as she wrapped her arms around my waist. “G-g-greedy?” I stuttered more outraged then anything.
I pulled her arms from me and grabbed her by the throat. “You would call me greedy?” I said, my voice filled with that familiar rage. “The whore that stole everything from me and then takes off like a thief in the night?” The hand around her throat clenched shut.
Her smile only grew wider. “Do it,” she whispered. “A real man could do it,” she said. “A real man would do it,” she screamed.
Click.
Chapter 5 + Show Spoiler +Round 5
“Down to the very last,” he said as I placed the revolver back onto the table.
“Still two left,” I corrected him.
“Sure, but think about it though.” He had picked up the revolver and leaned back in his chair. “If the next chamber is empty, we know what number six has right?” I suddenly realized what he had meant. “And if this one is full then…” I uttered slowly. “Then it ends right here for me.” He smiled.
“Either way, once I pull this trigger the mystery is over,” he sighed. “Bit of a shame isn’t it?” he said. “How about that story first, I feel like you might pay more attention if I keep the mystery alive for a moment or two longer.
“But what about.” He slammed his hands down onto the table, the gun in his hand only adding to the sound it produced. “A majestic heist? A life wasted? A murder mystery?” his eyes fixated entirely on mine. Brown eyes like mine. “What about the time I killed my father?” he asked coldly. “No…do a-a-another,” I stuttered. “Really?” he said surprised “I figured you would love that one, my crowning achievement in this world, patricide.” “What about the time I beat my son senseless?” he asked with the same cold voice.
“Another,” I demanded. He tapped the guns barrel on the side of the table rhythmically. “What story would you like to hear then?” he asked me. “The time you robbed that convenience store,” I said. “Nah that’s boring, what does that say about us?” he asked.
“Nothing” I said.
“There is a fifty percent chance this chamber has the bullet in it,” he said as he put the gun on his temple. “And you want to talk about nothing?” He lowered the gun again.
“Just not about me,” I said. “Not about me huh?” he said. “I don’t think I know any stories that aren’t about me, I’ve been a very self-centered person,” he said. “No that’s not true,” I yelled.
“You know that story about the turtle and the scorpion,” he said. I nodded, who didn’t. “What do you think it’s about?” he asked me.
“Never trust a scorpion,” I said.
“Many people like to think that, but I disagree,” he said as he leaned back. “I think it’s about how a scorpion is always going to be a scorpion.” He tapped the gun on the table to give weight to his conclusion. “I will be what I am, no matter how I try to change, you will be who you are, forever,” he said, he kept his eyes closed for the first time.
“You think that’s a sad message?” he asked me. “Never being able to change who you are,” he reaffirmed. “There are always second chances aren’t there?” I asked him.
“But what about the people that are just complete fuck ups from day one?” he replied. The lamp flickered.
“The kind of person that isn’t grateful for his second chances, the kind of ungrateful waste of space that thinks a second chance is him winning the lottery rather than him getting offered a job at a grocery store?” he said.
“Those kind of people could get all the second chances in life but they are to prideful to accept anything that isn’t a gift from the gods,” he concluded.
“He beat me, every day it started all over again” I yelled. “He beat me too, he beat the both of us” he said calmly. “Your pain, my pain, is there any difference?” he asked as he looked down at the floor. “All I ask is for a bit of honesty.” He stood up. The revolver reached to his knees.
“It’s a bit of waste this,” he said as he held the revolver in both his hands. “There is no mystery left.” I fell to my knees, I buried my fists in the cheap floor. Cheap as it was, my fists gave way before the floor did. Blood siphoned from my knuckles.
He placed the silver barrel on his temple. “Say it with me now.” His voice sounded like he had lived a million years more than he had ever wanted to.
Click.
Chapter 6 + Show Spoiler +Round 6
“Click,” he said.
He let the silver revolver slide from his hand. As it crashed onto the wooden floor it made a sound befitting its size and weight.
“We knew that from the start, now finish what we came here for,” he said. He kicked the revolver with his right food and it slid across the floor, ending perfectly before me.
“I….lost the game,” I stuttered.
“What game?” he asked coldly. “This was never a game.” He walked over towards me and sat down next to me on that cheap floor.
“Let’s stop blaming everyone else, do something good for a change.” He put the revolver in my hand.
“They made us this way, why should we pay the price?” I exclaimed in desperation.
“We were born defective, the world never made us do all the things we did,” he said.
“But, my father…” I begged him. “He beat us?” he carelessly said. “So what?” “How many people grew up with abusive fathers?” he said as he wrapped an arm around me. “They didn’t all turn out as twisted as we did.” There was almost a hint of compassion in his voice.
“Maybe he just saw how deformed we came into this world,” he said.
I lunged at him, my hands found his throat fast enough but he threw me off him with the same effort one would swat a fly.
My body crashed into the floor, I coughed my lungs out as I lay there.
“Your father never made you beat your wife or your son, he sure as hell didn’t pull the trigger on her.” His voice boomed through the room.
“One bullet for the whore, one bullet for that guy that tried to be a hero, three bullets for that cop that tried to shoot us when we got off the train and one…For you,” he screamed.
I tried to get up but I got no further then crawling. He wasn’t at the gun, had he gotten behind me?
“For once, just once, try taking responsibility for the waste of a life you lead,” he whispered into my ears.
I flailed wildly behind me to hit him but all my hands found was air. I crawled towards the revolver.
“You are the author of your actions, nobody else made you live the life we led.” The entire room seemed to shake as he spoke.
“They all conspired against me,” I yelled as I crawled on. Too far, it was still too far away.
“You were too prideful to accept less.” His voice caused earthquakes.
Through the walls I heard police sirens grow louder and louder.
“Bear the punishment,” he roared. “How did they…ooh god they found me,” I screamed. I frantically reached for the gun, almost.
I leapt forward with all my remaining strength, my heart raced as my hands wrapped around the gun. I rolled onto my back and there he sat. His feet were up on the table, his chair on the back legs, smoke curling up from his cigarette. “The only way out of here is paying your dues,” he said. His voice no longer shook the earth, it was as calm as it had always been.
I lined the gun up, at this range I couldn’t miss.
“Scorpions.” He sighed.
My finger curled around the trigger.
“Police!” a voice roared from outside the room. What right did that man have to pollute my world, what right did any of them ever have.
“You aren’t ever going to change, always the easy way out, always blaming the world.” He stepped up from his chair. I kept the barrel fixed on his face.
He crouched in front of me and put his forehead against the barrel. “Just like this,” he said. “Let’s not make it messy.” “I never deserved this,” I cried. “You deserved much worse than this,” he said.
The door creaked loudly as the invaders of my world began kicking it down.
The trigger felt light to the touch.
The golden watch on my hand ticked away the seconds I had left. Three, two, one.
Bang.
Feel free to comment if you like but I doubt I will be going back to edit much of it.
Finished another recently (two days ago actually) and currently working on a short story set in Eastern-Germany during the end of the Stasi.
Have a few more ideas for short stories (generally take a week to write them) and then it's time to figure out which of the two big stories I have running in my mind is best suited to turn into a novel.
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I think we should have a subject to discuss, too, especially for non-authors. Story openings!
What catches your eye? What makes you groan? What are some great examples of openings?
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Groan: chosen one openings, bloody murder openings, orphaned child/traumatic incident openings, bad openings
Good: original, not derived, not giving all information.
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Awesome, TofuD! That's great.
Why don't you give us a reason to care? How about the teaser on the back, or the genre, or why you're passionate about it?
I agree that "Child Losing Parent" Pretty much shuts me down. But I think murder openings can still be done. If the writing grabs me, the scene is powerful, I'm all for it. But I will be looking for originality, and if I don't see it shortly, I'm likely to put it down soon.
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Looking for help with grammar sentence structure and feedback on how well the humour works
Heres the first chapter of a story I'm writing for fun.
[/spoiler]When I was five and a half the sunset countess came to my home and murdered my father. She broke down the door of my family’s single space apartment and set her gaze across the room to us at our dinner table. Before my family could even react to the intrusion she reached behind her scarlet dress and pulled out a golden gun, the like of which I haven’t seen since. She then raised both her gaze and her aim to my mother’s swollen belly.
The threat directed at my father's wife roused him from listlessness; he pounced upon the table, breaking it in half with the weight of his lunge. He stood defiantly atop the ruins of our cheap table and absorbed the line of sight that led directly to my mother, but it made no difference to the sunset countess: she fired, and sure enough the bullet traveled through my father’s heart and arrived in my mother’s shoulder. An instant after his death, mother let loose a terrible shriek half due to the pain erupting from her shoulder and half because of the grief rapidly consuming her thoughts: that was my cue. As the countess moved in for the kill I leaped in front of the remains of my father, spread my arms in defence of my mother and stood as tall as a pre-adolescent could. In response the sunset countess relinquished a single puzzled look before I was met with a great backhanded blow, one which flung me into the left wall of our awfully cramped apartment. The damage was too great for a six and a half year old, my body could no longer move. I watched the last events of the evening unfold atop a stained mattress and a small pool of blood accumulating beneath my broken lip. My mother desperately crawled backwards, like a crab, away from the sunset countess and her husband’s fate, but soon enough she had been backed up against a wall with the golden gun placed against her temple. In that moment I realized the odds of me growing up all alone or even dying then and there along with my mother were especialy probable: but then a flash of anxiety hit the countess' face, and the moment passed. The sunset countess lowered the golden gun and levelled her mouth to my mother’s ear. She whispered something to my mother, something which I would not learn for over 20 years. Then, as unexpectedly as she appeared, she vanished: but despite the loss of such a terrible creature, there was no relief to be had within that shattered home, only two unwilling survivors, a corpse, and a secret.
A few months later my mother gave birth to a girl within the very apartment where her husband had died, she wouldn't go to the hospital no matter how much I begged. She conspired to let none other than herself, I and a discount midwife know of her child’s existence. Her labour was merciful, just 6 hours separated my mothers declaration “my waters broken!” and the midwife's declaration “its a bitch!”(I did say she was a discount midwife). The discount midwife packaged the baby up in a bundle of soiled bedsheets and then she was gone, leaving me my mother and my infant sister all together for the first and last time.
As soon as she had the strength to cry my mother told me that I had to kill the child. She told me it was for the best. That it was us or her. I didn’t understand. Of course I didn’t, no one would, but moms frame had been quivering for the past half hour like it always did when she was on the verge of having a stroke, so refusing even her wildest notion(which this most certainly was) was not much of an option.I promised my mom that I'd do what she asked and swore it’d be painless, even though she never asked it to be. I pried the girl from her hands and bolted from the room as fast as I could. My last clear memory of the outdoors at the time had involved 6 foot high trenches of snow. But the great Mounds of frost so clearly there in my last impression of the city, had been replaced by packs of burgeoning greenery. It was already early spring in the world outside my apartment. We walked the town, the haphazardly wrapped baby and the roughly dressed six year old. We could've made a killing as beggars. Eventually we came to a forested ravine where I ended up mock considering a few potential kill sites while considering what to actually do with my baby sister. The solution came to me as a starved fox crossed our path and snarled at us before slinking off back into the growing dusk. I left the ravine and wondered what kind of home would I want to grow up in if I could choose?
It was already late into the afternoon by the time I found a suitable home. It was massive, as tall and wide as the first half of my apartment. From the classily worn down look of it the place had to be at least over 50 years old (vines had long since begun adorning its pale brick walls). It's roof jutted up at several points into ornate spires, its' front yard was the size of a field and the few glances I caught of the pampered family within the mansion were more than reassuring. Looking back I don’t know why I was so sure that complete strangers would just take in someone elses child. I would pin the conviction on childish naivety, but somehow, all those years ago, I had been right about the people who lived in the castle. When I got home mom asked me what I had done with the baby, I told her I fed her to a fox.
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Noticed you had the word Eris in the description, thats enough for me. If I ever get a kindle your book will be the first thing I buy with it.
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Are you soliciting feedback, Gumshoe, or just posting for our pleasure?
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I've wanted to write a novel for some time now but have procrastinated it something fierce due to not knowing if my ideas are any good or not. What I would like is some feedback on whether you would read this;
Timeline: Based in the future where man has just begun to explore/colonise the galaxy with the invent of FTL engines Openning: A bioweapon facility on Mars goes dark after sending out a distress call, a team from a PMC is sent in to investigate why. They find that the people there were mucking with a virus that could seek out and kill people with certain DNA strands. The virus mutates and gains the ability to turn infected people into zombies once they die. These zombies are controlled by the virus (think hivemind styles) so what one knows/sees/hears, they all know/see/hear. The people call for backup and get picked up by their battlecruiser (of sorts). These people then infect the people on the ship ship which jumps away and disappears for 30 years Main story: The ship jumps back into our solar system with a buttone of other vessels accrued over the past 3 decades and an allout war starts for humanity. The main character(s) find a way to stop humanity from getting pwnt and thwart the virus' plans for galactic domination for the time being
Inspiration: Starcraft, Battlestar Gallactica, any zombie movie, Mass Effect, Star Wars, Event Horizon and more
What are your thoughts?
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On January 20 2012 10:09 FoxyMayhem wrote: Are you soliciting feedback, Gumshoe, or just posting for our pleasure?
I thought the point was feedback. Regardless yes I will graciously receive feedback.
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Then read the OP. It explains how to ask for feedback in a way that makes it easy for us to give you feedback. <3
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Grammar, sentence structure, hows does the intro sound and is the humour out of place.
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well eff you for making me go back to look at my old writing, haven't done this all in a while. I found one written about 5 years ago, named
School Shooting
+ Show Spoiler +School Shooting She was waiting after-school for her mother to come pick her up. She was chatting happily with a couple of her friends as they stood around, waiting for rides. When her mother showed up, she hugged her friends, said goodbye, and got into the car. Mom gave her usual offhand “hello” and they drove off.
Mom was listening to NPR when the girl, Emily, got into the car. When the radio station took a break for a few commercials, Emily struck up a conversation to help the ride pass by more quickly. The mother-daughter pair wasn’t on the best of terms, so they had little to talk about to each other. As such, the conversation revolved around the only conversation starter they had, the daily news.
After a few minutes conversing about pet food tainted with rat poison (the last thing NPR covered before the break), Mom mentioned that there had been a school shooting. Emily’s curiosity was piqued by this fact, because she hadn’t heard anything about it. But Mom apparently didn’t know much about what had happened, other than it was on a college campus. Emily’s interest soon turned to worry, for she was a high-school senior. She began to worry for her older friends: she knew quite a few college-goers. When NPR came back on, she listened apprehensively while they covered the shooting story again. The shooting was at Virginia Tech. Reports said—
Sarah goes to Virginia Tech.
The shooting suddenly became much more important. As the report went on, Emily’s thoughts turned to horror. Sarah, her best friend in the world, goes to V.Tech. Emily had just been on a college visit their over spring break; had just been there with Sarah. And now, well, now Sarah was still there. And according to the radio, they didn’t know who was safe. They didn’t even know if the shooting was over. What they did say only made Emily feel worse: someone was shot in Sarah’s dorm. Oh God…
After the nauseating drive home, Emily felt faint. Her mother couldn’t comfort her, her father was out on some business trip, and her confidant, the one person she could talk to, might have been shot while Emily was safe at [home/school], laughing at her own blissful ignorance.
She couldn’t believe this had happened, that she didn’t know how Sarah was. Emily tried to call, but she couldn’t get through. She hung up the phone and unmuted the TV. She was sick with fear now, Sarah wasn’t picking up. The TV said it was because everyone is trying to call into campus: the phone lines are jammed. But why won’t she answer her cell phone?
It was Sarah’s dorm. They said they still didn’t know who was safe and who…wasn’t. Emily was beginning to panic. No one who knew her could get through, and the school wouldn’t talk to anyone. She called Sarah’s parents, and they hadn’t heard from her either. Sarah is reliable though, why wouldn’t she call her family to say that she’s okay?
That last thought would haunt Emily. It first occurred to her when Mom tried to get her to eat something at seven o’clock. It was on her mind when she fell asleep at 2:00 a.m. She didn’t go to school the next day; she couldn’t. Emily had slept four restless hours before she awoke to find she had made herself sick with worry. Her mother still had to go to work though, so the only thing left to comfort her was the thankless 24 hour news and her unanswered phone calls. She got progressively worse as the day went on.
Sometime that evening, Emily made her hundredth phone call. She had been calling Sarah to see if she was okay, Sarah’s family to see if she wasn’t, and her assorted friends to see if they had found out anything. She looked at the clock, which read 7:42. She hadn’t called anyone for at least 20 minutes now, so she went to get the phone out of the base. As her hand reached for the phone, it rang. Startled, she hesitantly lifted the phone, pressed the call button, and put the phone to her ear.
“Hello?”
it's been a while since I've dug into this folder, wow.
To media + Show Spoiler +to media:
what would you do if no one died today?
The McDonald's Man
+ Show Spoiler +The McDonald’s Man
The man stands, silently, solemnly. He watches; he waits. He doesn’t ask for change, nor beg for food. Most ignore him, but he sees them. Now he is getting some attention; a group walking out the doors looks over and decides to move on. The man determines that his approach isn’t working, so he takes the first step. Another person walks by him, and this time he exchanges a few words with the passerby. A couple walks out of the doors, and the man gives them something. They both look at what he handed them, then drop it in the trash and walk away quickly. A large woman walks out, and when the man hands her something, she becomes angry and throws the object on the ground. It is a business card.
As the man continues to hand out the business cards, a trend emerges. Those he talks to consider him either insulting, a nuisance, or ignore him altogether. He is talking almost solely to the occupants coming out of the building; those going past on the sidewalk go by unnoticed. The building, a McDonald’s, has a “no soliciting” sign on the door, and if not for that the man would be inside, closer to his target audience, the McDonald’s patrons themselves.
Now, when someone comes out, the man is able to effectively get their attention. He is learning how to talk to this audience, and he even gets a few positive responses. He seeks out the largest men, women, and children, despite the fact that they react to him with the harshest criticism.
He is out front a few hours, and when the lunchtime crowds come around, he gathers his own small crowd. By now he has learned how to interest the audience, instead of anger or annoy them. Some people listen to him talk, others just grab a card and walk by. Either way is fine, because the message gets across either way. The clear-cut card explains everything else the man is saying in a few words:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ` ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ____________________________________ ` ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ | ` ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ | Do you need Arterial Bypass Surgery? ` ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ | Call now for a FREE plaque ` ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ | screening and consultation ` ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ | 410-555-9423 ` ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ | ` ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ | This courtesy provided by: ` ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ | The Offices of John T. Roberts, M.D. ` ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ |____________________________________ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~
Edit:
On January 20 2012 10:03 TofuD wrote: I wrote a book, if anyone cares XD
nyerp -A
it's a buck, I'll give it a shot, it's in my to read list now.
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Arright, I'll put myself out there!
A while back, a friend of mine challenged me to write a book. I decided to push myself to write a chapter a week; as I went, I posted what I had on Blogspot so that my friend could follow my progress. The entire thing is here:
http://hplamour.blogspot.com/2010/06/act-one.html
I made the mistake of letting the aforementioned friend decide what I would write, and he insisted on a Western. Since I have a weird sense of humor, my "Western" draws heavy influences from Douglas Adams, Terry Prachett, and Kurt Vonnegut; the first chapter begins with the introduction of a very confused Lovecraftian monster, to give you an idea. I'd also like to note the fact that Captcha named my main character: a gunslinger named "Polk Buckhorn."
Fair warning: this is a first draft, and it shows. My rule for myself was "no filler;" every chapter had to develop a character or advance the plot. Expect a lot of hasty exposition and "broad strokes" character development as a result. Still - given the fact that I had no idea where the story was going when I started out, I'm fairly happy with what I came up with.
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I wrote a novel aswell, but I trashed it as soon as i had finished it.
I wrote it purely for myself to see if i could do it.
I don't think there is anything that taught me as much about writing as when i tried to write my own book. In the end I ended up not liking it very much. It was far to obvious that large parts just were not of my own invention. It had a twist which I initially thought was pretty clever but ended up actually being far too hard to explain properly.
Still, despite hating the thing and never intending to show it to anyone, I keep it on my comp to make me remember how much I learned from writing it.
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On January 20 2012 10:22 FoxyMayhem wrote: Then read the OP. It explains how to ask for feedback in a way that makes it easy for us to give you feedback. <3
Hey Foxy, I looked over your short story!
I really liked your writing style , liked Haydor, liked the minimalism, liked the dragon, hated Yauna. I wrote notes along side your story below, they were in bold before but the transition here erased that so anything thats framed by lots of brackets is comments on your story, hope you find some useful stuff there! Also theres a long stretch where I don't comment because its all excellently done.
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She looked down on the body of the dragon. It no longer strained against the chains, but it's swirling orange eye watched, tracking her as she knealed near it.
I know it seems stupid but with us living in the era of whats new and creative its kinda hard to start off with something like a dragon, the general impression of which is that it is the greatest cliche of the fantasy genre, that said it is also a staple and can be very effective if used well so I'll just trust you for now
. Neat writing, I like how in your story I can always keep track of how the characters are moving and feeling. The excitement/ concern aspect of Haydar's character ragarding Yanau and the dragon is good,
The dragon description is great and I like the idea of power transmuting into anger.
The one thing I dont like is Yauna, a protagonist should always be relevant to the conflict, t Yauno as far as we know was just picked up off the street and the only thing that makes her relevant to the story is the fact that she is the vessel. I understand theres more to it, shes probably in this situation because of the war but so are probably at least 50000 other orphans, why her? I'm sure you don’t want to reveal her past until later which is good, but a characters immediate occupation should tell us something interesting about them or at least hint at why there in this situation in the first place. Yet this all only relevant if Yauno remains the pure and only protagonist, if this is a multi perspective story(which it seems like) than you can have this scene play out later or better yet, have a prologue that introduces you to a relevant character and then have this intriguing start as the first legitimate chapter of the story.
Your description of everything is very strong but I would like something regarding setting, is the dragon in a dungeon? You dont need to explain the setting fully, its just right now the only clue we have is that the dragon is in chains and just having Haydar hold a candle or something would let us no that this place is dark so you dont have to go too far out of the way to let us know. Also dont like the names Haydar and Yauna, thats just me.
"It's time?" she asked in a small voice. She knew knew the answer
"Yes," Haydar said, his voice gentle. He stayed back, giving them the space they needed.
"And I have to do it?" She looked up to Haydar, eyes asking for reassurance. The dragon looked between them.
"Yes." She'd told him not to let her back down. It still made his stomach twists. Our lives only depend on it, he thought, but kept it inside.
(((((((((((((“See this desperation answers why they have to do it, but not why you as the writer/god have chosen her. I dont find her at all unique or especially courageous, I get that shes your clay to mold into whatever, but wouldnt it be nicer to have something to build off? Its like d and d, its easier to role play if you have some characteristics defined, maybe she can be just a bit bolder, reckless even for a full grown man. Its just seems like the key character is a bit too bland and our interest in her relies heavily on the change thats about to occur for her.))))))))))))))
She gave a week smile and took a deep breath. "Okay."
He didn't care about his ending that much, except for the knowledge he'd worked so hard for being lost to the world. For reasons he couldn't quite explain, it was her's he cared about -- after all she'd been through so far, he wished to see her live a good life.
((((((((((Yeah yeah old man I get it you like her but I'm far more interested in how hes almost using her to sate his curiosity.)))))))))))))
She reached out, hand and fingers floating through the air like whisps, toward the dragon's head. He urged her in his heart. The dragon jerked against the chains, their clicking filling the silence of the cavern. But they change bare let it shift an inch. The dragon's whole body fought to pull away, and Yauna's just closed the distance.
((((((((((IS the dragon completley bound? Her can move somewhat... why isnt her eating her or bette yet burning her alive, heres an oportunity for some neat imagery, have a chain be bound amaterley around the dragons muth with more smoke pouring out the ends and the nostrils as Yauna gets closer.))))))))
In the middle of the dragon's head, between it's eyes, rested a perly protrusion. Underneath, the power of the dragon flowed. Humans were not to touch it. According to the dragon, at least.
(((((((((This is really good, you reveal dragons to be intelligent shed and little light on thier relationship with humans ))))))))))
The truth was, in all the research Haydar had done, in all the countless hours over dusty books and scrolls, days with blackened fingers as he traced with charcole the etchings of stone...
Dragons needed their powers taken, even if they never wanted it. It served as an incubation, and brought them from their animistic rage when their powers returned.
(((((((((((((((But again mister Haydar are you doing this for Yanua, the dragon? Or just for youself. Hes a really good character no qualms with him like that hes crippled.)))))))))))))))))))))
But, it would not be an easy task for either.
Yauna's hand pulled back. "Why does it have to be me."
She knew why, of course. Haydar was crippled in ways the dragon's power could not touch. She may not have been the ideal candidate either -- a small girl, not the broad shouldered and magically potent men who had been used in ancient days -- but she was their only option. Time was running out.
"I know I know," she said before Haydar could answer. She took another deep breath, this time stead. She thrust her hand forward and placed her fingers on the pearly protrusion.
Nothing happened. Not like the texts said it should. Did I miss something? Can only a certain race or bloodline use it?
No, that can't be right, many races did. It's unlikely they shared any born trait.
Then what's wrong!
He glanced over her, looking. She looked fearfully at where her hand touched, fearful that it wasn't working. They could all die now.
Don't think about that.
He looked over the dragon. If anything, the hate in it's eyes had grown, driven by the defiling it must be feeling. This is for it's own good, Haydar reassured himself.
Then, he noticed the eyes. The swirling orange and red energies had slowed. Then, the pupil began dialiting, and it ceased fighting the chains, as if thrust into a trance.
Beams of light shot from the pearly protrusion, beaming through her fingers. "Grip it!" Haydar shouted.
Yauna didn't respond. She can't hear me, is that enough contact? He stopped himself from racing over and making sure her hand had good enough contact. He could not interfere; it had to be enough.
Yauna herself began to cast a subtle orange light, strongest on the hand that touched the dragon. On her finger, just behind where the fingernails began, the flesh rose up. The fingernails darkened, and new, thick, pointed nails like claws pushed out the old ones. Her fingers lengthened and muscles snapped taunt. The orange glow climbed her arm, lengthening it. Where it once was skinny, almost anemic, mucles began to appear.
She hunched forward suddenly. A scream ripped from her throat. The orange light began covering her torso, beaming through the cuts in her shirt. Something moved under the shirt. Haydar only took a moment to decide: he grabbed one of the cuts and tore the back open; as a schollar, he needed to see this.
Bony protrustion peirced the skin in her back from the shoulder blades, and Haydar's jaw slackened. Two trails of blood ran down her back, but before the would could bleed in ernest, the edge of the cuts darkened to the look of dragon skin an healed. It almost seemed as if the shoulder blade spikes had always been there, as if it was natural. Almost.
Her other hand grew claws to match the first, and her torso lenghtened, as if blessed with a sudden growth spurt to make up for all those years of malnutrition. The light reached her legs. She fell to the ground, hand still touching the dragon as if glued. Here, the texts had said, the growth would be the most painful.
In a matter of seconds her upper leg grew six inches. Yauna didn't scream, but it was only because no air remain in her lungs to make a sound; her mouth remained open. The glow reached her lower legs, growing six inches more. The glow finally reached her foot. Toes grew claws as they lengthened, making it more able to grip. The foot grew larger all around, an inch wider and several inches longer. A claw burst from the skin on her heal, and like the bone plates, grew dark skin around the edges, this time before any blood could escape.
((((((((((((All this description is solid and compleltey absorbing))))))))))))))
The dragon shuddered, and finally her hand dropped from its brow. The glow of her skin recceded. She didn't gasp for air; Haydar knew she was unconcious. Instead, he saw the gentle rise and fall, the stretching of the skin around her shoulder protrusions.
She was Dartorrad(((((((((((Stop ripping off skyrim lol kidding, though really maybe change the name a bit so it in no way resembles dovakin... You know how trigger happy bethesda's liars are about ip rights.))))))))))))) -- one who has stolen the heart of a dragon. Well, really, it was the power, but the ancients liked to be poetic about it.
Haydar tore his sleeve and tapped the trails of blood on her back. Once it was unmarked, clean and, perhaps aside from the bony protrustion, beautiful, he grabbed the tear of the shirt, intending to pull it closed. He wanted to inspect…
Purely for research? he asked himself.
He knew the answer. Beside, what she'd just done for them, she certainly deserved her privacy. He pulled the shirt closed and carefully rolled her over, cupping her head. He laid it gently against the stone and looked at her new face. Of all the things that changed, this would certainly be the most...
He remembered when he first met Yauna, malnurished and hollow eyed. It had taken so long to get her to eat right, and even longer for some light to return to her eyes. When it did, they looked like a clear sky. He couldn't help but love to see her alight. She'd gone from hollow faced to an almost healthy weight, filling out the hollows and hiding the bones.
He could see the bones again, but it wasn't the marks of starvation. She looked like some yet-undiscovered race, ones with sharp cheekbones and pronounced brows, and very strong, almost pointy chins. It looked nothing like starvation. It looked like agression(Like this line alot, reveals her new nature), carved into her face.
Pulled her eyelid up. Yes, as the text had said, her irises were now a luminescent red. Dialated and empty in unconciousness. He let the eyelid closed.
People would fear her. He only hoped she wouldn't take the rejection too hard. He glanced down at her feet, and the spike protruding from her heal. Ha, she'll be needing new shoes, too.
He held her hand and ran his thumb over the back of one of her claws. It was meant to be an inspection, but he felt a rush of tenderness behind it. He couldn't help but smile at her.
"I wonder how long until she can breathe fire," he whispered in the quiet. Thinking about what was coming to their enemies, that smile couldn't help but become a bit vindictive.
(((((((((((((Nice fore shadow! Overall good fun take on dragons maybe have a bit of a prologue before this scene maybe do something about Yauna...(I dont know its kinda lame to have a deep conflict between ones human and dragon sides when their human side has all the personality of a peeled potato.) and be careful not rip off skyrim even if your just spiritually taking from it. Again great description really like your writing style good luck on this story!)))))))))))))))))
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Thank Gumshoe! Ha ha, great crit. This is exactly the kind of feedback that really benefits writers.
I feel what you're saying about Yauna. The first draft of the story focused the dragon, transformation, and creating an emotional connection with the perspective character. (Speaking of Dortorrad, I suppose I should blame Skyrim's main quest for being so awesome that it made me write a short. You caught my muse in the act! :D)
So, the main things I hear you say are missing are 1) something interesting about Yauna pre-embuement, a reason to like her aside from the sympathy of her hard upbringing, and 2) a bit more setting.
Also, Haydar is not old, so I need to indicate that. He's early thirties.
Also, I don't like the name Haydar either.
My main concern is putting in setting description before the transformation happens. For me, if I don't care about the story, I don't care about the cave/dungeon they're in. But then, I suppose it will only take one good line.
I really like your review style. You balance compliments with criticism, and you describe things well. I especially appreciate you starting off with the positive stuff -- it's amazing what that can do for one's receptivity.
And for those reading, I've given him feedback on his stuff as well in PM. I suggest everyone read his, if you haven't already. I think this is a great start to the thread! Good stuff, everybody.
EDIT: I asked gumshoe if I could post the crit, and we was all for it. I figure it might be interesting to some peeps.
+ Show Spoiler +Thoughts (and remember, these are all opinions, though, hopefully, educated ones. Take it with a grain of salt.): -You can introduce her as the Sunset Countess, but after that you either need to stick to just Countess or the full Sunset Countess. You keep changing back and forth, and it's distracting. If you chose to call her Countess from then on (recommended), then refrain from using her full title until the "Sunset" part is very relevant to the goings on. -I love the emotional effects of this sentence: "I watched the last events of the evening unfold atop a stained mattress and a small pool of blood accumulating beneath my broken lip." -This is great: She whispered something to my mother, something which I would not learn for over 20 years. This helps hook us into the larger plot, something that is desperately important in the opening of modern novels. -"but despite the loss of such a terrible creature". Loss implies death, how about absence? Also, if the Sunset Countess doesn't look human, that should probably be mentioned at some point in this first section. -With the end of the first section, I am led to believe the perspective character is a quadriplegia. -"She conspired to let none other than herself, I and a discount midwife know of her child’s existence." Oxford comma after the "I" please!-"As soon as she had the strength to cry my mother told me that I had to kill the child." My first thought: the countess impregnated mom. Not good or bad, but just feedback authors need. -"I [pried the girl from her hands and bolted from the room as fast as I could." "Pried" gives me the impression mom was reluctant to let go. -"My last clear memory of the outdoors at the time had involved 6 foot high trenches of snow. But the great Mounds of frost so clearly there in my last impression of the city, had been replaced by packs of burgeoning greenery." This REALLY grabs me. I like seeing people struggle through crazy and abnormal situations (part of being a Speculative Fiction fan, I suppose), and on top of the other stuff going on, my interest is now firmly cemented. We'll see if it's maintained. -I chuckled at "We could have made a killing as beggar," and this line makes me like the perspective character, the first thing to endear me to him aside from sympathy. While trying to protect his parents was admirable, it's also kind of standard. Not bad, and important for the character, but it's not a reader-hooking action like this line is being in a small way. -"Eventually we came to a forested ravine[comma] where I ended up mock considering a few potential kill sites while considering what to actually do with my baby sister." -"I left the ravine and wondered what kind of home would I want to grow up in if I could choose?" This thought seems like a non-sequiter; why would he have a choice? Why is he wondering about a choice he doesn't have (assuming) when he should be thinking about survival? EDIT: Next line answer that. Maybe "house" would be a better word? Home makes me think "What kind of people I could grow up with as parents." EDIT2: The next part clarifies even further. Leave it, it's good. -"Looking back[comma] I don’t know why I was so sure that complete strangers would just take in someone elses child." -"I would pin the conviction on childish naivety, but somehow, all those years ago, I had been right about the people who lived in the castle." I think "was" is correct instead of "has been", but I'm really not sure. Was sounds better to me, though. -"I told her I fed her to a fox." I chuckled, and I'm interested. As a reader I fear our perspective character will soon and for a while not have any influence on the story, aka, not be able to change what's happening around him like he did with the baby. It makes me cautious going forward. I personally don't like powerless heroes -- I'm okay with them struggling with horrors of the past when they were powerless, but I don't like going through it with them. I imagine most don't, but I might be wrong, so I hope to see the character keep making decisions that have effects, good or ill. I'm personally also looking for something bright that makes me say "yes, it's okay to get invested in this world." For me, that needs to appear very soon. I think the first section could use some work as far as sentences go, but it's great for everything but the last drafts or two. When you want to work on that part, check out this podcast: http://www.writingexcuses.com/2011/03/27/writing-excuses-5-30-writing-action/Very good work!
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Bump with a motivational wallpaper I just made for myself. Thought it would be great to share.
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