TL Fiction Writers - Page 11
Forum Index > General Forum |
[UoN]Sentinel
United States11320 Posts
| ||
khaydarin9
Australia423 Posts
On April 17 2012 19:57 TheQuarryman wrote: Interesting. I don’t define exposition as about plot. That is too narrow a definition for me. I'm not saying your definition is wrong, I just find it helpful to think of it more broadly. Exposition can be about setting or historical events (world building). Exposition can be about character (character attributes, history, etc). Information can be conveyed about numerous things. Tolkien has rafts of exposition. Lots of it does not relate to plot. When Clancy drops in three pages about how a nuclear sub works, or Child relates the performance characteristics of a handgun, this is exposition to me – it is conveying information, and it is nothing to do with plot. Exposition has a stylistic component as well, of course, like these two examples - the authors choose to divert into explanations of how things work at certain points in their stories, where others wouldn't. The plots of these stories would not change one iota if this exposition was omitted. Show vs tell is a choice a writer makes, wittingly or unwittingly. It has significant stylistic consequences (it has a big impact on the character of the work). It is generally better to show, but there are occasions where it may serve your story better to simply tell. Just be aware that in an editorial context, "show, don't tell" means something very specific. | ||
mister.bubbles
Canada171 Posts
On April 18 2012 02:24 [UoN]Sentinel wrote: I actually have to agree w/ Chill. I've always found that by starting at any person you know for either gender and working from there, you can slowly form two separate beings, namely the person you started with and the character you have now. I like the idea, I guess I could read some lift people from history too now that I think about it. | ||
-Aura-
United States209 Posts
Please, please, please, be as critical as possible and feel free to point out anything you didn't like/thought I could do better. I want to improve, and that is impossible if anything is held back. Point out even the tiniest of errors please. ^^ Reconcilliation + Show Spoiler + The guard froze, his fingers numb against the cold control panel. The unmistakable red dot stared at him through the dimness, a malevolent eye peering grimly forward. Nathan stood there for almost a minute, glued to the panel in shock as he realized how the unlikelihood of the situation. That a birthing should happen with him on duty, and with this prisoner! It was preposterous. There were two hundred other guards, and five times as many prisoners. Tearing his eyes from the unblinking gaze of the monitor, the Nathan looked through his helmet at the man sleeping in the cell before him, lying prostrate in the mechanical arms of an incubator. The wires and pipes protruding from the prisoner’s limbs were too much to bear, and he was forced to look away from the man, that source of so much heartache and regret. Was there a way to help him? Nathan knew there wasn’t, and yet his mind raced feverishly through multiple schemes, each more outlandish then the next. With an audible sigh of resignation he reached down and hit one of the large buttons on the monitor. Sirens filled the air, and the lights flashed on in every room up and down the corridor. The man ensconced in the machinery came to life with a groan, blinking blearily at the harsh light of the lamp above him. When the prisoner saw the guard before him, he let out a primal cry of fear, and began to flail violently against the bands that held him tight to the incubator. “No!” he screamed, “No, you Imperial bastards, let me go!” The tramp of iron boots filled the air, and a squadron of armed soldiers appeared at the door, led by a man in a white lab coat. This was the Warden, and his appearance caused the prisoner’s shrieks to intensify, his movements growing more and more frenetic. As the soldiers passed the various other cells, inmates shrank back as far as the restraints would allow, their eyes wide in terror. Just as the cries of the prisoner reached an unintelligible pitch, the squadron reached his cell, the red dot now blinking like a mark of guilt. Nathan’s fingers drummed a nervous staccato beat on the side of his leg. The Warden flipped a lever, and immediately the cries ceased as a needle on a mechanical arm punctured the prisoner’s forearm. His whole body stiff as a plank of wood, the quieted prisoner strained inaudibly. The Warden and the soldiers watched his attempts in silence, and the prisoner accepted defeat. His initial terror gave way to anger, and he glared at the men before him. Nathan swallowed nervously, a bead of sweat trickling down his spine despite the morning chill. “Prisoner 372, Daniel Blakely. By order of the Imperial Triumvirate, you were sentenced to death.” The Warden’s voice was low and there was no emotion on his face. “However, if you choose to accept the gift of the Maelyr, you will be given a stay of execution and be allowed to serve our glorious Empire. If you decline, you will die, and the Maelyr will be born anyway. Do you accept?” The Warden pressed another lever, and a second needle was injected into Blakely. He gasped in air as if he had been drowning. Raising his head to stare at the Warden, the indecision was clear in his eyes. Nathan felt a glimmer of hope. Could Daniel have changed? He had always been stubborn, but prison can change a man. A decision dawned, and Daniel’s eyes narrowed to slits. Nathan’s heart plummeted. “Fuck you!” Daniel screamed through gritted teeth. “Fuck you and fuck your Empire and everyone in it!” The Warden turned to the control panel emotionlessly, and pressed a button. Nathan began to quiver, his hands trembling uncontrollably. “Birthing sequence initiated,” said a disembodied female voice, and the incubator attached to Daniel’s back began to glow and rumble. Nathan felt very hot under the helmet, but he couldn’t take it off. Not now. He watched Daniel gritting his teeth, eyes staring angrily at the Warden. Suddenly, that angry gaze shifted to him, and it was all Nathan could do to keep standing. Those eyes burned into him, and he began to regret his choices. Daniel was wrenched backwards into the incubator, causing him to clench his jaw in pain. The tubes sticking from his arm popped out, leaking their contents on the floor. The smell of burning flesh filled the room, and Daniel’s back arched in agony. Nathan could take no more, and, yanking his helmet off, he stumbled towards his brother. Daniel’s eyes widened in amazed recognition, and then fury, as his brother lurched forward. With a thunk, the incubator’s glow faded, and Daniel screamed. Nathan knew it was too late, that the Maelyr was already inside his brother, and he fell to his knees before the bars. Daniel’s arms tore from the restraints and battered his chest uncontrollably, blood running from his eyes. A silent plea formed on his lips as the Maelyr began to devour his internal organs. There was only one way. Somehow, there was a pistol in Nathan’s hands, pointed at his brother. Three shots rang out before the soldiers knocked him to the ground. Two points of red stood out on Daniel’s tattered shirt, and a sickly green fluid oozed out. “You killed it you asshole!” roared the Warden, his face purpling with rage. He pulled a rifle from one of the soldiers and pointed it at Nathan’s head. “No,” he breathed. “I won’t shoot you. You’re getting an incubator. A life for a life.” Nathan lay numbly on the ground as his hands were shackled behind him. On the far wall, his brother’s eyes were closed. But above them was a single red dot where the third bullet had impacted. The dot gleamed brightly, a malevolent eye peering out at the henchman of the Empire. And with that Nathan knew he had found redemption. -1000 words | ||
spangled
United States24 Posts
Congrats on finishing your work, it reminded me of a space opera, and you're very good at presenting imagery for your world to the reader. I also liked the symbolism of the malevolent eye that you began and ended your story with. + Show Spoiler + I went back and ended up reading your story for a total of four times. I'm not sure why but I tend to read too fast on my first go, because maybe I thought I wouldn't be too into a story with a sci fi theme or maybe because I'm an impatient person... So the first time I read it, I wasn't interested until I got to the point when the prisoners react to the Wardens appearance.. But than when i reread it, this time more slowly, I got to appreciate your work more, and had a genuine, holy shit moment when the guard Nathan took off his helmet and revealed himself to his brother. I only found two tiny errors “Prisoner 372, Daniel Blakely. By order of the Imperial Triumvirate, you were sentenced you to death. Thetubes sticking from his arm popped out, leaking their contents on the floor. Other than that, bravo sir, good job, thanks for sharing, I'm not in a position to be critical of ones work, so hopefully you can get that constructive criticism that you wanted. | ||
-Aura-
United States209 Posts
On April 18 2012 17:07 spangled wrote: Hey -Aura- Congrats on finishing your work, it reminded me of a space opera, and you're very good at presenting imagery for your world to the reader. I also liked the symbolism of the malevolent eye that you began and ended your story with. + Show Spoiler + I went back and ended up reading your story for a total of four times. I'm not sure why but I tend to read too fast on my first go, because maybe I thought I wouldn't be too into a story with a sci fi theme or maybe because I'm an impatient person... So the first time I read it, I wasn't interested until I got to the point when the prisoners react to the Wardens appearance.. But than when i reread it, this time more slowly, I got to appreciate your work more, and had a genuine, holy shit moment when the guard Nathan took off his helmet and revealed himself to his brother. I only found two tiny errors “Prisoner 372, Daniel Blakely. By order of the Imperial Triumvirate, you were sentenced you to death. Thetubes sticking from his arm popped out, leaking their contents on the floor. Other than that, bravo sir, good job, thanks for sharing, I'm not in a position to be critical of ones work, so hopefully you can get that constructive criticism that you wanted. Yeah sometimes I also tend to skim when I read things on a computer. It's somewhat annoying actually, especially when I'm trying to figure out something complicated and my eyes just want to race down the page. I'm going to fix those typos right now. Thanks for your input, and for reading. ^^ | ||
ticklishmusic
United States15977 Posts
This is the pro-prologue to a large piece I conceived for Nanowrimo several years ago. In my blog, I posted an older version in one post, and a little bit about what I'm working on. I just copypasta'd from MSWord, so hopefully not too many problems. I'll be periodically posting new chapters/sections and bits of writing there too. If anyone can give me PM or comment on my blog that would be great. I think my grammar is generally okay, but I get pretty paranoid about leaving a gaping plot hole, or forgetting to mention something I should ( I know stuff, but sometimes I forget that I haven't written it yet). So if anything doesn't make sense, please tell me. Also, I guess comments about the story in general would be cool. Like, is it not TOO overdone? Does it flow well? How are my descriptive thingies? I'm trying to write a fight scene right now. That'll be done by the weekend hopefully. The older version: http://www.teamliquid.net/blogs/viewblog.php?id=327885 Ideas Ideas Ideas: http://www.teamliquid.net/blogs/viewblog.php?id=327885 Latest version: (6700 words) (yes, the chapter/ section titles are kind of corny/lame. i'll fix them maybe.) + Show Spoiler + The Civil War of Valana The Return of the King 1 It is sunset. A man stands, looking out of an arched window over a vast city. He is a tall man of noble face and build, though now he is drawn and haggard from great weariness and sorrow, even greater than those expected of his many years. This is Zeshara, twenty-sixth Regent of Valana. For many years he ruled wisely and well and the Kingdom of Valana prospered: the lands were at peace, and men lived to die in their homes, surrounded by their families and loved ones. During this era of plenty, the Emperor returned. It was not the last Emperor, for the Regency had lasted for well-nigh four hundred years, but it was a man of royal blood. The Regent scratched at the rough stubble on his cheek, recalling the fateful day. “A dusty traveler appeared at the gates of the Redemption Palace. At his touch, they opened—those mighty gates that had suffered no man to pass since Cathaz last-Emperor closed them before he rode into battle against the Masgans and perished, opened for this mysterious stranger. The Triari, the three palace guards and commanders of the Disi, found him perched upon the dusty throne that had been empty for so long. And so, they had accepted him as Emperor: no mortal or immortal could open the gates and sit in the Mandate of Heaven but by virtue of his lineage. Zeshara had, hesitantly, abdicated and let this strange man rule. And for many years, he deemed things well. For several decades, time ran its course and the Kingdom prospered. The Regency had taken good care of the Kingdom, and under the returned Emperor, it rose to even greater and bolder heights. Valana, long the dominant power in Alias, waxed in its second noontide strength. Her armies waged war in foreign lands, carrying back the princes of distant kings; her ships sailed upon distant lands, carrying back the wealth of exotic isles; her ambassadors traveled far and wide, until near all of Alias bowed before her might. The silver and gold standard waved in the courts of a thousand lands. Emperor Tazmar took a wife in the sixth year of his rule, a fair lady of old nobility with some drops of royal blood in her veins. Soon thereafter she bore twins: a girl-child and a boy-child, and there was great rejoicing. Both grew quickly, becoming tall and strong and handsome and were much beloved by the people of the Empire. They were but another joy and pride of the flourishing Kingdom. But, at the dawn of their twenty-second birthday, madness took the mind of the aging Emperor, and the Kingdom plunged into chaos. Sentries patrolled the city of Saphiris, the ancient seat of power of the Kingdom. As the stars bowed away to the rising sun, massive silhouettes were spotted fast approaching. The Colossi, the immortal, giant, servants of the Emperors, had been summoned to kill the young prince and princess. And, so the burning of the Western Citadel began. Saphiris, City of Kings, the greatest city wrought by man, capitol of Valana, was under attack for the first time in thousands of years. The Colossi, blind to all but the commands of their master, rammed full force into the adamant walls that countless armies had fallen before. In its long history, many had laid siege to it; a single one had conquered the walls to never leave. However, the ancient strength of the Colossi was enough to accomplish what uncountable mortal soldiers had failed to do: they breached the wall. The Colossi swatted away the human guards that strove in vain to drive them away. They stampeded through the Western Citadel, leaving fire and destruction in their wake until they reached the very walls of the Redemption Palace. Their one goal was to find the Prince and Princess, and to kill them. It was only when the discovery of the Prince’s absence was made did the Colossi retreat. The Princess had gone back to her mother the Queen’s people in the northwest parts of the Empire. The Prince, through some premonition or foresight, had fled the city days before. The only members of the royal family that remained were the Emperor and his Queen, and the only to emerge from the palace was the Emperor himself. The Queen, it was said, had died in the attack. It was whispered that Tazmar had slain her himself. Tazmar was wroth when he learned that the Prince had escaped to Rundora, a city on Delvis Isle in the center of the great lake Centrak, to rally his supporters and seemingly usurp his father. He sent forth a great armada and numerous Colossi to kill the Prince and raze the city to the ground.” 2 It is now that the Emperor’s army arrives at Rundora. From his tower high above the city, Zeshara watches as the horizon seemingly thickens, and a massive fleet approaches the island. He looks sadly out onto the lake. In the fading light of a summer eve, the lake has turned red. He turns as the door creaks. A soldier in the attire of a captain strides in and flicks a salute. He whispers, “They are coming. The Emperor will show us no mercy.” Roused from his reverie, Zeshara slowly turns his head and states, “Marshal our forces.” The officer leaves. Zeshara glances back over at the approaching invasion force, then turns and leaves the room, squashing the nausea of despair. He had not imagined that the Emperor would send forth so many men. He traverses various courts, finally finding the Prince in his guarded chambers in the tallest tower. The Prince stands before a large painting. It portrayed the royal family, not in its usual formal state setting, but as a family. A smiling father and mother sit on one end of a picnic watching an unruly son and daughter pulling at each other at the other end. The Prince, hearing Zeshara, turned. Zeshara thinks he sees something in the Prince’s eye, but cannot be sure. “They are coming, sire.” * * * Several days later, a tide of steel marches toward the City walls from all sides. The Emperor’s armada stops a scant kilometer from the outermost walls of the city, the thousand crimson banners of its thousand companies snapping in the wind. There issues no herald offering terms of surrender, only a hail of arrows that darken the setting sun and rising moon. Hundreds upon hundreds of siege engines fire, sending their destructive spheres into the city. This barrage is blocked; as the projectiles approach the city, they hit an arcane barrier that shimmers into view as it is hit. A group of wizened men in dark robes move forward, surrounded by a phalanx of the King’s own guard, the Disi. They raise their arms and begin chanting in cracked, harsh voices. After several moments, a massive pentacle appears before them, crackling with arcane energies. It flashes, and a titanic blast of magic hits the shield. The entire ward glows as a massive silver bubble, then shatters. From within, a bolt of argent and azure lightning strikes the army. But this is no arcane force, but the Saphron Paladins: guardians of Valana, and the greatest warriors in Alias. Their ferocious onslaught destroys the Disi phalanx, and the King’s mages are quickly slain. As the King’s armies begin to surround the paladins, they withdraw. The High General of the armies grits his teeth in anger, and curses the paladins. In the tower above the main gate, Prince Ellis sighs to Zeshara. “We cannot win this battle.” “My Prince, your father truly wishes to kill you. He will sink this entire island if it means your death. We are your shield, and we shall defend you until we are riven.” “Or I drop you,” replies Ellis with a slight smile. “We will not let you do so, my prince,” Zeshara replies fondly. He wonders when they had all grown so solemn. The prince had been a lighthearted lad, and while he himself had always been a bit stiff (the Regency had not been without its rigors)… but this? “Our cause is righteous, is it not? Why do I feel as a man condemned?” he wonders privately. * * * The opposing army marshals itself at the behest of its thousands of officers. Soldiers under massive shields, both metal and arcane, move to the walls and raise ladders and siege towers, which fall ruinously. Arrows fly thick, and magic almost as, for the magery of the Kingdom is strong in that day. The common soldiery of the kingdom clash; much of the best blood of Valana will spill today. Siege towers and ladders burst into the flame, and men fall to their deaths. Upon the wall, islands of besiegers fight desperately to establish a foothold. Massive floating platforms loaded with soldiers and piloted by mages ferry to the top of the walls, but rarely make it as defending mages break them, spilling their cargoes hundreds of feet down. Many who witnessed the Colossi attack have joined the Prince along with the Saphron Paladinate. The opposing side are the other divisions of the army, called from remote garrisons and the borders. These men fight their friends, their brothers. Most of them know not why they strive thusly; but for that their lords told them to do so. Many are sick at heart; no man does not harbor a doubt. They are sick at heart, knowing that every time they kill, a small part of them also dies. The spirit of Valana is near broken. Those who survive will be haunted forever by the memory of that blood-red day. Even after the sun set, the armies continue to strive. The magery of the Kingdom is potent in this day, and the field is lit with multicolored lights, seemingly fireworks let loose into the sky. From high above, the battlefield could have been a festival instead of a bloodletting. Each flash means the end of more good men. The valiance or skill of the defenders, the Prince’s Men, as they came to be called, was greater than that of the King’s Men, and slowly but surely, they beat back their besiegers. Soon, the gates are opened, and a sea of Prince’s men rushes to sortie. Like an old bull, the grey and red army of the Emperor slowly and reluctantly gives ground. They are slowly pushed back over the island and through the rolling green hills and back to their ships. The meadow will be green and hilly no longer; it will forever after be a packed red-earth plain, stained by the rust of sword, helm and blood. The Grand General of the army was fearful: penalty for failure would surely mean, at best, his execution. He railed against his commanders for perceived failures. “We are losing this battle. We have ten times and more their force, yet they continue to push us back. The beach cannot withstand the tide! How can this be!” “The sea is mighty, may destroy a sandcastle, but the beach and island will remain.” Grand General Falscon whirled, facing the General in charge of the western flank. “You fool! How could you not break through their line? You had fourteen thousand men at your disposal to their three thousand! Three thousand! In the name of the Decemberess how...?” Falscon proceeds to belabor his subordinates. They shift uneasily under his diatribes. He only pauses when a messenger with a bloody side and notched sword enters and pants in a broken voice, “They have broken through... the paladins have crushed the western flank and broken the shield wall... we cannot hold them... they… will be here. Soon.” With that, the messenger totters and falls, first to his knees, and then the ground. None of the commanders make any move to help him. No healer is called. One of the Generals remark cooly, “Damn the paladins.” 3 A half hour later, the first of the Paladins break through the defenses surrounding the command post. The path they wrought was the first crack in a mighty dam; harbinger of the torrent that would soon burst through. Two paladins, a longblade and his friend the spearblade make it to the tent. They duly surveyed the recently vacated tent. “It seems that they were here and have only recently left.” His partner, the spearblade gave a noncommital grunt. “If we’d been a little faster, we could have ended the battle right then.” Another grunt. The two stood in the tent awhile longer. The longblade sighs and walks out. The spearblade stands awhile longer, pitying the dead messenger left in the tent. Then, he also leaves, returning to the battlefield. * * * Though on the western flank the paladins had been successful, the eastern front is presenting considerably more difficulty. It is a mass of struggling bodies. The burnished silver of the Prince’s men struggle against the red and gold of the Palace Disi, the elite troops of the Emperor. Single men fight duels, while in other areas entire companies in formation clash. Only with great cost are the enemy pushed back. Nevertheless, the valiance of the defenders shines through once again as several battalions of fresh paladins are sent forth, and the Disi are gradually forced to fall back, sustaining heavy losses, though perhaps not as heavy as that they wreak upon the defenders turned attackers. Only as their allies around them retreat and are replaced with the Prince’s men do they withdraw, in fear of being flanked and surrounded. At dawn’s first glint, the battle finally begins to slow. Both sides have sustained heavy losses; the defenders have paid dearly for their gains. One in ten of the Prince’s Men are dead, but for each one, perhaps three of the King’s Men lie on the battlefield. By the time the disk of the sun had peeked above the horizon, the armies begin to disengage. Both are weary and many are worse: numb and bloodshocked. The King’s men retreat to lick their wounds, and the defenders fall back to regroup, for their lines had become spread thin in order to continue with their offensive. The Prince exits Rundora alone. Zeshara has given him a message: the battle has weakened the King’s Men beyond expectation, and now the Prince may take his chance and flee as planned. There is a ship on the far side of the island from where the King’s fleet lies. While the rest of the Prince’s ships ambush the King’s fleet, he will sail away to a northern port and hide, rallying his supporters until he can face the King. Or not. He knows, as does Zeshara, that it is merely buying time with blood: the King will find him. And there is no chance of his victory then. Emperor Tazmar, his father, wields the Mandate of Heaven and the might of all Halla. Ellis rides through the plains littered with the wreckage of war. Corpses of the slain lay in macabre lines, as if they had been deposited ashore by some crimson tide. Broken arrowshafts pointed out of the bloodstained and crushed blades of grass. All sorts of weapons and engines of war lie discarded on the ground. Spurring his horse, Ellis continues forward through the field of death. He follows a path, almost trampled out of existence, to the cove where his ship awaits. His stallion climbs a hill, and he sees the new battlefield. The eastern coast of the isle was shielded by a fleet of ships. A considerably decreased army sat in front of the fleet. Farther away on two hills stood another army. Even after its victory, this army was still many times smaller than the other. The Prince sadly watched the plain. No, he will not flee, becoming oathbreaker, coward, traitor, to all these men. Here, the fate of his kingdom will be decided. He turns his horse towards where his men are encamped. 4 Ellis rides into camp slowly. The men who have fought for him stare at him with their eyes, twin pools of despair in white faces. “Tell us”, the eyes beg, “tell us why we fight and kill our brothers.” He wheels his horse around in what he approximated was the center of the camp and stops. He gives forth to them, at first hesitantly, then with growing passion and conviction. “Hear me people of Valana. My father, the Emperor Tazmar has forsaken mankind. But, we shall not do as he has. He wishes for our end; so be it. He may wish it but he shall not have it! Today we fight. We fight for our families, our friends, our country... our future!” He lifts his head to look into the eyes of his knights one by one. A flicker stirs here and there, and his words are water to men dying of thirst. More softly, he resumes. “I see in your eyes the sorrow of what you have done. But you may sleep well, knowing you did the right thing. I too am sorrowful. And fearful. I fear for what may happen. I see it in your eyes also. But we must be brave.” He unsheathes his sword and salutes. In the gathering light of the approaching dawn, it is a sliver of white lightning, its wielder a noble silhouette against the rising sun. “Onward!” Silence holds for but a moment, but a slow mumble grows in volume and strength. The massed army lets forth an approving roar and surges forward like a river of steel. Commanders begin to shout after a numb silence, and the army marshals itself like a sleepy man who has had cold water dumped on his face. More quickly than any force should be able to, it is ready for battle. Falscon stumbles out of his tent, woken by the thunder of the charging army. He rubs sleep-encrusted eyes and began to yell at someone, but stops when he saw what was happening. In spite of his many shortcomings, Falscon was no fool. He was belligerent and haughty. He was moody and oftentimes cruel. But, he had some certain innate quality that had borne him to his current position as High General. In this moment of crisis, it bared itself. In a calm, steely voice he begin yelling orders and answering queries of near-panicked officers. He talks to one shocked general. “I said to prepare the lines. Of skirmish.” Falscon intoned levelly. “Do it, or we shall be overrun. They will show us no mercy, for we have shown them none.” “Of course...” “Go.” The armies of the Emperor slowly move into rough formations. Sleep-ridden officers astride weary horses scream hoarse instructions to their commands. Slowly, they arrange themselves into rough defending positions behind the palisades and earthworks they have built. But as each group has seemingly prepared itself, it is swept away by the incoming army. An earsplitting crescendo rises as the opposing sides collide. As the bloody jewel of the sun rises into the sky, it reveals knots of struggling warriors, waves of steel and flesh crashing and tearing against one another. As the King’s Men marshaled themselves, they are swept away by the inexorable tide of the Prince’s men. As the sun rises to its noonday height, the grey and red of the Emperor’s men slowly recedes. Soon, they were forced back almost to their ships, fighting knee deep into the water. The Prince rides among his men, shouting encouragement between blows. Trained as a Saphron paladin and of royal blood, he was a mighty warrior in his own right. “Forward! Forward! Drive them back to their ships!” His men heed his words and fight even harder, spurred to greater and greater deeds of valor. Seeing how far they have been forced, the King’s Men grow fearful, and begin to break off. Quickly, the retreat became a rout. Soldiers stream back to their ships, stepping upon each other in their rush to the ships. Many are drowned. The spirit of the invincible armada is broken. Bolts of fire and lightning tear into the retreating armada as the Prince’s ships attack. The retreat turns into the gateway to hell. Aboard the flagship of the erstwhile invading fleet, Falscon paces like a caged tiger. He says nothing, watching the ruin of the battle with a blank expression. Aides and lieutenants beg him for orders. His gaze passed over them blankly. Suddenly, a massive rent appears in his breastplate, and he crumples. After a few gasps, he expires in a crimson pool. “This fool has failed me. Get him out of my sight; from now on, I do my own work. I bloody my own hands.” It is the Emperor, come to finish the tasks his minions had failed at. Fate Decrees This Will Occur 1 While his defeated soldiers floundered and crawled to the safety of their ships, the Emperor summoned the Colossi to do his bidding. The Colossi are the eternal servants of the Emperor. No one (save perhaps for he) knows from whence they came. They are immortal, unless their forms are wounded nigh to oblivion by some great hero. It is rumored they are primeval chaos, sealed into earthly forms. Yet even their earthly shells betray their power: they are titanic, great as the mountains and older than them. Some take the form of strange beasts, like and unlike gigantic versions of animals. Others are great creatures standing on two feet. Many so-called wise men have studied the Colossi. One returned, claiming the Colossi were actually beasts created from the bound souls of the millions that had fallen into the abyss of death since time immemorial. The ones that had attacked Saphiris had been but toys. These new Colossi were far greater, mountains given form and movement. The Colossi now heeded the commands of the man known as Tazmar. Slowly, they emerged from the deeps of the lake where they had waited. They rose, shedding sheets of water as they did. The ships of the King’s Men were thrown into disarray by their appearance, many foundering; thousands were thrown into the water to be crushed or drowned. Slowly, they ascended onto the island on the western side. From the eastern side where the Emperor’s ships lay burning, Ellis could see the moving mountains that were the Colossi. “So it has come to this,” murmured the Prince. He had forced the Emperor’s hand. A flash of shadows. It was Tazmar. “Yes my son, now I shall kill you. But first, I shall let you live awhile. Witness as my power crushes this island and its proud city into dust. Watch and despair, or flee— flee and leave those who fought for you to die. Watch from afar as they curse you with their dying breath. And only then shall I...” Ellis made a sudden convulsive movement; a flash later, his sword was covered in blood. Tazmar had dodged fast enough to avoid being disemboweled, but Ellis had landed a deep wound in his side. He took an involuntary step then steadied. He raised his hand from his side in an ironic salute; it was stained with blood. “Until then.” And with those words, he vanished. Ellis was left holding the blood-stained sword in the same position as before. He looked down to see that his hands were shaking. He took a deep breath and mounted his horse. He galloped back to the citadel as fast as he could. His army followed its distraught leader back fast as it could. None had seen the Emperor, but all saw the looming shadows of their impending doom. The Colossi moved as one, ponderously striding up the incline. They moved with single intent and purpose: to destroy the city before them. As they reached the plateau upon which the city stood, they stopped. They let out an eerie howl that chilled the defenders. 2 Slowly the Colossi climbed onto the granite plateau. They were peppered with hails of arrows and shot from the city’s siege engines, which seemed puny weapons to be fighting such mighty beasts. A biped Colossi bent over and tore off a piece of granite from the edge of the hill. He threw it in a long arc and the massive projectile struck the heart of the city. Arrows stopped from a moment and the Colossi charged. Moving with incredible speed, they reached the walls. Mighty appendages struck the walls, rending massive cracks and shaking the ramparts, though the Colossi could have simply stepped over them. Dozens died each time one struck, crushed by collapsing masonry or falls from the walls Brave warriors jumped onto their bodies and carefully scaled to the beasts’ heads. They would stab their enemies’ eyes or foreheads. Many died in their attempts, but the beasts fell one by one, bleeding strange mist-like ichors. Nevertheless, but for the odd loss, the Colossi drove deeper into the city. Each wall they met they hammered into dust, those who resisted were swatted aside like flies. Soon, all that remained of them were pounding against the walls of the Citadel. However, the citadel walls were very different from the outer walls of the city. They had been carved from the bones of the earth, and even the Colossi could not break them; they were old as time immemorial and most likely would last till time immemorial once again. As the Colossi destroyed the city, the remnants of the human armies of the Emperor made their way off the ships and toward the broken city, knowing of their enemy’s newfound vulnerability. Few of the Prince’s men were left to defend the ravaged city, but for the stragglers who had not made it back to the citadel. A desperate guerilla battle ensued, and even the heroism of the small ragtag rearguard could not hold up to the bloodthirsty and revenge-maddened soldiers of the Emperor. They were forced to retreat deeper into the city, relinquishing block after block to the sack of the King’s men. It was another atrocity that would be remembered. Farther within, the Colossi knocked on the citadel walls. Within the Citadel, warriors rushed back and forth, dodging from one arrow slit to another, madly shooting and hoping to bring down the colossi. They carried shot to the siege engines, halfway bowed behind the ramparts. Slowly, they were succeeding. Colossus by Colossus, they were falling. From atop a high tower at the heart of the citadel, the Prince stood, watching as the Colossi made their way into the city. He wished that he was out there with his men, but Zeshara had insisted... “My lord, you cannot leave. If you are slain, the men will lose heart and all we have done will be for naught.” Ellis had to agree. He was the key to the entire war. One hand slowly danced toward his sword, the other to the door. All he had to do was climb down the stairs and exit the tower. A quick dash across a couple walkways and he would be at the leading edge. And he would marshal his men and lead them to victory. And the whole cursed war would be over. “I think not.” He gave an involuntary shudder. Somehow someone had entered the room. It was Tazmar. 3 “Humph. Those soldiers I sent were useless. As were your guards.” “Father, you look well,” said Ellis evenly, without turning. Tazmar seemed paler than he had at their last meeting. Dark shadows framed his eyes, and his clothing hung loosely on his body. “I did not appreciate your gesture. One would almost think you didn’t love your father anymore.” Tazmar emphasized the word love just slightly. But, it brought back years of memory for his son. Resolve wavered, then completely collapsed. An early memory of a kind, bearded man over him as he lay in a cradle... the same man with a small boy over his shoulder... the man yet again laughing heartily with a tousle-headed boy while wrestling. Finally, an image of an older man sitting in a throne speaking kindly to a clear-eyed young man. The young men were the Prince. He struggled to suppress all his memories of his father. He turned away, and ended up facing the painting of the family. “No... he is a different man now.” Ellis looked up at the face of the man he called his father. It was now more lined and weary, yet it was the same man. He lowered his raised blade slightly, but then his father straightened and the spell was broken. His grip on the sword steadied. The prince fired a single fireball. It missed his father and hit the painting. It was quickly consumed by the greedy flames. A nimbus of dark energy encircles his father, a golden one the Prince. The energies radiating from the Emperor are noticeably more potent, the aura around him greater and more terrible. They charge at one another and lock blades. Tazmar disengages and whirls around, firing a blast of silver energy from his palm. It strikes the wall behind where Ellis had been standing and implodes, burning bright as the sun and then disappearing, leaving a rim of charred and melted stone. The Prince flashes back into the visible spectrum behind his father and prepares to strike. He hesitates then thrusts, only to be met with empty air. Tazmar flickers away, moving so fast he leaves several afterimages. The aura of dark energy surrounding Tazmar condenses into a pair of flickering lightwings. They beat once and he rises into the air. He waves a hand, and a hail of dark needles from the wings speed toward the floor. A pulse of golden light issues from the Prince’s aura, and the dark shards dissipate. A dull thump and a bulb of dark energy appears in the center of the room and implodes. The vacuum sucks most of the room’s contents into it. A noticeable cracking is heard as the columns struggled to deal with this added pressure. With a final groan, they give and the top of the tower collapses. Ellis has survived, though a long scratch now runs across one cheek. He flickers again and is next to his father, a blade pressed against his neck. His resolve grows steadily, his confidence diminishing in proportion. “This ends now.” And he swings to kill. But once again there is nothing. “My dear, you must learn that such tricks will not work against me. I taught you all you know. Everything you are comes from me. Your power, authority, name. All mine.” “I am my own man.” Tazmar gave a short laugh. “A man? Must I discipline my son?” Tazmar hangs in the air, gently bobbing up and down twenty feet away. The Prince dashes toward him through the air, leaving a golden trail in his wake. The two finally begin fighting in earnest. Even as he battles, the Prince is besieged by doubt. He is fighting his own father, the man who taught him all... how can he truly hope to prevail? A swing of a blade. A parry and then a twist. The blade dance back into play and arcs at the last moment to block a thrust. One blade slides down the length of another and thrusts and meets empty air. It is swung around directly and meets the other blade. The blades seem to move with minds of their own. The Emperor swings with a dozen blades, and the prince returns with his own dozen. The blades seem fluid, bending and twisting around each other, an area of flashing steel between violet and golden figures. Slowly but surely, it seems that the Emperor is gaining the upper hand. His blade flashes faster, his spells seem more potent. A pair of mis-aimed blasts have destroyed half of the tower. Another more well-aimed one destroys one of the Prince’s wings, sending him tumbling into an ungraceful crash landing atop another tower. As Ellis rolls back into standing position, a massive gauntlet strikes him, sending him through the rooftop and the two floors below. His defensive spell, cast at the last moment, has saved him from being crushed. He crashes amidst a pile of furniture. Tazmar dives down through the hole like a hawk, sword in one hand, the other holding a nimbus of crackling energy. The Prince gets up and fires a blast at the Emperor. He runs towards a wall and fires a blast, jumping through the hole he has created. He free-falls for some moments, then his lightwings reform and he swoops upwards. Tazmar is waiting. Their swords clash in a fountain of sparks, which seem to fight as well. Ellis uses the sword as an axis, and launches his entire body upwards. The maneuver sends Tazmar spinning. Perhaps it is Ellis’s chance. Or not. Tazmar launches a wide arc of energy from his palm. Ellis avoids it by a hairsbreadth. Suddenly, he is caught by an invisible force. A clawed hand materializes around him, followed by the balrog it is part of. Ellis grabs his dagger from its sheath and stabs the hand, yanking down. The balrog roars in pain, and loosens its grip. Ellis slips out and fires a scythe of energy that rips the balrog in half. Tazmar is instantly upon him once more, and the Prince dodges the blow, though his lightwings do not. He falls once more. It begins to rain. The falling Prince opens his mouth. Strangely, the raindrops are falling faster than he is. They are warm and salty, as if they are the tears of the sky. Thunder crackles ominously. The Prince realizes as he falls. He has little hope of killing his father, but perhaps he can weaken him enough to guarantee the survival of some of his allies. He will summon up all his remaining power, and use it in one final strike. If not… well, he has fought for his men as they have fought for him: to the last. With an effort and resolve, the Prince conjures lightwings once more. The two combatants alight upon a lonely tower, yet untouched by the fighting. They stand at opposite ends, then charge at one another, now glinting with all the power they can summon. This would be the exchange that would decide the battle, the war, and consequently, the future. As they meet, the nimbuses of energy surrounding each person collide and sizzle and strive against one another. From far away, it seemed a pair of wings, one a sizzling purple and the other a dazzlingly white gold flashed out. They seemed to flap in a death-agony, and flicker out of existence. “So it ends.” The top of the tower is dark. A figure is bent over the other and they seem to be locked in an embrace. The darkness lifts with a gust of wind. One person is standing. The other is at his knees, grasping the hilt of a shattered blade. Ellis knows what happened. As they had charged, his father had lowered his blade and released his magical defenses. Tazmar struggles to his feet, then walks to his son. He puts a hand on Ellis’s shoulder. The other holds the hilt of his broken sword. A shudder passes through him, and then he steadies. He slowly walks to the edge of the ruined tower. Silhouetted against the setting sun, he is no longer the power-mad tyrant, but the mighty warrior, the wise king, the loving father. “This is how is must be. I have played the part fate has set for me… but have I played it well enough? Is this sacrifice enough? I have tried… I shall pass and take with me the Mandate of Heaven. The line of kings shall pass as I pass...” With that, Tazmar was silent. He stood for awhile longer then crumpled and fell to his knees at the edge of the tower. Through a bloody mouth he spoke. “Your father loves you, Ellis. Farewell and I salute you.” His eyes slowly closed for the last time. As life left his body, a single tear pooled onto a cheek. Ellis watched as it flipped through the air and hit the ground below. Ellis falls to his knees, forgetting all that had occurred. Like a meteor, Tazmar’s body fell to the ground below. Zeshara orders a search for it, but no one is able to find it. The Emperor has disappeared as he had come twenty-nine years ago. 4 After the death of the Emperor, the battle turned in the favor the beleaguered defenders. The colossi, left masterless, stopped fighting and slowly left as in a daze. They departed to the remote and inhospitable or inaccessible reaches of the world until a new master called. Seeing their great foes leave, the defenders found new heart and drove the invaders out of the ruined city and off the ravaged isle. As the last of the soldiers limped aboard the fleeing ships, a bloodied Zeshara breathed a sigh of relief. The battle had been very close. Atop the darkened tower, Ellis dropped his broken sword. He left it where it lay, and slowly descended the stairway. The battle was over. Though the battle was won, the war would not truly end for many centuries. Those of the late Emperor’s forces who had managed to escape fled to the southeastern parts of the Kingdom and easily captured it and established a new kingdom, ruled by two of the old Emperor’s Triari. These two kingdoms would forever be at war, until the day a new Emperor could unite them. The old Kingdom of Valana was greatly weakened, for much of the best and brightest of her men had fallen in that battle. Many days later, a pale, exhausted and bandaged Prince was seen entering Saphiris. He was able to open the gates of the Redemption Palace and was so hailed as Emperor. But, he was not able to sit in the Mandate of Heaven, a secret known to few. He ruled the weakened kingdom as well as he could and the deep wounds of war slowly began to heal. But, it would be many years until Valana regained the power she had before the Kin-Strife. But, the prince’s, now emperor’s, own wounds were never truly healed and he died a mere ten years after his rule began. Zeshara, by now an old man, became regent once more. And so after the return of a king and his death at the hands of his son, the Kingdom was again without an Emperor. The Regency was restored, and the old regent tried his hardest to hold his kingdom together and return it to the way it was in his youth. With a sigh, Zeshara looks away from the sunset. He walks to his bed and lies down, closing his old eyes for the last time. His burden is lifted, and he goes to his well-deserved final sleep, taking with him Ellis’s last words. “Zeshara… I did not kill my father.” The Regency held for many years and the Regents preserved Valana for as long and well as they could. But the waves of time slowly eroded the Kingdom until it was a mere shadow of its former self, no longer men of the High House, but merely men with a memory of higher things. Finally, the line of Regents ended. All that was left to safeguard the kingdom was the Saphron paladinate, which had so far outlasted time. But even they would fall in time, for time is a cruel master. | ||
`dunedain
652 Posts
On April 17 2012 16:03 spangled wrote: Yo `dunedain + Show Spoiler + I read it three times, it was interesting reading your characters thought process, as things got grim. He seemed to get more honest about himself and accepted his fate with no regrets. So I raise a yellow cocktail in his name, may he r.i.p. and cheers to you! Salud! I read your story as well. Will send you a PM with some thoughts and clarifications. On April 17 2012 16:45 mister.bubbles wrote: Hey! `dunedain! I liked you story, it had some cute and clever moments, particularly the one about not wanting raisins in your last meal. If I were to give you a pointer I would say to look out for having too many of the same word too close together. Having two of the word "choice" in adjacent sentences was what leaped out at me the most. I thought I'd bounce an idea off of you guys while I was at it, I write mostly poetry but I am trying to start on an adventure story. Have you guys got any good techniques for writing characters that are outside of your gender? I am a man trying to write a female lead and I haven't really taken a stab at it before. The male character was supposed to be the lead but I didn't like him as much and he is working his way into a support role. What has been your experience? Indeed, that tends to be one of my weaknesses when burst writing. I lazily get into the habit of being very light on my editing. Usually though, when writing my novel, I make sure to keep thesaurus.reference.com always open. In response to your question about writing a character of the opposite gender, there are a couple ways I like to do it. But before I explain, let me preface it by saying that I believe all the characters that we create are a part of ourselves. They are us, in different forms. Sometimes even to the extremes. With that being said, the way I like to write female characters is by using my understanding of them. I am an observer at heart, and I've come across a lot of women throughout my life. From family members to friends, I've come to know them and who they are. Indeed it may be hard to write deep thoughts that one goes through, especially if you're not of the same sex and don't have similar experiences, but it is entirely possible. Just do it to the best of your abilities. As for using real people that you know. I've tinkered around with situations like that before but realized that it becomes increasingly difficult as the storyline (and more importantly, the character) evolves and wants to divert itself from the person your basing the character on. If that makes any sense. After awhile they take on a life of their own. Although that's not to say that I don't liberally 'borrow' strong traits from the women around me. They can have a powerful presence within the character, but don't necessarily need to be the character, per se. Seeing the character as a facet of yourself, even though they are of the opposite gender, can also be quite beneficial. If none of these tactics help, and you still don't know what your main character is like/don't know how to write her. You can write it so it seems that even your heroine is unsure of who she really is, and this leads her down a road of self-discovery. Mess around with it, do what you feel to be natural. Keep writing! | ||
Dark_Chill
Canada3353 Posts
What I mean is that unless there are extreme exceptions, you won't have a character who someone could say "that gender wouldn't act/think like that", because there re far too many people in the world, therefore numerous personalities. Write a female character however you want for your story, it won't suddenly not be female because she likes working at a auto-repair shop or watching sports while drinking beer. Also, dunedain, don't worry about having your character who is based off of someone sort become less and less like that person. That's just what it is. A base. Where you take it after that is completely up to you and most likely won't hurt the character in any way. | ||
`dunedain
652 Posts
On April 22 2012 09:02 Dark_Chill wrote: Also, dunedain, don't worry about having your character who is based off of someone sort become less and less like that person. That's just what it is. A base. Where you take it after that is completely up to you and most likely won't hurt the character in any way. Actually, this is exactly what I am going for. I try not to make them too similar to the real people I know, instead I just use some of their traits as a base, just like you mentioned. To me, these base traits are enough of a model to help breathe some life into the character, inevitably allowing them to come alive and dictate their story to me. For that is all I really am, just a storyteller at heart. Regaling in the marvelous stories that my characters whisper out to me, telling it for their benefit, not mine. For their stories need to be heard. | ||
kellenr
98 Posts
It is about an 18 year boy who is at his longtime girlfriends house. He leaves to walk home, gets about half way there, and hears a bunch of gunshots. He runs back, raids his girlfriend's father's gun-safe in the barn, and engages the killer. He shoots him, but the guy gets away. This scene picks up with him inspecting his dead girifriend. Her parents have also been killed. My biggest inspirations were In Cold Blood and No Country For Old Men. I love the concept of warriors, especially when they engage in epic, one on one duels. It is mainly about: love, death, God, grief, psychopaths and serial-murderers. Enjoy! (hopefully) Let me know what you like/don't like; what sentences seem awkward. I know my punctuation isn't perfect. I try not to let it deter me from trying to form compound sentences. Thanks guys! + Show Spoiler + Bobby sat motionless on the floor clutching the shotgun, the four unspent shells still haunting his thoughts. He hadn't moved, had been sitting in the exact same position for almost thirty minutes; sitting in the blood of his one true love, feeling it slowly work through his thick blue jeans. To him it finally felt real, and he was thankful for that. Yes, she is gone. Can you feel it soaking in? He almost welcomed it, in some strange way was reassured by it, felt comfortable in it, for Evelyn’s warm embrace had always been his favorite place to hide. His mind wandered now, as if robbed of its sight, of every sense that gave it some bearing in this world. Was this a dream, a nightmare? Could he wake from it? But he knew that he could not, knew just what this was—a waking nightmare—the real life kind; the kind that breaks people, really breaks them, as fully as the human spirit can be broken. Really, all of this was immaterial. All that mattered now was his lifeless, future bride. For he couldn't bear to look at her, hadn't even glanced in that direction since she first caught his eye. Compared to this, fighting Winston had been simple, a total non-issue; he could have killed him just as easily now as then, without empathy—in spite of it, in fact. Killing him wasn't one of many choices; it was the only good and moral answer. Slowly Bobby's mind wandered to God, not that they had ever been very close, though he had believed, for most of his life, that they had shared a mutual respect for one another. But where had God been on this night? Had he slept in? He hadn't saved Evelyn, hadn't steadied Bobby's aim, hadn’t protected Elizabeth and Robert, and hadn’t even tried. Bobby wanted an accounting, an explanation—no, a reaping—that he knew would never come. Could this God not extend him such a courtesy? Or perhaps worse still, did he think it unnecessary? Or was he incapable? All of these explanations seemed inadequate to Bobby. For the first time in his life he thought, I want no part of this God. Ironically, it was this very same thought, this notion of utter detachment from the human race, that had created the very monster Bobby now so vehemently rebuked; for Winton Walcott’s very psyche had been forged from equal parts nihilism and existentialism—a potent blend that had grown and fused and morphed him into an exceptionally power-hungry, egomaniacal murder machine. Bobby tilted his head slowly to one side and tried to coax his eyes in Evelyn's direction. It would be the hardest moment Bobby had ever experienced, and these moments seemed to be coming like a torrential downpour now, one after another after another; the run here, the gun fight, they had all been easy and painless compared to this. He would remember this moment always, play it back in his head in super-slow motion during those particularly lonely nights, his first true accounting of the injustices that make up this twisted world. He stood up slowly, leaned the shotgun against the wall, then retrieved the pistol from his waist band and placed in on Evelyn's bed. He slumped down onto Evelyn’s bed, totally defeated—physically, emotionally. He concentrated on his breathing, gasped nervously, thought of his lungs blowing up like a balloon and then deflating again, wishing so badly he could say the same for Evelyn’s. "You have got to do this," he said, barely audible; such a quiet whisper to no one in particular. He stood up, made his way to the bathroom, retrieved a bottle of rubbing alcohol, a first aid kit and several towels, and then made his way back down the hall, coming to rest on Evelyn's floor just a few feet away from her delicate silhouette. She was illuminated now only by moonlight and a thick, gleaming, sanguine sheen. After several moments he swallowed hard, fought back the whaling tears in his eyes, and began to inch closer to her in the tiniest increments possible. Eventually he brought his eyes to rest on her beautiful, if slightly off color, face for the first time. Suddenly his stomach turned, lurched, for what had only been mental images, up to this point, were presented now in great detail, and right before his very eyes, painted out in the vibrant colors of reality: It was Evelyn, splayed out like some lab specimen, those vacant but still beautiful eyes staring blankly back at him; her body had fallen in such an unnatural, contorted way; worse still, her mouth, that delicate little thing that offered up only the most tender kisses, and only to Bobby, was cut so deep and so profusely—so mind-numbingly painful that slash must have been—it bisected her cheek from the corner of her mouth to her ear. No, he hadn't noticed that before—or the one to match it, across the other side. These new revelations materialized as white hot pangs of physical pain he had only in the past hour discovered could be brought on by thought and image alone. He was at once struck by how much these manifestations felt so much like the real thing. He thought of the time he had broken his arm, really broken it, more severely than he ever thought he would. That was nice. Compared to this, that was the best day of my life. Finally, after edging so slowly for so long, Bobby was positioned in such a way that he could lift Evelyn’s head delicately into his lap, and he did. He was shocked at once by how heavy it seemed, how lifeless. It was a strange feeling, to say the very least, to tug at a human body that gave no real resistance—an even stranger one when the body belonged to someone you had loved with everything, every part of yourself. In a sense, you place your body on a sacrificial table the moment you start loving anyone; you are hedging your bets in favor of that persons continued survival and the mutual benefits that come along with it; in fact, you are wagering your very sanity against it, sure that the risk of their untimely death is small in comparison to the lifetime of happiness the relationship is certain to bring you. And while most people win these bets, or at least win them in a way, not everyone is so lucky; for Bobby had climbed atop that very same table, rolled the dice, and they had come up snake-eyes. And so it was decided in an instant that his heart would be ripped still beating from his chest. He had played the odds and lost, and in a way, didn’t even know what he was wagering to begin with. It might as well have been his very soul. He got his first good look at her now, stared longingly into her piercing brown eyes; eyes he had on so many occasioned admired passionately, envied even. But here there was no envy, no passion; there was only loss, a gaping hole ripped right through him and in an instant, only he had no real wounds to show for it. Suddenly, he understood how someone could cut their own throat, put a gun to their head even, could want so badly to shrug off this mortal blanket and get on with it. Innocence was lost just as quickly as the car keys. Here was someone that had experience not a twinge of depression his whole life coming to terms with suicide in a span of no more than forty-five minutes; understanding it for the very first time, and in an instant, because of Winston Walcott. They do it because they so badly crave a wound on the outside to match the one within. [next chapter] What would you have me do my love? Do I have your permission to hunt this monster down? I know you would so prefer me to turn the other cheek. But you have passed on, and my accountability to you is now only a figment of my imagination. I cannot know your wants any longer. Would you permit me to let him make off with your life, with your parents’ lives, even? Or would you prefer me to plot his grave just next to yours? To be honest with you, love, I want to gut him like the so many deer I’ve slaughtered. How I would so enjoy that. I want to carve him up—not to eat the meat, but to desecrate it in a way. I would do it slow and steady, as best I could. Yes, I would show him more consideration than he showed you; I would squeeze the blood right out of that monster like a dirty fucking soap sponge. I think I could collect a lot more pain from him than he ever did from you. I’d string him up by his heels and slowly bleed him dry. I would hurt him in the best way you can hurt a person. But what would you think of me then? Would you condone or condemn me? I can say now I am only confused, unsure of which direction to take. Do I burry you, burry my heart right here in the ground, and get on with it? I feel like I cannot. I feel like there is only the chase now. My only defense is that I no longer have your compass to guide me, no longer have a whole-heart beating in my chest; I am inadequate, incomplete, and I fear it will turn me rotten inside. I’m so sorry, my love, but I think now there is only the chase. Suddenly, a peace washed over Bobby, a peace that both seared and encouraged him. For he now so singularly longed to steal a human life, understood at once the addiction, saw how it replaced the sadness with anticipation. Over the coming months this vengeance would be shoveled into his hollow heart like coal into a furnace, it would grow and swallow everything; he would break away from this tragedy in the best way he knew how, by smelting his emotions down and refining them like diamonds. In truth, these feelings were as hollow as his heart, for he knew killing Winston in the worst way possible would in no way bring Evelyn back—the equation could be balanced but never solved. His thoughts were suddenly consumed by this precious child that lay inert at his feet, this fallen angel, heaped now like some lifeless animal, a victim of random happenstance, probability and nothing more. Perhaps this wouldn’t have been so striking had Evelyn not always seemed so alive to Bobby, had exuded what he imagined to be an almost intangible happiness. Evelyn was so genuine, so nurturing, so concerned and empathetic. But here there was only a ghastly, hollow shell, a cocoon in which Evelyn had once lived—but no longer. He knelt down, reached slowly toward her face, then pulled away violently, recoiled as if stuck by some invisible electric fence. The lines in his face grew taught and well defined. Slowly he worked up his nerve again, began to reach further this time, until the tips of his fingers caressed her cold skin. Panic stricken, he reached the other hand toward her instinctively, pulled her close as if he might never again, then ran his hands over her beautiful face, caressed each groove and dimple he had grown to know so well. Where are you my love? Are you in there? I don’t believe in my heart that you are. Then where? Where has he taken you? If you had asked me this morning, I would have said to heaven. But this heaven just watched a mad man butcher you alive. Do you suggest I side with it? If I am blamed for my inaction, so too is this heaven. And so, if you are not here my love, where are you? Could you send me something, anything, to help me through this? If God has been stolen away tonight, so too has the promise of your prolonged existence, and this idea sows rotten seeds inside my heart. If God will not rid this world of a multiple-murderer, I will do it myself. There is nothing left to do but end him, really end him, to watch his eyes roll back the way he watched yours. I want to feel his warm blood rushing between my fingers; I want to feel it again later when it is hard and acrylic like paint; I want to see the fear in his eyes when I run him through; I want to watch him squirm the way he watched you squirm, with total indifference. But Bobby was jostled from this dialogue as it began to spiral toward psychopathy—and it rattled him to his very core. If Bobby was capable of such things, such evil things, who else might be turned towards such brutality? And what would Evelyn think of it? He kept trying to remind himself of that. Evelyn wouldn’t stand for him acting this way for a second, and here he was, saying it directly to her, as if she might approve of it in a way. He shook his head, grit his teeth. Answers to questions like these do not come over night—sometimes not over months or even years. These are the hard hitting questions, the ones you hope you never have to answer. It is easy to hate the death penalty from the sidelines, but the rules look so much different from the game; for Bobby had seen that monster standing over her, had stared him right in the eyes, had tried to throw the switch himself. Finally Bobby stood, picked Evelyn up, clutched her tight against his chest like a newborn baby, and began to walk towards the stairs. Eventually, he noticed the final thing Winston Walcott had stolen on this night. She was lighter, he was more sure of that now than ever; less for scientific reasons—though they surely existed—and more because he had picked her up perhaps more than any of other human being he had ever known. She was lighter and, thanks to Biology, he knew by exactly how much. About eight pints, eight pounds; He bled my baby dry like a squealing little piggy. It was a favor Bobby Ruck vowed, at that very moment, to return to Winston Walcott in full and kind. | ||
mmp
United States2130 Posts
+ Show Spoiler + She turned around to see the cloud pouring from the chamber. The smoke filled her father’s Hall and obscured the way out. Out of smoke emerged the sharp and sudden heat of flame and the shadow that bore it. It crawled from the chamber and stood to equal height with the man holding up the sky. Wherever smoke fell it extinguished the Hall’s fountainous joy with a dying hiss of putrescence. The shadow loomed over her with arms and legs spread out to all corners of the Hall. Though material, the beast was grown from translucent flesh, a multitudinous hybrid of consumed organs and chambers amassed from the prey of humanity. From its firey heart flowed black blood, infusing its spidering limbs through a web of black arteries. The breadth of its jaw opened, revealing rows of teeth around the brink of the abyss. In the beast’s twilit eyes shone a perfect hatred and an infernal hunger. She closed her eyes and screamed. Feedback requested: Is it suspenseful or ridiculous? Does it read descriptively or cliche? | ||
Dark_Chill
Canada3353 Posts
On April 23 2012 03:37 mmp wrote: This is a (surrealist) cliffhanger I wrote: + Show Spoiler + She turned around to see the cloud pouring from the chamber. The smoke filled her father’s Hall and obscured the way out. Out of smoke emerged the sharp and sudden heat of flame and the shadow that bore it. It crawled from the chamber and stood to equal height with the man holding up the sky. Wherever smoke fell it extinguished the Hall’s fountainous joy with a dying hiss of putrescence. The shadow loomed over her with arms and legs spread out to all corners of the Hall. Though material, the beast was grown from translucent flesh, a multitudinous hybrid of consumed organs and chambers amassed from the prey of humanity. From its firey heart flowed black blood, infusing its spidering limbs through a web of black arteries. The breadth of its jaw opened, revealing rows of teeth around the brink of the abyss. In the beast’s twilit eyes shone a perfect hatred and an infernal hunger. She closed her eyes and screamed. Feedback requested: Is it suspenseful or ridiculous? Does it read descriptively or cliche? I think it's done pretty well, knowing how hard it is to make non-visual media scary. I'd take out the fiery heart part though, that does seem to be a bit over, but other than that, I think it's good. The last part might be better if she tried to back away and screamed, or sunk to her knees and screamed. Or even was too horrified to scream at all. "She tried to scream, but her voice eluded her. Her very breath had been lost in fear." | ||
NeMeSiS3
Canada2972 Posts
“Control… That is all we ask for.” “Who’s we?” “Everyone…” The alarm is ringing and ringing and it won’t stop, it’s telling me the time and day, moment and second that I have to contribute towards society. It’s already six-thirty, six and a half hours I’ll never get back, and another nine slaving away at the office, then another four, dealing with the stress of the past six-teen and a half hours of nothingness. Life. The call came last night, like a dream, I awoke to find my cellphone perched upon my clock—God I hate that clock—and it was ringing, my ringtone, different but I was to docile to recall the new tone. Picking up the phone I heard a man, he simply said “We” and the phone went dead. Dead. I shrugged it off, must have been a dream, yet the voice… So real, so fake, so finite but infinite, like an automation you hear from a company using real voices to project questions or help but without the undertone of fiction usually laying beneath the subsequent level of V.I. tech. I’m late. I need to be at work for seven-thirty, no earlier, no later. As I slip out of my robe and come full circle to the shower head, I see it… We written on the wall in the shower stall; clear as day but clouded through the condensation. I look at another one of my many clocks, perched atop of the counter beside my sink, then look back and it’s gone. Am I going crazy? “Seven O’Clock… Damn it” I mumble. My beard, usually trimmed neatly, must be left alone, no time to shave. I grab a simple tie—black—and a simple white dress shirt—white—so I would be out quickly, four more steps until I pass my clock, almost out the door, and almost back home to repeat the process for the rest of my life. “Anderson, you have a message on your private terminal, it is requested you take it immediately, I have instructed the caller you may not be able to take the call because you have left for work, but you may be inclined to have forgotten your key’s if you wish to take the call.” The voice of stability, Nova, said over my com uplink. “It’s alright, I believe I did forget my key’s, set up my com terminal please. Thank you Nova.” I hastily replied. My eyes turn left, it’s seven-ten. I walk back into my room, the hologram on my wall separates into four icons, “Message’s Please”. “Already being set up Anderson” after a short pause Nova continued “Sir, something you should know, the message is encrypted heavily, the conclusion I am drawing from theories running through my processes is that they must know that I am here.” “Alright, patch it through please.” “Hello, I am with NVA, and We are interested in your work. After this message, you are to upload Nova, your AI interface, to your portable systems manager, leave everything you own behind and go outside onto docking bay 2-12B. If you agree, We would like to meet with you, if not you can simply go back to your… life.” The com went silent. How he said it, how it was worded… I stare at my watch, seven-twenty two, I’m late. Life, the tone he used, facetious in manner and taunting in nature, seduction being his way into my head, and who is he referring to? I take a last look at the terminal, command it to close down and turn to Nova, “It’s time to link, we’re going.” “May I just warn you that this is in the unknown, I can’t predict the outcome of the event, the parameters are giving me... “ Nova’s words begin to become faded in my head, something is different. “So I recommend to…” “Anderson? Ander—“ Darkness The feedback I'm looking for is does it feel right, I have no specific area I'm looking to move into, just letting the story flow as I feel it should. Do you enjoy it? | ||
spangled
United States24 Posts
Thx for sharing, your story invoked feelings of Minority Report and the Matrix, and I enjoyed the way you wrote your characters inner dialogue and how everything in this world revolves around a set schedule of time. I was curious about a couple of things... + Show Spoiler + but without the undertone of fiction usually laying beneath the subsequent level of V.I. tech. Not sure what the character is alluding too, my mind thought about the VI tech massacre that left 32 dead, but I don't think that's what your trying to convey. Unplugging from the Nova and being greeted by darkness, was a good way to end the story b/c we can't see things when we veer off our normal path. Here's one minor spelling error. but I was to docile to recall the new tone. too In conclusion the story does feels right cause in the end he got back control even though his life has now faded into the uncertainty of darkness. | ||
NeMeSiS3
Canada2972 Posts
| ||
NeMeSiS3
Canada2972 Posts
On April 22 2012 09:02 Dark_Chill wrote: Kind of odd timing, but I was recently in an english class and we were reading a short story. One of the questions the teacher asked which was kind of relevant to the story was "can males accurately portray females in literature. In my opinion, that question makes no sense. There is no one model for a woman. What I mean is that unless there are extreme exceptions, you won't have a character who someone could say "that gender wouldn't act/think like that", because there re far too many people in the world, therefore numerous personalities. Write a female character however you want for your story, it won't suddenly not be female because she likes working at a auto-repair shop or watching sports while drinking beer. Also, dunedain, don't worry about having your character who is based off of someone sort become less and less like that person. That's just what it is. A base. Where you take it after that is completely up to you and most likely won't hurt the character in any way. Tell the teacher of memoirs of a geisha, I think the writer accurately depicts women | ||
FallDownMarigold
United States3710 Posts
So that being said I'm really proud of TL for being so awesome that it even has an entire topic devoted to the art of fiction writing. I'm gonna read a few of yalls examples in addition to the linked resources on writing tips & guidelines. For me it seems like the toughest part is conveying interesting dialogue that doesn't feel fake/forced. I feel like it's really hard to develop the "flavor" of characters with only a limited amount of space given the short story format (~6-8pg). Does anyone know of any juicy "Sci-Fi"-esque short stories I might find useful for inspiration? I know publications like The New Yorker frequently feature short fiction pieces, some of which are probably Sci-Fi. Any other ideas on where to find examples of short story Sci-Fi? thx in advance if anyone happens to be an SF fan | ||
AUFKLARUNG
Germany245 Posts
| ||
khaydarin9
Australia423 Posts
On April 27 2012 22:22 FallDownMarigold wrote: TL really is on of the greatest places on the internet hah. Today I have to write a Science Fiction piece for my history of science elective. It's gotta be 6-8 pages, which I guess isn't too terrible for a creative assignment. The only problem for me is that I haven't tried to write fiction since..like..early high school English. So that being said I'm really proud of TL for being so awesome that it even has an entire topic devoted to the art of fiction writing. I'm gonna read a few of yalls examples in addition to the linked resources on writing tips & guidelines. For me it seems like the toughest part is conveying interesting dialogue that doesn't feel fake/forced. I feel like it's really hard to develop the "flavor" of characters with only a limited amount of space given the short story format (~6-8pg). Does anyone know of any juicy "Sci-Fi"-esque short stories I might find useful for inspiration? I know publications like The New Yorker frequently feature short fiction pieces, some of which are probably Sci-Fi. Any other ideas on where to find examples of short story Sci-Fi? thx in advance if anyone happens to be an SF fan Look up Strange Horizons, Clarkesworld and Lightspeed. I think they're publishing some of the best SF* (and short SF) right now. All available online for free. Beyond that, there's some great work going on in anthologies at the moment. Then there are your long-running print markets like F&SF, Asimovs and Interzone, which, depending on where you are, can be difficult to get hold of. If you're stuck for ideas, look up some of the award shortlists that are floating around, such as the Nebulas or the Hugos, and see if any of the titles there are available online. If you're really stuck, let me know, and I can pull out some specific recs, but they may or may not be in the style that you like. I suspect that you'll find that a lot of SF short stories are not what you expect of the genre. *By SF, I actually mean speculative fiction, which is basically the counterpart to realist fiction, and encompasses science fiction, fantasy, horror and all the weird little subgenres in between (including Weird fiction), and is a useful term to describe pieces that don't fit well into just one non-realist genre. So you'll find pieces that are fantasy and horror in these publications as well, but use your judgement, obviously, if you're strictly looking for science fiction. Might be worth remembering that dystopia is technically a kind of science fiction, and also that there is a lot of good YA that would fall under the category science fiction as well. | ||
| ||