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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.
On one level it's an issue of characterisation, and on another, it's an issue of representation. Have you ever read a piece of writing in the first person where you thought the narrator was one gender because of the way he/she "sounded", but it turned out that he/she was actually the other gender? It's a common complaint raised against writers who write in the POV of the opposite sex.
In terms of representation, one of the things that annoyed me most about Brent Weeks' trilogy was that all his female characters seemed to fall into two characters: devout virgins or prostitutes of some kind, which is, to say the least, a narrow representation of women, especially since the latter trait seemed to be most commonly associated with antagonistic characters (and I class Vi as antagonistic).
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Many thanks for sharing that, Brandon Sanderson seems like a cool character and he kinda knows what he's talking about.
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On April 28 2012 13:38 minus_human wrote: Many thanks for sharing that, Brandon Sanderson seems like a cool character and he kinda knows what he's talking about.
yea thanks, he's awesome
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Hello TL Fiction, just had to get this off my mind--thank you in advance.
+ Show Spoiler + Taken from the journal of Monty Lehman
5/3 - We went to Battle Mountain on Tuesday, got some soda and carbsticks after. Battle Mountain is fucking awesome most of the time, tell you what. The occasional philosopher snuck in there though, like on Tuesday, made the thing an ordeal (droids are sentient! LOL). Was definitely special that day though 'cause Avalanche the Mofo and Ogre Posse teamed up against the nutty gypsy bitch, La. Kid you not 3rd generation LSTech gynoid, but in the ring for a reason and it showed when her Gauss cannon fucked up 3 minutes in and Avalanche and OP doubled teamed her in front of 50k filled seats.
I threw my fries at Professor Prick. Almost ruined the show if it weren't for the hot action. RIP LA LOOL
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+ Show Spoiler +“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 voice overs.
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 voice message 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 listen to your private message.” 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”. I command.
“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.” My mood turns, like a dime spinning on a table only to switch spontaneously, caution is on and my tired mood steps aside to allow my brain the necessary ability to function.
“Hello, I am with NOV” a slight pause, why is a faction of the Naval Offices, one I do not recognize, calling me? The call continues “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
Chapter 2:
Blood drips from my right brow, sliding along my indented cheek bone then dripping meticulously towards the floor. I look around, my head aches in agony but my brains working and processing information to fast to let simple pain blot out my thoughts.
I reach for my left sleeve, ripping it off to wrap around my blood soaked head, but as I do so, I notice my watch is broken; the date malfunctioning, along with minute and second hands removed, the hour hand remains though. I peer again, my eyes were blurred at first glance and couldn’t quite catch a glance. Eight.
Finally prepared to move I press my sleeveless arm to the floor, giving me enough leverage to lift up and stand, the air is thick with smoke… I peer to my right, seeing a cloth rag I press it to my face and crouch low to the ground. I take this time to peer again at my watch, it’s time unchanged but I feel it significant to keep track of the hour as it changes so I can gauge the minutes.
The smog clears slightly around the first bend, giving me time to take in the surrounding area; wall’s stained black which seemed to once be white, tiles on the roof dangling and falling to the ground as well. My gaze finally peeks moves to the end of the corridor; a shadow lurks in the distance but has no figure through the fog.
“Hello!” I shout, preparing myself for the worst.
Silence. I begin to approach the figure, but as I shut both eyelids to blink and reopen them, it was gone, and for the first time I felt a strike of fear across my body. Fear so feint that it feels as the cold breeze does on a summer day, slowly lurking across fields and plains creeping upon its victim only to grab viciously at them to make its presence known and its entity felt across all measures of the preys soul. Fear, is now my reality.
I approach the bend at which I saw the ghostly figures last position, the smog is clearing but the dim light lit along the walls fixtures give off little light as it is, which is surprising seeing as they are most likely emergency lights.
My breathing quickens as I pace forward, exhaustion is setting in and I can feel a razor pain in my lower left calf muscle, I must have pulled it somehow as I was escaping… Escaping. My senses tingle at the word, as if my mind is only telling me half the story and leading me along a path I have no control over…
“Anderson”
My back is to the voice which calls my name, the three syllables of my name roll off her tongue and I feel an attraction flowing through my chest and electrifying. I keep my body straight, turning just a slight ark of my head towards her direction but it is just enough to make out her figure.
“Dominque” I whisper, she stands merely five feet, two inches from the ground up but what she lacks in height is only magnified in beauty, her face a gentle symmetry with jet black hair. Her features give off a chill no other women can, perfection through imperfection.
“I do believe it’s not very polite to stay turned when someone is speaking to you Anderson” Dominque’s subtle voice masks a daunting power over me, I wish it to simply just run to her and find what all of this is about but my mind lets another piece of context in, trust. I can’t trust her...
I force myself to face her, my body is screaming but my mind has little power over my lust, and as I turn I get the full blasting gaze of her eyes… Those brown eyes, they tint green as she looks up to meet my glare through the dimly lit room, innocent at first glance but dangerous beyond measure. Predator.
Caught in her gaze, my mind screams again. Fear. I look down, the barrel of her .45 is leveled to my chest.
“We have been very calm with you, we tried so hard… I’m sorry Anderson, we need to terminate your service arrangement.” As her last word sounds, my adrenaline pours into my veins slowing down time to a virtual stand still, leaving me as a spectator to my own demise. I see the twitch of her finger, and the chamber jolt as the mussel kicks forward. Pain. I look at my chest, direct shot into the pleural space which holds my heart…
“Lo..” I try to whisper, my body won’t comply to the notion and the world around my is devoured by darkness. All I had wished was to tell her I loved her and those… Hazel… Brown eyes…
Chapter 3:
1st/2nd chapter included
This is the second chapter of hopefully a novel, the first one I posted got a pretty nice review, hopefully this follow up increases the stories depth. I'm just looking for general advice again, on writing style/feel/consistency I have some ideas I just wanna keep it flowing smoothly..
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This is the opening for a novel I'm working on, but it's kinda hard to write this scene. Trying to get in a bit of character details and relationships while also making it not seem too awkward. It's also hard because I don't know everything about what happens when police have to report this kind of stuff, or if the police are able to keep calm in these situations. I really value any feedback right now.
+ Show Spoiler + “Hello?” “Hello, who is this?” Grace had been tucking her son Eli into bed when she got the phone call. It was eight o'clock, and she hadn't been expecting anyone.
“Is this the house of a Mr. Dalton?”
That question got Grace's full attention. Ray Dalton had been on business trip and hadn't been home for a few days. What could have happened to him? She had a few questions for the stranger. “Yes this is, I'm his girlfriend. Who might I be speaking to?” The man on the phone hadn't answered her the first time, but she felt that she should know who was bringing news to her.
“My name is Evan Rotter. I work with Montreal police force. We must inform you that your husband has been sent to the hospital”.
Grace gave a long sigh. This hadn't been the first time Ray had ended up in the hospital. Eli stirred under the sheets. “Mommy, what's wrong? Is something wrong with daddy?” The six year old peeked out from under his covers, eyes full of worry.
“Don't worry, your father is fine, he probably just drank a bit too much again”. As much as she loved Ray, she could never excuse his drinking habits after long trips. He had once told her that he drank to get rid of all the stress his job caused him, but what could be so stressful about being a company executive? She turned back to the phone. “So what's wrong with him this time? Did he drink himself unconscious, or did he accidentally knock himself out?”
“Ma'am, this is not easy to say. We will be arriving at _____ in approximately ten minutes”.
Now she was worried. She had never had the police come over after one of Ray's accidents. What the hell did he get himself into this time? “Alright, thank you officer”. She closed the phone and saw Eli, blankets off, looking as if he was going to cry.
“Mommy, you said there was nothing wrong! Why do you look so worried?” She had often cursed how much children seemed to be able to read negative emotions with a simple glance. She had no answer for him at that moment anyways. Why did she feel worried? It didn't matter, she didn't want Eli to be awake when company came to the door.
“Eli, don't worry. Of course mommy's not worried. Does this look like I'm scared at all?” She gave him a big smile and kiss on the cheek. “Now go to sleep honey, nothing bad is happening”. She pulled the covers back up and left the room, closing the light on the way out. She hoped that that would be the end of any questions for the night.
Ray was another matter. What could have happened to make the cops come to her house. The most serious thing she could imagine is that he had started a fight against someone; most likely a cop. A bit of a beating might even convince him that drinking wasn't supposed to be his number one priority.
Then again, maybe this didn't have anything to do with drinking. A car crash was possible. What about some kind of mugging? The more she thought about it, the worse she felt. She couldn't dismiss the theories, even if she tried. Why the hell do I look so worried? Nothing bad has hap- A ring at the doorbell finally halted the production of ideas, and she had no idea whether to feel relieved or even more worried.
The police were looking more grim than you would usually see them. They said that she might want to sit down, and she led them into the living room. She took a seat on the armchair, and they sat across from her on the couch. They seemed to be struggling to find their words. Why the hell do they look so worried? She could feel a hole forming in her stomach.
“Ma'am, as you know, something has happened to your husband. He's been shot, and is currently at the _____ hospital”.
She felt as if her heart had dropped several feet. The shock prevented tears from surfacing, for a few moments at least. When the full realization hit her, she felt a wave of sadness spread from her stomach and thought she was going to be sick. Not knowing what else to do, she began to cry and put her hand over her mouth so she didn't wake her child. She didn't know what to tell Eli, and she wondered if how she would be able to say anything at the moment.
“He is not dead”.
Grace moved her eyes to the policeman on the right. After hearing that Ray was still alive, she managed to somewhat regain herself. Her voice still trembled, but she could speak. “Why didn't you say that right away! I thought he was gone!” She could feel the sadness slowly leaving her. Ray was alive. He may be hurt, but she hadn't lost him.
The police didn't say anything for a while. They still looked grim. When she could feel the last of her tears coming out, she asked “what's wrong? When is he coming back?”
She could see that they were still struggling to get out any words. “I'm sorry ma'am, but we can't answer that. You see, your husband ha-”
“Ray's my boyfriend. We're not married yet. We were planning to get married soon, so I'm really glad that you said he's okay”. She remembered that they had been answering her question when she had interrupted them. “I'm sorry, what were you saying?”
The officer tried to speak, but he couldn't find his words. His partner had to continue for him instead. She looked just as distraught. “We can't exactly say when he's coming back. You see, it wasn't just a shot to the leg or even stomach. Your boyfriend is extremely lucky to be alive. He was shot in the head. He's in a coma”.
Grace didn't know what was going on inside her. The switch from sad to relieved to sad again was something which made her think her mind was going to rip apart. She didn't know what to say, or how to feel. Ray's not dead... but he's not really alive... but he is alive. It played back in her head several times. Why did this have to happen? Why did it happen? The last question was something she definitely wanted to find out.
“Do you know... who shot him? And why?”
The female officer cleared her throat. “We still aren't sure who shot Mr. Dalton, or what the motive was, but we will keep you updated if we find anything”. The male officer stood up, followed by his partner. “We are sorry for what has happened ma'am, and we are sorry for inconveniencing you at such a late time in the night. We will take our leave now. Goodbye”.
They hurried out the door as quickly as possible, no doubt trying to escape the air of confusion and depression in the room. Grace was left alone with her thoughts... for a while at least. After a few moments, she heard little footsteps coming down the stairs. With a deep breath, she awaited the conflict she would have to deal with.
As soon as Eli poked his head out of the doorway, he locked his scared gaze onto his mother. “Mommy, I heard a lot of noises down here. What happened? Where's daddy?”
Grace made sure that her tears had dried and she could fake a smile before turning to say “don't worry Eli. Nothing's wrong, there were no sounds at all. Daddy will be back soon”. Oh god, please be back soon Ray. For both of us.
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Yoyo, D_C
I sent you a PM with some insights and suggestions. Hopefully it helps. Hit me up if you feel the need to brainstorm or discuss it further. GL.
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Just a suggestion. The stories should be published in the OP as well.
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Here's a little LoL inspired fiction I wrote. It's kind of actiony so hopefully you can see it alright:
+ Show Spoiler +Fiora
Peering over the crates, Fiora caught sight of the ship. It was the one involved in the savage attack and no doubt had the sword of Captain Alred, a friend of her father's. As she gazed through the midnight blue sky, she began to make out the figures of five grizzled looking men. They were on deck, standing guard armed with their short and heavy cutlasses.
A plan formed in her mind and she recited her words: "Sharp blade, sharp mind." She broke into a furious dash along the pier and leapt onto the docked boat. Heads turned and arms readied at the sight of this quick and slender woman appearing from seemingly nowhere.
She landed and burst into a flying lunge with her rapier towards the nearest pirate. Before he could even swipe, Fiora's fine, long sword pierced straight inbetween his ribcage and in that sudden moment, he was dead before he could even fall. A clammer of heavy boots bolted towards her. In one smooth motion, she withdrew her blade and pivoted fiercly on her back foot. Her sword arm arced round like a whip and slashed upward across a neck, producing a shimmering explosion of blood into the moonlit sky.
Behind her latest victim, another came rapidly at her with his cutlass held high. It came bearing down on her but Fiora had seen it all before. As the heavy cutlass drove down at her, she lightly slid her backfoot behind her front, turning her fine figure sideways to her foe. As cutlass sank through the air narrowly missing Fiora, her left arm had erupted upward with her parry dagger. As his motion went down, the dagger flew high and ripped a deep, blood red score up his face, so fine and straight that any artist would be proud. As his head flung back with another offering to the sky and her dagger reaching its peak, Fiora, still sideways, turned her head and pointed her sword arm towards the two remaining.
Frenzied, they roared and barreled towards her. A sword poked at her and she parried it off to the right, sending the heavy, cumbersome man bumbling off away from her. A shimmering sliver of steel came across her. She met it with her own catching it with her sword's hand guard. As the blade met, she flicked her wrist harmlessly to the left sending the cutlass off target and flicked it back, driving her now free blade straight up into him. As he began to fall back, she stamped her foot into his leg and launched off it. In those quick few moments, she tucked in her legs and twirled round.
The cumbersome man that bumbled passed let out another roar and blindly swung across as he whirled round. His blade met nothing but air and only caught a glimpse of the ballerina-esque Fiora as she plunged her rapier straight down through into his heart. His eyes bulged and a bewildered look had froze onto his face. Fiora landed in front of him and simply had to wait as his body gently slid down off the blade and onto the deck, joining his fallen brothers in a canvas of blood.
Work was still to be done and as she turned toward the lower deck's door, she heard the deep sounds of ominous footsteps behind it. The captain...
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Nowadays i have some idea to work arround but i can't really just begin to shape the story and characters and start writing. Do you guys have any inspirational stuff for me to help begin with it? I believe they could be really useful for me right now.
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On May 23 2012 05:13 Aelfric wrote: Nowadays i have some idea to work arround but i can't really just begin to shape the story and characters and start writing. Do you guys have any inspirational stuff for me to help begin with it? I believe they could be really useful for me right now.
I think the best idea is to fit the idea into a story that already exists. Historic events and children tales are the easiest. This method allows you to have a fairly concrete world, right off the bat. You won't have to worry too much about loop holes and there are always lesser known characters from the story (history or a tale), which you can develop. Then you can tweak the power balance and time line to make a story that's fresh and cool at the same time.
It seems like a really non-creative way of doing it. However I believe readers are not usually good at taking in something that is completely new.
It is a very entertaining process and I believe you will find many hidden gems while you do your research.
Cheers!
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On May 23 2012 05:13 Aelfric wrote: Nowadays i have some idea to work arround but i can't really just begin to shape the story and characters and start writing. Do you guys have any inspirational stuff for me to help begin with it? I believe they could be really useful for me right now.
This might work if you have the idea and have specific scenes in your head already. Write those down, develop them and place them in order of when they'll happen. When you have the scenes that you're good with, you'll get more of a feel for how your story will turn out. Hopefully, you'll be able to get a feel for how you want everything to be from developing those, and then you'll be able fill in the gaps as you see fit. If you only have the idea, then the best I can suggest is brainstorming. When I have an idea I think would be cool for a story, I play back scene possibilities in my head to see if it could work out.
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Haven't logged onto this site in ages, but I've been following this thread for a bit trying to find inspiration of my own. Of all the attempts at stories I've read so far in this thread, yours is the only one that instantly drew me in Dark_Chill. Great opening.
I find that the beginning of a creative writing text is the hardest to get right (often it comes across as gimmicky or cliched), and you've done one better in my opinion by keeping it succinct and simple, so that it doesn't take much effort to read more and makes one want to continue. Good stuff!
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Oh man, this thread reminds me of the blizzard story contest in September . I started writing something to submit, but I ended up not finishing it and forgetting about the contest completely. It was about a conscripted prisoner who has to execute another conscript for deserting. Kind of corny haha.
I'll just post it here..
+ Show Spoiler +We aint got names. Aint hardly remember who we are, most of us. They put you in the suit an’ right well pump you with enough stims to give you seizures and can’t put one and one together to make two, let alone keep your memories. Most em don’t have nothing worth remembering anyway. I knew one guy, back in the pen, everybody called him Lung on account of his smoking so much; he was right fit for marauder training cause one day the warden saw him carryin a block of neosteel that weighed about eight hundred pounds. Signed him up the next day. Lung was excited for it too, if can you believe it. Said he was finally gonna earn his freedom and come back for us, buy us out. Said we could maybe even join Jimmy Raynor and the Hyperion. Imagine that. Well, he got us pretty excited, and the day after that they put him through and we never saw him again. Three-Nine cleared out his cell for the new guy, and it took him all of ten seconds, cause the place was spotless and all Lung ever owned was a toothbrush, an empty carton of cigarettes, and a paper copy of The Trial by Franz Kafka—someone all the way back on Earth who wrote the thing about a thousand years ago. Guards who liked Lung said he’d been reading it all in the night even though keeping books was against the rules. Lung really was crazy.
Things warn’t so bad until about the time Mengsk lost it and the Dominion went to shit, after the Tarsonis recordings got out and all. They didn’t re-air it, obviously, and anyone caught with the recording or so much as a picture of Kate Lockwell in her underwear was sentenced to high treason, but we all saw it one way or another. After that it was chaos; shortages of men in Korhal, in Tyrador, the entire Koprulu sector, new Zerg mutagens and the massacres in Sara System and all the Fringe Worlds, which the UNN later said were ‘collectively and systematically purified’, which really meant they just helped. Then there were the drafts. Just picked us up and shipped us off for combat. Entire blocks conscripted even if they weren’t exactly zerg-fightin material, even if they were awaitin court and woulda been acquitted, in one instance. Three-Nine asked me what I thought about it, and I said I didn’t know what to think about it, that maybe Mengsk had his hands tied too. Three-Nine said Mengsk been lying the whole time and Raynor was gonna make him pay for it. And that was the last I saw of any of em. We all were split afterward, shipped off to places and had to go through pre-screening, and conditioning, brain panning, and tests and exercises to improve stim tolerance. Tiny little fellas with glasses and hologram clipboards stickin needles in us, sometimes torturing us just for the hell of it. Talking about ladies they screwed on this or that world and laughing about it. That was also the first time I saw a dead man. Just caught a glimpse. Overheard the scientists talkin about testing a new variant or some other and one scientist just shook his head and they pulled a tarp over the body, which was on a raised platform. His feet were blue, and you could see the veins popping out of them. I got in a lot of trouble for sticking around to watch though.
The boys that made it in one piece were trained and fitted into CMCs on the front lines of some worthless hellhole they’d never been to and would have chosen hell over anyway. Packed around and moved and told to just go with it; making a stir or causing trouble never helped anyone, they said. Me and maybe a dozen other guys cuffed together and squatting in the dark of some dropship, some pantin like mad dogs, others happily brain-dead from resocialization, being lead around by guys with guns they could barely hold. It was like this for maybe a month, by my count. We were learning to put our helmets on the second day and we almost died cause a baneling tunneled into one of the storage rooms and blew it apart. But we were hardly scared anymore, just tired. And we were always tired, but aint never hungry; aint even the officers trust the food. And we aint never sleep either, cause of the screamin. Mutalisks, screamin at night. And we were always tired but couldn’t remember nothing; couldn’t remember our own names.
Anyway, the time that got me in this messed up court martial business happened about a week ago, when my group was on bunker duty. At this point in time I was a corporal, stationed in some backwater pit on Mar Sara. It was mostly a milk run type thing, what with all the tank support and all, and I do remember we got to talking, because Seven Mike said something weird, like he always did. He said: “Would you ever do with a protoss?” “Seven, turn your radio off when you ask dumb questions,” said Two Six. Two Six was our squad leader, and was at least twice as old as Seven. “Oh yeah.” Seven adjusted a switch on his chestplate. “So would you?” “It’s still on Seven.” “Idiot,” said Chewy, the P.F.C. Then Seven said: “Whatever, you know Smalls is back at the orbital getting off to this. But I wanna know though. Answer the question.” “No.” “No to answering the question or no to the question?” “Both.” “It can’t be both, man.”
And so on. Seven was hardly older than a kid but here he was, sitting in the bunker, talking to the Resocs and the meanest of em. He was from one of the old families. When he transferred to our unit Smalls started assigning us milk runs, since Seven’s family ran deep in the Dominion. You could always tell a volunteer like Seven by the way he talked. They’re always talking about ‘back home’, like it was a vacation to be here, like the marines was something exotic to be tried, like Ursadak flank steak. You certainly didn’t hear the guys from New Folsom talking about buying real estate on an asteroid. We all couldn’t get enough of him though. It was something else, to think that this kid, this here kid, who slept in a cot just the same as us, who sat here now, with us, was born free, and could just as well pack his things and leave and didn’t owe anything to anyone. I couldn’t even make sense of it, really. They were talking at the table and playing cards Seven smuggled from Tyrador when the back wall of the bunker suddenly ripped to pieces, and a large snake thing rose up outta the ground and grabbed Seven and pulled him out of sight.
We aint knew what happened, for a second. Then it was two seconds and Two Six jumped over the table to the turret and had his head torn clean off by a hydralisk. We were away from our rifles, and took to shooting the Zerg with our pistols. We were screaming and scrambling for cover when there was huge boom and my audio and HUD shorted out; I couldn’t hear or see nothing. The tanks were firing at us to kill the Zerg. Chewy screamed my name and I yanked off my helmet and pulled back to the inner wall, where there were C-14s mounted through the glass pointing at the outer rooms. We got to those and shot them away, barely.
A couple more zerglings and hydralisks came, but by then the tanks were shelling them off the hillside, and after about an hour they retreated and we stabilized soon after. A little while passed, and they were disinfecting the creep and repairing the bunkers. I stood up to shake myself off, and was still a little numb when a marine came up to me dragging a man dressed in what looked to be just his trousers and said: “We have a deserter, sir,” and he threw the man to my feet. “Oh,” I said. I didn’t know why he was telling me this. My brain felt kind of slow, to tell you the truth. The marine turned to the man. “What’s your serial number?” he said. The man didn’t answer. The marine turned to me again. “The punishment for desertion is execution by firing squad. Under circumstances of duress-” “Why are you telling me this?” I asked. The marine was confused. “You are the highest ranking officer here, sir.” “I’m not an officer.” “You were just promoted, sir.” “What?” “Smalls radioed in, you were promoted.” “I believe Two Six is the commanding officer,” I told him, “You’ll have to-“ “Two Six is dead,” said the marine. We were both silent for a moment. Then the marine spoke up again: “As the commanding officer, sir, it is your responsibility carry out any and all punitive measures exercised by the body-“ “What?” Now I’m not the type who interrupts people but in this case I couldn’t help it. “You have to shoot him sir.”
And that’s where I started getting this weird feeling. I didn’t say nothing back to him; he made like I understood him now and left to go probably tell some other poor soul he had to die for valuing his life, and pretty soon it was just me and the man, who was now curled up like a baby at my feet.
My first thought was, of course, to not shoot this man. When they’re drafting any citizen with a record for coughing the wrong way and a pulse and still short half a billion men on the starfront, they’d have to be damned fools to expect me to shoot a man I didn’t even know for no other reason than that he was scared. I have no qualms about killing a man who deserved it but this man I could tell just by looking at him that he was some civilian off on a fringe world who probably enlisted to pay for some debt or to feed his kids. Aint none of us sign up for this. He was scared, maybe it was for half a second but enough for someone to see it and report him, because neural resocialization makes every man a friend to no one but Mengsk.
But I didn’t just walk away. I’ve also seen what happens to the guys with a sense of decency and are dumb enough to show it. They get in the worst trouble, and the system goes out of the way to undo any good the guy did, just to discourage anyone else from doing what they did, if it means disobeying a direct order. I mean, they’d probably kill me too if they found out I even hesitated. What I did was I pulled the pistol out again and aimed it below his feet. I looked up to see where the marine had gone but I didn’t see him. I just stood there, a part of me knew the only rational thing to do was to shoot him and walk away but another part was holding me back. “What’s your name?” I asked.
He started crying. Which made me a little mad; he didn’t even have to decide. He was the one that ran, and here I was the one caught in the dilemma. It wasn’t exactly like shoulder angels and devils convincing me to do or not do it, but I was really getting messed up about it. I thought about what Lung would’ve done. What Lung would’ve done was thought about what Jimmy Raynor would’ve done. And what Jimmy Raynor would have done is Jimmy Raynor wouldn’t be caught dead in a situation like this.
I fired a bullet into the ground. Then I grabbed the man and picked him up. “You’re dead now,” I said to him. He nodded. I let go of him and he sprinted away. After about ten or fifteen minutes the marine came back. I imagined him holding an invisible clipboard. He said: “Sir, what did you do with the man?” “I shot him like you said to,” I said. “Yes sir, but where is the body?” “I tossed it over the cliff. Didn’t want a body here that’d probably become infested if we just left it here.” The marine looked at me. “Yes sir, good point,” he said, and walked away. At that point I was radioed in
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I ended up writing for the first time a Science Fiction piece. It reads pretty awkwardly because I spent more time on it earlier on in the story, but got lazier as things progressed... I wonder if real writers run into this problem on a regular basis (starting with lots of energy, but then gradually losing that energy as the story drags on...)?
+ Show Spoiler + The theater hall opens as the mouth of a cavern; spacious and threatening, an endless sea of faces blurs beyond Otto’s range of vision. Blinding spotlights gushing from above front-stage obscure that thousands have already found seats here. From the nearly enshrouded center-stage mahogany bench Otto allows his mind to slip from focus, momentarily straying awry from the upcoming performance and into the crowd. During what must be eternity for Otto – although in reality requiring only a minute or so – he scans the first five rows not obscured by the fiery wall of angled beams, interpreting the expressions of each occupant one-by-one, reading into them as a seer analyzing tea leafs. Otto almost feels what others feel just by detecting and analyzing body language, facial expressions, and personal interactions, all coordinated in neck-breaking rapidity.
Quickly and deliberately he assesses not three, not four, and not six rows – but precisely five, for he cannot execute even the more mundane cognitive tasks without employing intent and precision. Nothing concedes to thoughtlessness and uncertainty. His eyes shift back down to the third row where something special had caught his eye seconds before. Otto’s heart hiccups. Her hair reflects a sparkle from the spotlights above, capturing his stare completely. Is she here to see me? – yes of course she is. Racing thoughts are interrupted by the sound of her tender voice, which momentarily escapes the incessant buzzing of the crowd. “Is he really only—“, but before the girl finishes her boyfriend cuts in. “Yep! He’s fifteen like us. But he’s gonna be incredible. It’s not even fair.” Otto feels certain that the boy isn’t her brother given the palpable attraction between them. Although both sport dirty blonde hair and could pass easily as immediate family in the eyes of someone less observant, less intimately aware, Otto detects what others miss and dismiss as mere coincidence or disconnected randomness. During this brief lapse he assimilates patterns of emotional communication, evident between their faces, and concludes it far more likely they’re romantically involved rather than related by blood. Extremely subtle differences distinguish truly romantic from familial emotions, something that Otto recognizes much better anyone else he has ever met or heard of.
A second later the boy clasps his girlfriend’s turquoise nail polished hand, verifying Otto’s suspicion. Her face brightens, initiating the emergence of a genuine, non-forced, romantic Duchenne smile, which Otto interprets as confirmation of positive romantic feelings towards her boyfriend. His heart dips so much he feels it in his stomach, but only for a split-second because his mind can’t afford to dwell on the issue too much longer. His mind, like a juiced up body builder, outperforms the minds of just about everyone else around him. Sometimes he wishes he didn’t have such a strong natural urge to seek understanding of absolutely everything around him – including complex emotions of others, based on seemingly trivial things such as facial and emotional communication.
Recently during personal reflections, he’s wished he wasn’t gifted with it. He’s been thinking about it for the past several weeks. The feelings of uncertainty – something usually foreign to Otto – had begun to pervade his mind a few weeks ago when he stumbled upon a paper by German bioethicist and philosopher Jürgen Habermas.
A minute later the spotlights shift inward, reaching a burning point of confluence at center-stage, Otto’s mind returns to the task ahead. He gazes outwards from his bench, but it’s far too bright to discern anyone – not even his parents in the first row. The image of the soft-skinned hand, now lost in darkness like all the rows above and below, exits his mind. Dead silence remains. The constant humming from the audience tapers off in cue with the shifting of the spotlights; Otto instantly recalls the effect certain authoritative teachers produce upon entering chatty classrooms. Otto stares downwards intently.
Before his bench stands a magnificent Steinway, casting a crisp shadow away from the crowd, which begins to diffuse and blend into the tone of the stage as the ambience begins to dim. A moment later all that remains is Otto, illuminated in center stage, relaxed on the bench at an angle facing the frozen audience. After three deep breaths he poises his hands over the sheet of ivory. Another breath of fresh air. Then suddenly he snaps his mind into complete focus on the task before him. His back arches into rigid posture, his head tilts to the right and forward, and his shoulders loosen like dangling weights draped over a balance. Without second thought Otto closes his eyes. His mind eschews everything unrelated to the task at hand – conquering the piano – and his hands take over. Leaning forward deliberately, slowly, his hands fall and grace the keyboard with the first chord of Bach’s Fugue No. 24 in B minor, BWV 869. He transitions into piece after piece, flawlessly, his face conveying a state of Buddha-like concentration. He does not emerge from his intense trance until the very end, when he has finished igniting the keyboard with his passionate brilliance. Otto stands, the lights glow, he graciously bows, then exits the stage into the reception area. Another teenage boy might have lingered a bit longer, hoping to catch one last glimpse of the pretty girl, but Otto knows better thanks to his supreme awareness. She really likes her boyfriend, so why bother inducing worry and sadness through longing for an alternate reality, through blindly hoping things were different? After navigating a hasty after-ceremony and cleverly dodging several journalists, chomping at the bit for an interview, Otto and his parents weasel their way outside into the cool night air.
The freshness of the open sky provides Otto with time for reflection on his performance. Did I really just make that happen? Was that me, Otto, out there, playing on the piano? In the car Otto’s father turns to him, “You were amazing, Otto.” – “Just like last time you mean?” – “Well, if I had to call it, I’d say you actually sounded better than you sounded last week in L.A.” Brow furrowed, Otto ponders his dad’s words for a moment, leaning his head against the icy glass of the rear passenger window. Am I actually getting better at performing, or am I nothing more than a pre-destined machine? The only thought with which Otto wrestles is the nature of his own identity. Is my success the result of my own independence?
At only fifteen, Otto holds the unofficial title of the best pianist in the entire state of California. An op-ed writer for The San Francisco Chronicle even predicted in a recent article that Otto just might be the best pianist in the country – or perhaps even the entire world. Ordinarily the thought of a fifteen year old piano-whiz would not be enough to grab the level of media attention Otto received for his ability. However, as most are shocked to learn, Otto only began playing the piano eleven months prior to tonight’s concert. Yet now experts and journalists dub him “the best pianist in the country”, and probably even the whole world, to borrow the opinion of the Chronicle writer. Stories featuring his success on the piano always begin with a highlight of his rapid, unprecedented rate of progression. Otto actually insists that it hardly took three months – let alone eleven – to achieve his level of comfort and mastery of the keyboard. Sometimes Otto feels he was somehow born with the ability. Yet that couldn’t be true, because of course he didn’t know how to play a piano the first time he sat down at one.
Back at home Otto and his parents unwind, dropping keys, wallets, phones, and Otto’s handheld Sony gaming device into the little ornamental ceramic dish in the kitchen, a special place reserved for what Otto’s father calls “out of the house essentials”. For his parents this means keys and wallets, but for Otto this consists of his Sony device, a hard packet of winterfresh breath mints, and a cell phone.
“What’s wrong buddy?” His father notices Otto’s concerned gaze into the counter-top where he sits quietly, poking delicately yet rapidly at the controls of his handheld Sony without even watching the screen. “Halo 5 huh? That’s why you seem down. You’re sick to death of that game – I’ve seen you playing that one before. How about you get off that thing or put in one you haven’t beaten so much until bed?” Knowing his father completely missed the mark, Otto sighs. “That’s not it at all dad. I dunno why you’d think that. Besides, every game I own is the same to me at this point,” Otto’s eyes shift downward, “I don’t even have to think about how to play or how to win. I just do. Just like the piano,” he balls up his hands, stuffing them into his pockets, “It’s like it’s not even me. It’s like I’m pre-determined to be good at certain things, things I don’t have any real control over. You’re just lying to yourself if you think it’s normal that a kid like me – no matter how gifted – can pick up a world-class piano-playing ability in only a few months’ time.” The smile on his father’s face fades slightly, which is more than enough to alert Otto’s attention. Downshifting into a more somber tone, his father beckons. “Son, come here, you know you are in charge. You’re just you. No one else is making any choices for you.” Otto caught the hesitation in his voice. “Tell me more about it, dad. I need to know why you and mom chose this life for me.”
His parents have been open with him about the hard facts surrounding it his entire life. “It” was a procedure performed on Otto’s mother in utero long before he’d ever been born. It marked the first “zygotic operation” – a genetic intervention into Otto’s genome while he was still just a single cell fusion between mom and dad. Otto was the first human trial towards a groundbreaking and controversial genetic therapy-enhancement discovered at a lab in Massachusetts. Genetic engineering teams led by Dr. Macklis, today’s most prolific neuroscientist at Harvard, discovered that a vast proportion of Autism-spectrum disorders all shared in common a complex developmental abnormality: During the formation of the cerebral cortex, nascent progenitor cells divide into an identical daughter cell along with a more differentiated neuronal or glial-supportive cell. The scientists found that the genetic program responsible for the proper wiring of the cerebral cortex is damaged in Autism-spectrum patients. The progenitor cells in the ventricles beneath the cerebral cortex – the region responsible for cognition and motor function – divide too slowly. The delayed process perturbs the entire program of normal cortical development, resulting in the cognitive deficits and behavior occurring in Autism-spectrum disorder patients. Dr. Macklis and his team proved that the entire spectrum of disorders are mitigated when specific conserved sequences of the genome involved in the differentiation of cortical neurons are upregulated via epigenetic modifications. Dr. Macklis performed this genetic procedure on Otto as a single cell organism. “Otto, as you know, your mother and I decided to enter into the lottery they had to generate for that human trial. Lots of people wanted in. You know that both of your uncles on mom’s side are severely Autistic – to the point that they couldn’t even interact socially with anyone or experience empathy at all – not even with their own parents,” his voice shudders, “They were completely hindered in life, no independence, emotionally and cognitively disturbed. She didn’t want that type of difficulty for you – no one wants that kind of difficulty Otto,” he pauses, eyes resting on his son’s, with a smile creeping over his face like a lapping wave spreading across the shoreline, “We were so damn excited when Dr. Macklis’ lab contacted us. We knew there was nothing to fear. They’d been through five years of clinical testing on larger animals, even primates, before the FDA gave the green-light on human trial number one – on you.”
His son sighs, annoyed that he still hasn’t found a solution to his concern over his identity. “So I want to know again, am I really responsible for everything I’ve achieved?” his voice quavers slightly, “All those debate tournaments I practically strolled through like a walk in the park? I swear I only spent, like, basically no time at all practicing for those. I just tore everyone up, naturally,” his eyes immediately shifted once more to the hardwood floor of the kitchen, as if his own mention of natural pained him, “Yet I see everyone else struggling or at least trying at what they do.” – “Come on Otto you’re being way too hard on yourself for absolutely NO reason! What makes you think you aren’t trying? What makes you think that you haven’t had to work for what you have? You learn really quickly Otto. You pick up on things other people miss. I don’t really know how to describe it Otto. You’re just unique, and you’re doing amazing things.” Otto stamps his foot down, hard, nearly knocking the ceramic bowl and its contents from the counter-top. “LOOK! Don’t you get it dad? That’s just it. It’s not about the things I do,” his eyes reveal fear, and his voice returns to normal, although his heart still practically pounds out of his chest, “I’m unique because of what you and mom did to me. You. You made me who I am. Ultimately I have no autonomy. It’s about what I can never do, and that is act truly under my autonomy.” His father’s eyes narrow, “What do you mean you ‘have no autonomy’? You are independent, Otto. No one is in your head controlling your actions. You have the freedom to quit the piano. Hell, you can pursue anything you want. You know mom and dad support you fully.”
Otto slinks down the hall into his room, where he finds the Habermas piece, that old tattered journal article, The Future of Human Nature – the very piece that instigated the search for his own identity. And now it becomes clear to him. He reads the quote he had underlined weeks ago in blue: ‘programming of desirable traits and dispositions, however, gives rise to moral misgivings as soon as it commits the person concerned to a specific life-project or, in any case, puts specific restrictions on his freedom to choose a life as his own . . .’ “Restrictions on his freedom to choose a life as his own”, Otto repeats aloud. Turning to his father, who now stands in his doorframe, “I don’t know how it happened, and maybe no one ever will – maybe not for a hundred years. But somehow whatever they did to my brain, they made it work differently,” his eyes glass over and begin to fill, “They didn’t just ensure I would never have a mental disorder on the Autism-spectrum. It wasn’t just a therapy. They took away my autonomy by altering my future,” one big fat tear rolls down his cheek, but his voice stays strong, “Whatever I achieve, I’ve achieved due to their work on my brain. Even if it’s my choice to pursue the piano, I know that ultimately whatever level of success I achieve, it’s due to what they did. I’d be worse if I didn’t have it. I am autonomous in that I’m able to make my own decisions, but I’m forever a slave to the stage they set for my life. Whatever I freely choose to do I will accomplish, but I will never know how things would have turned out had I not had it done.” On that note Otto retires. His father exits the doorway and shuts it, unable to understand his son’s concerns. Does it really matter that Otto’s abilities in life are the result of what the geneticists did to improve his brain? He should be happy that he can do more now. Does it really matter if he’s not what Habermas calls an “autonomous author of his own life” due to genetic enhancement whims of his parents and scientists, given that he gains seemingly favorable cognitive traits?
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On May 23 2012 13:38 Grand Fisher wrote: Haven't logged onto this site in ages, but I've been following this thread for a bit trying to find inspiration of my own. Of all the attempts at stories I've read so far in this thread, yours is the only one that instantly drew me in Dark_Chill. Great opening.
I find that the beginning of a creative writing text is the hardest to get right (often it comes across as gimmicky or cliched), and you've done one better in my opinion by keeping it succinct and simple, so that it doesn't take much effort to read more and makes one want to continue. Good stuff!
Thanks man, really encouraging to hear.
I'm trying right now to make a daily writing exercise for myself to help me to explore different types of stories in short story from. To do this, I'm basically thinking about all the different types of stories, and then any number of times per day make that type of story. So far, the genres I can think of are: Mystery, Fantasy, Romance, Sci-fi, Horror, Historical Anyone have any suggestions on others?
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I've got the first chapter of a story I'm working on called Monsters. It's a post-apocalyptic Sci-Fi story that I've had brewing in my mind for a while, I don't really know how I feel about it though. I'm just looking for a bit of feedback, if at all possible. I have a couple more chapters written, but don't want to take up too much time.
Be as harsh as you'd like. Sorry about the spacing, I've been working in Google Docs (so I don't have to carry a USB drive), so it transferred kinda weird.
+ Show Spoiler + It’s always disorienting waking up. Slowly slipping back into consciousness like you’re putting shoes on after being barefoot for a while. Except that metaphor makes no sense. I’m sure I can attribute it to the grogginess.
The ceiling I woke up to wasn’t my own. Which was more disorienting. Or should have been. I found myself calmer that I realistically should have felt. I took in the details of my surroundings mechanically, filing them away in some part of my head. The ceiling was the first thing I saw, rows of white panels with little divots in them. Definitely not my house, or probably any other home I could think of. A quick look around the room told me it wasn’t too big. A bed, a table, a toilet, and a shut door on the far wall. The walls were white, though a bit worn and yellowed. It reminded me of a holding room.
Or a cell.
I was suddenly aware of the tightness around my wrists and ankles. Frantically, I tensed my muscles and looked down. I was secured to the bed by those leather straps you see on gurneys. Even more terrifyingly, a double handful of needles and tubes lead from points in my arms and chest off to my side. I followed them up and saw bags of multi colored liquids next to silent machines. Every couple seconds some of the bags dripped a translucent liquid into the tube, down into my veins.
I screamed. It was a manly scream, I can assure you. I wriggled my hands and arms until my right wrist slipped loose of the strap, then went about the business of getting my other arm out. Next went the tubes. I tore at them with such franticness that the skin around the needles tore and I bled from a dozen tiny holes across my chest and arms.
I eventually got the straps off my legs as well, rolling off the bed and onto the ground with a thud. Bruising aside, I considered that a win. My legs were shaky, but seemed strong enough to hold me upright. Another win, I guess. My muscles shook with the fatigue of a long sleep, and it made me wonder just how long I’d been out. That thought left my head quickly, though. I stretched my jaw and managed to get a sentence out.
“Let’s find a way out of here, shall we?” I spoke it aloud to the empty room, glad to hear something other than the still silence of dust settling. I straightened up and headed to the door with the intent to escape from my unknown prison.
Instead, I found myself face to face with my captor, and I found myself more confused than when I’d first awakened. The person who’d had me tied to a bed and drugged up was no more than five and a half feet and weighed no more than 120, tops. He had shoulder length hair that was more grey than black, and was holding a mug of some mysterious liquid that I guessed wasn’t coffee from the lack of heat coming off of it.
His right leg ended a bit before the ankle, and he wore one of those bow-shaped prosthetics. When he saw me, he stopped mid step, balancing on it for a half second before stumbling to both “feet”. Impressively, he didn’t spill his drink.
“I see you woke up,” he said after a few seconds. His voice snapped the silence that I didn’t realize fell between us. Well, I guess not really fell, as there hadn’t been anything else before. He strode the few feet between us, giving me a cursory glance, looking me over in half a second before turning his attention to the end of the bed, where he grabbed a chart. It got the same attention I did, a quick observance that looked like a motion that’d been repeated a thousand times.
The resemblance struck me almost instantly. His mannerisms gave me the impression of a doctor. Curt, methodical, prying. Apparently done with the chart, his gaze now turned back to me. I guess it was my turn to break the silence.
“Surprise? Am I not supposed to be awake?”
He chuckled, “I didn’t mean it like that, kid. I just wasn’t expecting to see you up and around. How do you feel?” He frowned at the tiny drops and lines of blood that had begun to spread over my bare arms and chest, snapping, “The hell did you do? You could have seriously hurt yourself, you damn idiot!”
Before I could defend myself, he stormed over to the tubes and bags, halting the flow on them before they spilled out any more fluid.
“S-sorry? I didn’t know what was going on, I kind of panicked.”
“What, did you think we were poisoning you? In a hospital? That’s some gratitude kid.”
“Hospit-” I stopped myself short. Of course it was a hospital. I’m not sure what gave me the impression of a cell in the first place. I suddenly felt very foolish and cold. “How long have I been here?”
The man took a step back, his eyes narrowing. I didn’t realize my voice came out so harsh and cold until I’d already spoken. Grimacing at my own crassness, I tried and failed to put on a reassuring smile.
“Sorry,” I said, sitting on my bed, “I’m just a bit shaken up. What am I doing here?”
The older man sighed and leaned against the wall facing me, placing the cup on a nearby nightstand and taking the chart in both hands.
“You checked in initially with some flu-like symptoms, claiming they’d lasted for a couple weeks.”
I nodded intently. I remembered the fevers and stomach pains. There’d been a bug going around my office, and I’d apparently picked it up from someone. Probably in the coffee or something. I shrugged it off with some cold and flu medicine like I always did, but the little bugger persisted for more than ten days until I decided to give in and get a check up. No use getting myself sicker out of stubbornness.
But try as I might, I couldn’t remember anything past stumbling into the waiting room and filling out some forms. I vaguely recalled the sight of a bed being rolled in, but nothing past that.
“Right, sorry about that, no reason for me to freak out a doctor for taking care of me. I guess it was more than just the common cold?” I tried to give a smile again, to lighten the mood. Again, I failed, the doctor giving me a stern stare.
“Of course it was. Didn’t you watch the news? Isn’t that why you checked in?”
“Nah, I’m more of a music and breakfast type of guy. News is too depressing,” I thought about what he’d said for a second. “Do you mean there was some kind of epidemic like that bird thing a few years ago? No one else I know checked into a hospital for a cough.”
He frowned at me like I said something completely absurd, “Well they should have. Or were everyone else as shut off from current happenings as you are?”
I shrugged off the question, beginning to get agitated with the interrogation.
“So are you going to tell me what’s wrong with me or what?” I snapped. We stared at each other for a while. I know I was acting stubborn, but I could blame that on the grogginess too. The doctor stared me down with that calculating look that all medical professionals seem to have, the look that tells you you’re nothing more than a name and bed. It kind of made my skin crawl, and I turned my gaze away quickly. I heard a noise that was somewhere between a grumble and a sigh.
“Anderson. Henry Anderson,” he finally said. I looked back, he had an apologetic look on his face and his hand was extended for me to take. I shook it. No need to be any more impolite than I already was, right?
“John Brighton,” I responded with a smile. This time it was genuine, or so I hoped. “You probably knew that, though. Charts and what not.”
He nodded and straightened up, handing the chart in question over to me as he did.
“Like you said, you checked in with a fever and stomach pains. After you were admitted, you took a turn for the worse. You slipped in and out of consciousness for several days before lapsing into a coma. We put you into quarantine in case you turned out like the others.”
“What others? That epidemic you were talking about?” I flipped through the chart, confirming everything Henry was saying. Not that I had a reason to doubt him, but I needed to stay busy. “So this quarantine you were talking about, is that why I was strapped down? I don’t think that’s standard procedure for coma patients.”
I frowned at him, waiting for his answer. He shook his head.
“No, that was you. You regained consciousness for a short time.”
“So you strapped me to a bed? Well, I don’t claim to be the medical professional in the room, but I’d say that makes no freaking sense.”
He gave me a flat look. No one gets my sense of humor.
“You weren’t coherent,” he continued, seemingly unfazed by my interruption. I took it as my cue to sober up and act serious. “When you woke up, you screamed wordlessly for ten minutes while ripping at your arms and legs with your nails. We assumed the worst and strapped you down, but you went back under within a couple hours.”
I looked at my arms. Sure enough, there were jagged scars running is erratic patterns. As I ran my fingers over them, they seemed to be the size and shape of my nails. I shivered. Had I really been doing that to myself? I tried not to dwell on it, focusing on something else.
“You said you assumed the worst. Were my wounds bad enough to be life threatening?”
“No, not that. They were superficial, only deep enough to leave minimal scarring. They should heal up relatively soon.”
“Then why did you restrain me?”
“We thought you’d caught the Plague.”
My turn for the flat look. I guess I wasn’t the only one with a bad sense of humor.
“Gee doc, I guess I should have mentioned I wasn’t bitten by any rats in the last couple centuries. I don’t think the Black Death is what’s going to do me in.”
He frowned, and muttered something under his breath.
“Of course, you don’t know, do you? You’ve got to be the only damn one on the planet.”
“Well, if you haven’t noticed, I’ve been out of the loop for a while, hard to keep up on current events. Speaking of which, how long was I out for? A couple weeks?” I tried to look out the door to a window in the hallway. When I’d checked in, it had been snowing, but there was no sign of snow or clouds in the sky. I got a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. He gave me a steady look before answering my question.
“...Longer. You’ve been under for eight months. A lot has changed.”
Eight months. I mean, in the long run, it could have been a lot worse, but my God. Trying to imagine what’s happened in that time... it made me a bit sick. I needed to get it out of my head. Think of something else. Anything else.
“What’s this plague you were talking about? Is that the epidemic that I was oblivious to? Kind of an ominous name isn’t it?”
He nodded, still looking grim.
“It’s...” Henry started, before going quiet again. He looked pensive for a moment, then straightened up, waving me to do the same. He continued, “Maybe it would be better for you to see for yourself.”
I stood, still feeling a bit wobbly. Not surprising, seeing as I’d been laying prone for eight months. Every time I said it in my head, it sounded painful. Thankfully, the orderlies had apparently been taking care of me, so my hair wasn’t shaggy and I was fairly recently shaven, but my muscles still felt like walking and moving was an old chore that they hadn’t performed in a while. Dr. Anderson watched me with that doctor stare as I stood, wobbled a bit, and then righted myself.
“Interesting,” he mumbled to himself, before leading me out the door. I piped up before we stepped out.
“Hey, uh, Henry?” He stopped and looked back at me. I gestured to my hospital gown attire and bare feet.
“Can I get some pants?” ---
Now that I was more or less decent, we stepped into the hallway from my room. It was a typical hospital setting, white walls with evenly spaced doors on one side, tall windows framing the other. The window I’d peered out before looked down into a courtyard type area with criss-crossing sidewalks and some vegetation. There wasn’t anyone on the benches down below, but it didn’t look untouched, either. I tried to look through the windows on the other side, but the light glared at just the right angle that I couldn’t see in.
The sky told me Dr. Anderson wasn’t lying about my coma. It was a clear day, with only a few wispy clouds marring the bright blue sky. Touching the window told me it was a nice temperature outside, from what I could gather. Summertime. I’d checked in during the winter holiday season. The ER had been packed with a mix of car accidents, drunken brawls, and people that were sick like me. Though I doubt the other people that looked like I did lapsed into comas after arriving.
Not that I could tell. Every door we passed was closed shut, and there didn’t seem to be any identification to denote names or illnesses. I figured it was some sort of long-term care wing. I’d have expected more visitors and staff to be bustling about if it was anywhere else. Not many people come to visit people in comas or vegetative states.
I didn’t really expect to have any visitors, to be honest. I wasn’t terribly close with anyone at work, and didn’t get out much during my off time. Any friends I had moved on out of state and had lost touch over time. I spent most of my nights with a book or two. I never really minded it, I’m more of a quiet, laid back type anyway. Not one for crowds or loud noises. I didn’t realize I was lost in my thoughts until we reached the elevators. It was eerily quiet, not another soul in sight. Only one elevator was moving to pick us up, the other still on the first floor. We stepped into the small car of the elevator and Anderson hit the button for the first floor.
“So what exactly do I need to see? Other than an apparently quiet and understaffed hospital, that is.” I didn’t realize how sore talking made my jaw until I thought about it. I guess my arms and legs weren’t the only things out of shape.
“More has changed than just the weather. The Plague hit a huge number of people, maybe even everyone. Not everyone succumbed, of course. And of those that it did affect, no two showed exactly the same symptoms. Sure, they all started about the same, like you did. Flu symptoms, internal pain, things like that,” He paused, his eyes staring past the wall, like he was looking at a memory. When he continued, his voice had the same quality that his gaze did in the room. Disconnected, analytical. Very doctor-like. I shivered at his words, no one should talk about what he said with no tone or emotion.
“Those that died from it were the lucky ones. They went in their sleep, unconsciousness taking them before their internal organs mutated. Like a high speed cancer, tumors developed simultaneously in every part of their body at once. “I was called in to do an autopsy at one point. The woman we opened up... her insides weren’t even human anymore. It looked like a mass of rotten meat shoved inside a hollow person. We stopped opening them up after the fifth one. They all showed signs of rapid decomposition, and-”
“Alright, stop! Shit, ugh,” I snapped at him, clutching my stomach. The mental image was making me sick. “I don’t the the freaking details, man. Just.. you said the ones who died were lucky. Is it not always fatal?”
He shook his head.
“No. It was unlike anything I’d ever seen. Some people died, some recovered. Others weren’t even affected at all. The worst, though...” He trailed off into silence. Before I could ask him to continue, we reached the first floor.
The doors opened, and I felt more like we were in a third world country than a hospital in a suburb. People dressed in ragged everyday clothes stood around. Some of them were armed, pistols hanging from holsters and rifles slung over shoulders. I didn’t peg anyone as military, though. Civilians?
Anderson lead me through the lobby, making a bee line for the front door. I tried to take in the surroundings. Most people were standing around trying to entertain themselves. Cleaning weapons, reading books, a few handheld gaming devices. The lobby almost felt more like a staging area for a local militia than a waiting room for the sick and their family.
I got more than a few questioning looks. I suddenly felt like an outsider, their looks giving the impression that I was a newcomer to a close group. I could sense some of them taking stock of me, others looking at me for the briefest second before ignoring me as something to not worry about.
“Aren’t we in a hospital? What the hell’s going on here?” I asked to no one in particular, more incredulous as to what was going on than I was curious. Anderson piped up anyway.
“After the Plague worsened, the military started to take action. Evacuating survivors from cities, locking down borders and bridges.”
He opened the front doors, and we stepped out into the open air. Except, it wasn’t so open. Not anymore, anyway. A high wall surrounded the hospital’s campus, at least twenty feet high and made of some kind of metal. A couple more civilian looking types were milling on top, leading me to believe that there was some kind of walkway, and a couple ladders all but confirmed my suspicions.
”We got lucky here, the National Guard managed to secure our facility. The inner city hospitals weren’t so lucky. Overrun within weeks, horrifying, really.”
“Alright, seriously, no, stop. What the hell is going on here? Evacuations? Military? Plague? Just... stop!” I planted my feet firmy on the ground, sticking my chin out at the aging doctor. “Explain. Stop dancing around the damn issue, stop giving half answers, tell me what the hell the Plague is, and what it has to do with me! I ain’t moving until I get some answers.”
I felt the eyes of the other people outside on me, surprised as much by my sudden appearance as they were by my outburst. I’m not normally the type for public situations, and I tend to get uncomfortable when people are looking at me too intently, but damn it, I was tired, I was confused, and the world I knew eight freaking months ago had apparently gotten flipped on it’s head. I stared him down, and he returned it.
His gaze this time wasn’t calculating or cold this time. It was... sad. He stepped over to the base of the ladder, reaching down to rub his leg where it met the prosthetic limb.
“You’ll have to excuse me. I’m not really in shape to climb anymore.” I glared at him with the same with the same intensity, still waiting for a proper response. He sighed, and gestured up the ladder with one hand, saying, “I promise, everything will be answered up there. And I’ll be happy to give you the long version, once you see it with your own eyes.”
Frustrated, but curious enough to not care, I stomped my way over to the ladder, shooting Anderson a piercing look on the way. That ought to show him. At least it made me feel a bit better, anyway.
It took me much longer to climb to the top then it should have, but I finally got there. The man standing at the top was a short, stocky guy, who offered me his hand to help me up the rest of the way. I grudgingly accepted it, my pride more than a little hurt.
“Thanks,” I panted through gulps of air.
“No worries. The coma guy, right?”
“Er, I prefer John. But I guess whatever works for you, I guess.”
“Heh, John then. Park’s the name. But I take it you didn’t come up here to meet the on-duty lookout.”
“Nah, I more or less came to-”
Before I could finish my conversation with my new acquaintance, I finally looked out over the edge of the wall. I knew my neighborhood. I knew the area around the hospital. This wasn’t that. This was different.
I looked out at hell, and suddenly wished I had never woken up.
The hospital I was at was in a relatively open area in the middle of a city, surrounded by greenery and parks. Close enough to walk to if you lived in the nearby areas, and nice enough to enjoy that walk on a clear day. You’d often see people out here, spending time in one of the only places in the city where you could lay on the ground without risking your health. But that had changed, now.
Dead trees littered a park where I used to go for runs. Cars sat still in the middle of the road, some with open doors, others seemingly with occupants still in them. There was no movement. The stores I could see a few blocks down had shattered windows, and past that I could see smoke rising from a cluster of taller buildings, as if a fire had broken out near them. And everywhere within sight, I could see still forms lying in the street.
Even more disconcerting were the forms that weren’t lying still on the ground. The things walking around couldn’t be described as human anymore. Some had extra limbs where they didn’t belong, ending in things that couldn’t be considered hands. They staggered through the suburban horizon, indiscriminately attacking one another or just standing around. I noticed a double handful of malformed corpses near the wall. I guess the guns are for more than just show.
I took a long time to soak in the view and try to comprehend what exactly I was seeing before coming to my final decision.
“Welp. I need a drink.”
“That is indeed the correct response,” I looked over to see Park handing me a flask he was storing on him somewhere. With a thankful nod, I swig and immediately regretted the decision. Whatever was in the flask tasted like boiled death, burning my throat and making me gag.
“What is that, battery acid?”
He laughed and took a sip, grimacing as the liquid passed his lips, “It’s just another thing to get used to. We make it ourselves, though I wouldn’t exactly call it healthy or anything like that. Kind of like the view.”
That was a sobering thought, I had to admit. I turned back out the nightmarish landscape.
“So what happened?”
“You’d have to ask one of the doctors the specifics, but basically, the world went to crap. We all got sick, and those that didn’t recover or die turned into... whatever those things are,” He gestured at the scattered corpses with the barrel of his rifle. “They’re not people anymore. Something in the Plague fried their minds, making them incoherent. There’s no cure, there’s no vaccine, we all have it or had it at one point.”
I shivered. How close had I come to being one of those things? I guess I could count myself among the lucky, though I don’t think Anderson would agree, given our previous conversation.
I couldn’t help but stare out at the grisly sight some more. It made me sick to my stomach, but I knew I needed to take in all the details if I was going to make any sense of this place.
“You’re not military, are you?” I asked. Not in a accusatory way, but more out of curiosity. He laughed, putting away the flask and patting his slightly rotund stomach.
“What gave it away?” he smiled back. It was a bemused smile, but not a happy one. Thinking about it, no one I’d seen so far really seemed happy. Not surprising, but not really the type of world I was exactly excited to wake up to. Park didn’t seem to notice me getting lost in my train of thought, and continued his own.
“Well, there’s really only a handful of actual military or police guys here. They weren’t immune to the bloody thing either, so they took their own losses over time. Wasn’t long before they asked for volunteers to train, and I figured I might as well do my part around here.”
“And what exaclty is ‘your part’, then? Guard duty doesn’t seem very glamorous.”
“It was before the wall was completed. When this thing was just patches and a skeleton, we actually had to be active about watching the gaps, especially at night. Now, things have calmed down. The freaks haven’t, but we don’t have to be as worried about then showing up unannounced as much.”
As he said “freaks”, he gestured to some of the mutated people on the ground. Well, I guess not people anymore, right? One of the closer ones had grown what looked like an arm out of it’s chest, but it had too many joints and ended in something that looked more like an animal’s claw than a hand. It’s head had been warped into something else, the flesh eroded off the bare skull, though it’s eyes somehow stayed in their sockets.
I held off a gag. Freak seemed appropriate, given what it looked like. The others weren’t any better to look at, so I turned my attention back to Park. He tared at me with steady eyes before continuing.
“Aside from sitting up here watching for the big ones, we also go scavenge for supplies and look for other survivors. Not that we’ve found anyone in the past couple months, but the higher ups still think it’s important.”
“And you don’t? What if someone’s still out there?”
“Hell man, if they made it this long, I don’t think they need our help to keep going. They might even be better off by themselves, without anyone else to worry about. We’re pretty active and you can see our fires and lights at night, so if they survived and really want company, they’d try to contact us, is what I think.”
It sounded a little cold, but I had to agree with his logic at least somewhat. I couldn’t imagine those little excursions were too safe. I thought of Anderson’s leg and wondered whether he had it before everything happened or if it was lost to one of these things that did it.
I gripped the crude handrail and leaned on it a bit, head spinning. What happened to my peaceful life? What happened to my boring office job and desk? This had to be some sort of waking nightmare. This kind of shit just doesn’t happen in reality.
I felt a hand on my shoulder. Park was looking at me with concern on his face. That was a look I had seen more than a bit during my waking hour. Not happiness, not contentedness, but worry.
“Are you sure you should be up and moving? Maybe you need to lie down for a while.”
“No, I’m fine. It’s a lot to take in, though.”
He straightened up and looked out over the edge. He gave it a bored look, not getting green around the gills like I’m sure I was.
“I suppose it would be. How the world was before... it’s getting harder and harder to remember it,” he paused for a second, staring at the horizon. I wondered what his life was like. Did he have an office job, like mine? Did he have a family, were they here or were they...
“Not that it matters. This is what we got, so we deal with it the best we can. Dwelling on the past just complicates things.” Another sobering thought. I supposed that was just another thing to get used to, the lack of pleasant thoughts. At least the mood matched the landscape, I thought. Bleak and lifeless, void of anything resembling joy.
Holy hell, was this what we had left?
We said our goodbyes and I clambered back down the ladder to where Anderson was waiting for me. Slowly, again, but going down is always much easier than climbing up. He waited for me calmly, watching until I was facing him.
I didn’t really know what to say. There were a million questions that I felt needed asking, but none of them seemed particularly important in light of the situation. I felt upset at myself for my enraged outburst earlier.
“How are you feeling?” was all Anderson asked. I didn’t really know how to answer that either. All I could muster was a shrug and to rub the back of my head sheepishly. Anderson put a hand up, “Not like that, I mean your body. You’re doing an awful lot of moving around for someone who’s been asleep for the better part of a year.”
I blinked, suddenly realizing how tired I was.
“Oh, that, right. Uh, I’m sore, I guess. I thought you meant, you know...”
He grunted back, “I’m a medical doctor, not a psychologist. I can fix you up, but I’m not the one you want to talk to about adjusting. Come on, you should go back to bed.”
He waved me forward with his mug, which seemed more or less empty now. We walked back much the way we came, through the lobby and back toward the elevators. Most people were still doing their thing in there, relaxing and passing the time.
The looks I got were much the same, but a couple people looked at me curiously, like they were trying to figure out my reaction to what I’d saw. I wondered how I looked myself. Did I look as ill as I felt, or just like someone completely out of place?
We got to the elevators in silence, waiting for the car to arrive. I finally spoke up.
“So how is everything still working here? Elevators, lights, medical equipment, I’d have thought any kind of back up generator would have run out by now.”
Anderson stared at me almost incredulously. Not the reaction I expected, I had to admit.
“That’s what you want to ask? Everything that’s going on and all that you saw, and you’re wondering why we’re not taking the stairs?” He blinked a couple times, shaking his head at me. “You’re really something else, you know that?
“If you really must know, the hospital was fitted with solar panels about a year before everything happened. We keep electricity usage to a minimum to try and mitigate losing power, and some of the more vital wings like your own have gas-powered generators as well in case anything happens. A lot of the early excursions outside were for gasoline and batteries.”
“Makes sense. I didn’t think solar panels could generate that much power, though.”
“These are some sort of military grade experimental thing. Something in the design makes them super efficient. Don’t ask me, I can’t make heads or tails out of it.”
“Military lockdown, guarding, the fence, and now solar panels. Any particular reason the Army’s taken such a liking to this place?”
“What do you mean? Of course they would, it’s a hospital. In this type of emergency, it’s smart of them to move their personnel here to defend the patients than move everyone to the base.”
He was right in that regard, of course. And I’m sure that’s what the higher ups told them when they moved in. Still, would a hospital be the smartest place to hole up in this type of situation? When something like a plague hits, the hospital is the least safe place to be, anyone with a cough is going to be there and whatever it is will spread. Maybe not a concern if Park was right and everyone in the world was affected regardless of contact.
But if people were mutating into those things in the middle of the ER, it was far from safe. And who knows how many people would show up to this facility, given it’s location in a densely populated suburban area. The security here was already lax, given that the crime rates were relatively low and it was more or less peaceful.
There had to be a reason the nearby military base would trek into the middle of the ‘burbs and set up shop in the middle of an area that was likely to be in shambles. I had no problem with the military, but the idea that they’d be altruistic enough to bound into a strategically suicidal location just to protect the poor sick people was just really damn unlikely.
Before I could raise my point to the doctor, I felt a pressure on the back of my skull and hands on my shoulders roughly pushing me down. I collapsed to my hands and knees before my arms were yanked behind me and a cold metal snapped around my wrists. I’d never been cuffed before, but the feeling couldn’t be mistaken for anything else. Neither could the gun barrel against my head. I couldn’t get a word in edgewise before I was hauled off the ground and carried away by men in uniforms.
The Army. Maybe they’d heard me thinking.
Also, I'm working on another tie-in story for a character that shows up later in Monsters, but that's not even close to readable at this point.
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On June 02 2012 09:54 Dark_Chill wrote:Show nested quote +On May 23 2012 13:38 Grand Fisher wrote: Haven't logged onto this site in ages, but I've been following this thread for a bit trying to find inspiration of my own. Of all the attempts at stories I've read so far in this thread, yours is the only one that instantly drew me in Dark_Chill. Great opening.
I find that the beginning of a creative writing text is the hardest to get right (often it comes across as gimmicky or cliched), and you've done one better in my opinion by keeping it succinct and simple, so that it doesn't take much effort to read more and makes one want to continue. Good stuff! Thanks man, really encouraging to hear. I'm trying right now to make a daily writing exercise for myself to help me to explore different types of stories in short story from. To do this, I'm basically thinking about all the different types of stories, and then any number of times per day make that type of story. So far, the genres I can think of are: Mystery, Fantasy, Romance, Sci-fi, Horror, Historical Anyone have any suggestions on others?
See, I actually feel the opposite way... I actually hate critiquing peoples work, but to me it seems predictable and bland. Like a J. Grisham book without the appropriate amount of moments without dialogue and the riveting story, I get the mystery aspect but I dunno, I just feel like the entire writing structure is weak. Needs to be spaced out longer, and really describing peoples moments, for instance I'm sure she must have been sweating, panting, worried sick, anxious, is she cautious? pruding? mad? are her eyes filled with tears or hard as stone, how are the kids acting specifically.
I guess you just simply have dialogue with few specifics defining the event.
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