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On April 07 2012 18:38 khaydarin9 wrote: Someone asked me a little while ago if I could recommend a good "writer" in the SF genres, and I fumbled, finally landing on Ursula LeGuin (funnily enough), who I do think is a fine writer but suspect her style can limit her audience. I've been trying to read The Name of the Wind for two months now, and while I agree that the writing is solid, I'm actually finding it very difficult to get into. If I were going to give that recommendation again, I would probably change it to Robin Hobb.
It depends on what you mean by a good writer. Is it someone who can please any and all grammar elitists, uses puncutation in all ways properly, and is never tripped up by a dangling participle? Or is it someone that tells a story in a fashion which, regardless of the quality of the language they use, is evocative and reaches out to pull a reader into the fictional world and make them care about the characters and events?
In the best of worlds, I'd go with both. When it comes to the science fiction genre, it can be tough because the subject material can sometimes be very dense (hard science fiction gets very math-y) or very esoteric (in terms of alien thought processes, science and psuedo-science plot elements, the finer points of stellar cartography and astrophysics). And this is leaving out the many cases where languages are invented or mangled for purposes of giving color and fleshing out characters and settings.
Styles, too, change over time. Look back at some of the earliest science fiction - it can be difficult for a modern reader to get through some of the different ways stories were presented. (As an example, something like The Time Traveler or Brave New World (sorry, I have a thing for classic dystopias).) The style of a work, as you've noticed, can make it difficult to enjoy a good story - this is why I can never get through later Stephen King novels, Les Miserables, and similar novels full of dense and flowery descriptive passages that otherwise have little bearing on the plot. The more recent trend towards concise sketches of scenic elements and an emphasis on dialogue, actions, and characters I enjoy more. :shrug:
That said, I would've recommended Asimov or Heinlein. Maybe Scalzi, or Jim Butcher.
Speaking of Jim Butcher, even if you dislike his fiction, he has written some interesting blogs on writing, and specifically how he writes and the amount of work getting published in the traditional way takes. P.N. Elrod, as well, has a great deal of resources on those topics. The most important thing, though (and this is towards the entire thread) is just to actually write. We all get ideas, but it's the people that can sit down and write, keep writing, and keep writing more that become authors. In following a number of authors' blogs and websites, I think most of them try to push for at least 2k words in a day, and some are capable of pushing out 15k or more in a single day.
Poll in spoiler: "Have you ever Nanowrimo'd? Did you finish?" + Show Spoiler +Poll: Have you ever Nanowrimo'd? Did you finish?Yes, but I didn't make 50k (2) 50% No - I just can't do it! (1) 25% Wtf is Nanowrimo? (1) 25% Yes, and please buy my book (0) 0% 4 total votes Your vote: Have you ever Nanowrimo'd? Did you finish? (Vote): Yes, and please buy my book (Vote): Yes, but I didn't make 50k (Vote): No - I just can't do it! (Vote): Wtf is Nanowrimo?
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On April 07 2012 22:41 Dont-Panic wrote:Show nested quote +On April 07 2012 18:33 zalz wrote:Took some time out from writing on my novel to write for the weekly challenge. It comes in at 852 words. I don't particularly like flash fiction (1000 or less) but it can be decent practice. It is also a nice change of pace from the novels that eat up tens of thousands of words. 1000 words weekly challenge+ Show Spoiler +The white stones shifted under the weight of his footsteps. He felt the first drops of rain falling against his skin, the kind of rain which came with the promise of more.
His head shifted from staring at the white stone path and the grey stones that stood to each side of the path. He read each of the names on the stones, trying to find the one he had been looking for. It had been a long time since he had been here.
Each of the gravestones seemed unique in its own way, standing in sharp contrasts to every other stone. Some distinguished themselves with their elaborate shapes, others with their very basic designs. He wasn’t sure which he liked more.
A gravestone drew his attention, not for its shape, but rather for the shrine of flowers that had been built around it. He stopped for a moment, taking in the sight.
A massive wreath stood slumped against the gravestone of classic design. The wreaths dark color were offset by the brighter flowers that had been placed on the grave itself, growing brighter and more festive the further down the grave.
He kneeled down before the grave and picked up the flower closest to his feet. A bright yellow flower. He felt like he should have known the name, but it escaped him. He would have considered the display of flowers to be beautiful in any other scene. Here, on this graveyard, the excess seemed wrong to him. This wasn’t a place for such happiness, not for him anyway.
He placed the yellow flower back, careful to make it seem as if it had never been moved.
He continued walking down the path of the white stones, continuing his search for the one stone that he was looking for. It would be several minutes before he finally came across it.
The gravestone was, like many others, a cross, but this one was different for its size. The massive cross of grey stone towered above, not only any other gravestone, but even him. Had his father asked for this stone? Or had the idea been his mother’s.
He read the gravestone’s white lettering, as if expecting it would read something else.
“Here lies William Dalas, loving husband and father. 1956-1999”
Underneath the inscription stood a Latin phrase, the golden text it was written in had begun to fade. He didn’t know what it meant when they took him here in his youth. He still didn’t know.
“It’s been a while, dad,” he said.
The only response came in the form of more rain. Too little to drench a person, too much to be ignored. The dark clouds stretched all across the sky. It would only get worse.
His eyes drifted towards the slab of stone that covered the grave itself. One day the other grave would be as devoid of flowers as his father’s grave. Many graves in the graveyard were already barren, but one day, they would all be.
He reached into the pocket of his suit, pulling out a sheet of paper. Still crumpled, he held it up like a lawyer would hold up a critical piece of evidence in court, the same accusatory air.
“Mom sent me this last week,” he said. “Her health isn’t what it used to be, dad. She said she wanted me to know, but she couldn’t even tell me in person.”
The rain grew heavier. The noise of rain striking against the stony path had begun to drawn out most other sounds. He shook the adoption papers more violently, holding it up against the gravestone that loomed over him. “What do I call you now, dad?” he asked. He felt the sting in his eyes, he had promised himself he wouldn’t.
The gravestone remained as silent as it had always been.
“What do I call you now!” he screamed, throwing the piece of paper onto the grey slab that covered the grave. Without flowers, it was all the decoration the grave had.
He looked at the paper, fading from white to muddy gray as the rain tore away at it.
He crouched down, gathering a hand of white stones from the path. He screamed as he tossed the handful of stones at the giant stone cross. The stones ricocheted off the immoveable cross, not inflicting so much as a scratch against it.
He felt the wind picking up, freezing his now drenched hands. He stuck his hands into his pocket to warm them. It proved a poor attempt.
He felt his black hair, made to cling against his face by the rain. The rain that had now gotten too worse to weather. He looked up at the gravestone for what felt like the last time. Maybe it was, he didn’t know. “Bye,” he mumbled. He wondered why he had even come here. Upon reflection, it seemed almost childish.
He began to walk away, only to pause and turn around. He stared for a few moments, weighing the words in his mind. “Dad,” he eventually decided to add before finally walking away from the grave. Wow that was pretty good! Would you mind giving me/us a short overview on how you approach writing such a short story? Personally I try to come up with the general theme or what I want to express first. Then I try to think of the best way to tell it to the reader. Then I start writing. Do you do it similarly or do you have a completely different approach?
Well, in this case the theme was already stated, so the process of coming up with the story was pretty different.
In most cases I just let my mind roam, in this case it felt more like crossing off a lot of things from a list because I didn't feel like I could write a story within the agreed upon theme.
Eventually I settled upon someone discovering that a parent wasn't their real parent.
Once I had the core of the story, I began to expand on it with something that resonated with me. For example, a child can discover this very same idea in a variety of ways.
You could write the same story (child discovers parent isn't their real parent) by writing about a child sitting on the stairwell, overhearing his parents. He might get told by a father in a drunk rage, etc, etc.
So why did I decide on the graveyard setting? Wish I could answer that with something more in-depth than that it resonated with me, but that is really the gist of it. Some settings just feel very vivid in your mind, and those are the ones I prefer to write.
But I didn't have much more than that. I just have a general aim and then I proceed to start writing. I know where I start, I know roughly what I want to tell, and then I just start writing. I don't plan every small detail. Things like the grave with flowers or throwing the rocks, only came to me when I got to those parts.
I explore those details at the same pace as the characters do. I write them when they get there. The only things I prefer to plan out are the big focal points, which in this case was just the single reveal, so it didn't take a lot of planning.
The 1000 word limit provides a lot of interesting choices when writing. You really need to balance how you use the space that you get, because a 1000 really isn't as much as it sounds.
In this case, I made the choice to exclude any secondary characters, because I feared the dialogue and the surrounding description (like how people stand, or their facial expressions) would eat up too much of my wordcount.
He could have gone there with a sister, with his mother, he could get a phonecall, he could meet a gravekeeper, hell, he could meet a ghost for all I care, but those would all eat into my wordcount.
By excluding characters it is a little harder to explore character depth in a natural way (introspection can feel a bit forced) but it opens up more space for area descriptions.
In total, I started planning yesterday, and I can't say how much time I spent thinking on it, but writing it took about an hour.
On average I can write faster than a 1000 words per hour, but it took a little longer due to constantly thinking about the wordcount. Which, for the record, is a good thing to practice. The more you can say with the fewer words, the better (imo).
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On April 07 2012 23:23 felisconcolori wrote:Show nested quote +On April 07 2012 18:38 khaydarin9 wrote: Someone asked me a little while ago if I could recommend a good "writer" in the SF genres, and I fumbled, finally landing on Ursula LeGuin (funnily enough), who I do think is a fine writer but suspect her style can limit her audience. I've been trying to read The Name of the Wind for two months now, and while I agree that the writing is solid, I'm actually finding it very difficult to get into. If I were going to give that recommendation again, I would probably change it to Robin Hobb. It depends on what you mean by a good writer. Is it someone who can please any and all grammar elitists, uses puncutation in all ways properly, and is never tripped up by a dangling participle? Or is it someone that tells a story in a fashion which, regardless of the quality of the language they use, is evocative and reaches out to pull a reader into the fictional world and make them care about the characters and events? In the best of worlds, I'd go with both. When it comes to the science fiction genre, it can be tough because the subject material can sometimes be very dense (hard science fiction gets very math-y) or very esoteric (in terms of alien thought processes, science and psuedo-science plot elements, the finer points of stellar cartography and astrophysics). And this is leaving out the many cases where languages are invented or mangled for purposes of giving color and fleshing out characters and settings. Styles, too, change over time. Look back at some of the earliest science fiction - it can be difficult for a modern reader to get through some of the different ways stories were presented. (As an example, something like The Time Traveler or Brave New World (sorry, I have a thing for classic dystopias).) The style of a work, as you've noticed, can make it difficult to enjoy a good story - this is why I can never get through later Stephen King novels, Les Miserables, and similar novels full of dense and flowery descriptive passages that otherwise have little bearing on the plot. The more recent trend towards concise sketches of scenic elements and an emphasis on dialogue, actions, and characters I enjoy more. :shrug: That said, I would've recommended Asimov or Heinlein. Maybe Scalzi, or Jim Butcher. Speaking of Jim Butcher, even if you dislike his fiction, he has written some interesting blogs on writing, and specifically how he writes and the amount of work getting published in the traditional way takes. P.N. Elrod, as well, has a great deal of resources on those topics. The most important thing, though (and this is towards the entire thread) is just to actually write. We all get ideas, but it's the people that can sit down and write, keep writing, and keep writing more that become authors. In following a number of authors' blogs and websites, I think most of them try to push for at least 2k words in a day, and some are capable of pushing out 15k or more in a single day.
I would - and obviously it's a subjective process - differentiate between writing (or filmmaking) and storytelling. There are people who get all the writing aspects - grammar, style, characterisation, setting, etc. - right but can't tell a story. In film terms, I would probably name M. Night Shyamalan in this category - he's actually a decent filmmaker, but his stories are disappointing. If I'd read more of Stephen King's stuff, I might put him here as well. On the flip side, there are writers who have great ideas for stories, but perhaps lack finesse in telling them. Popular opinion about JK Rowling, with her excessive adverbs, and her repetitive character descriptions, might put her here. Maybe Matthew Reilly. Maybe even Cory Doctorow - although, it might be worth noting that I'm reasonable fans of all of these three (except possibly Matthew Reilly, whose second to last book had such a fucking cheap ending that I never bothered with the most recent one). I think Cory Doctorow is writing some of the most interesting contemporary science fiction at the moment, but his prose and his characterisation isn't exactly inspirational. Importantly, story is different from plot. Plotting is a writing thing; storytelling is, well, in the other category.
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Surely, I can't be the only person to have done the 1000 word thing? Not even the person that made it up in the first place?
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For the weekly writing. + Show Spoiler + Dryden and Holly eyed the table in front of them. Their father Ilyen had placed a letter in front of them, with a demand that they present themselves in front of King Enel. Dryden could tell his father had been crying, no doubt wondering what they had done to receive this notice... and what would happen to them when they arrived at the King's Court. Holly kept her eyes from meeting her father's, afraid that she would break down if she saw the sorrow.
Dryden was slightly younger than Holly, but he had been with The Raiders for far longer than her. He knew the consequences of getting caught; he had heard them far too many times to forget. A simple visit to the king would end in either blood or slavery. Maybe even both. Causing havoc, harassing Enel's forces and diverting his attention away from the enemies all around him. The life of a Raider was difficult and dangerous; and now it was over for them.
Their father was looking from side to side, giving each of them a cold stare. “I had told you, do not play with them”. Dryden was about to interrupt and tell him that it wasn't simple play, but he put a hand up to silence him. “Enel is not someone a couple of children should be fighting. His soldiers would gun all of you down if they caught you, and now he knows who you are. What the hell were you thinking! Do you have any idea what will happen when you go to him now? You won't be coming out of there alive, but what goes on before that is anyone's guess”.
Holly glanced over at her brother. He was sulking, not able to raise his head and meet his father. Once joining the Raiders, they had both known what would happen should they be caught. She had accepted that, because she knew what they were doing was important. They were making a difference, and now their father talked as if they had been just fooling around for nothing. It was her turn to give her father a lecture.
“I won't stand here while being told that what we did had no significance at all. Dryden and I worked hard with the others to pressure the King who you seem to fine with”. She spat when she mentioned the title. “Those supply carts two weeks didn't get lost on their own. His security doesn't get smaller every day by itself. I'd rather die fighting than live a coward like you, doing nothing! Look where being a coward got mom! Right into an early gra-”. Her father slapped her right across the face, sending her staggering to her left. Dryden twitched and made his hand into a fist, giving his father a cold stare. His father returned it and put him back into his sulking state.
A tear mixed with the blood coming from her nose, but Holly was not finished. She managed to speak through the pain. “Does the truth hurt? We're Raiders, father. We've been doing what we could while you simply sat here doing nothing. And mother was doing the same thi-”. Another slap came, but Holly moved away a bit and only took a few fingers to her cheek. It still stung enough to bring pain to her and make her go staggering again.
Dryden couldn't take it anymore. He darted towards his father, eyes cold and hands balled up. When his fist flew towards the coward he had called dad, it never met. His father moved back slightly, letting Dryden continue to move forward and fall over. Ilyen hadn't taken his eyes off of his daughter. “I don't care what you say to me, but you will not insult Ellie. You can talk all you want about how you're doing great things, but the truth is that you and those Raiders aren't accomplishing anything. A couple soldiers down means nothing”.
Dryden tried once again, but his attempt was met with failure. “Dryden, stop embarrassing yourself”. He turned back towards Holly. “Calling your mother a coward when she was far more brave than anyone here is something I will not stand”. He went into his pocket and pulled out two circular objects. He tossed them at each of his children. “Those belonged to myself and Ellie. If you know what they are, maybe you'll understand why I did that”.
They both knew what they were: Raider badges. Only high-ranking members had them. Dryden's eyes were wide, staring at the badge and wondering how his father could have gotten them. Holly had questions for him, slowly piecing together what had happened. “If you were a Raider, why would you be against us doing it? And why did you leave!” Confusion and pain made her angry. Her father looked at her with sad eyes, as if he had just recalled a terrible memory.
“Your mother died by Enel's hands. She gave me this badge before being called away and told me to make sure our children didn't fall to the same fate”. He looked back and forth between his two children, seeing their faces turn somber. He turned around, looking out the window. That was where Dryden and Holly would be going soon. Away from him... unless he did something.
“It doesn't matter now, does it?” said Dryden. “Whether you or mom were Raiders, it doesn't matter now. We're dead anyways.”. Holly's eyes went straight to the floor, as she had just remembered the letter. Ilyen was still staring outside, knowing he couldn't break his promise to his wife.
“I am a Raider, and I have a vow to keep. You're not following Ellie into the grave. Edit: Don't worry, I'm sure more people are gonna post soon enough. Just putting in last minute edits and revisions probably Edit 2: Ya, I'm wanting any criticism I can get, basically. Not used to this type of writing, where it's just really short, but it's definitely good practice. I think that from now, if someone does or doesn't want criticism, just say so at the end of your post.
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Nice work, Zalz. Great payoff at the end.
Good work, Dark_Chill. I have some suggestions to help you tweak it, if you want them.
Clocking it at 894 words. Enjoy! + Show Spoiler +Dorand looked to the enterance of the cave, where a bitter wind blew snow across the stacked bodies. A medical crew dumped another body on the pile. No flies surrounded these bodies, no rot. They were more like stone, undegrading, an eduring monument to all they had lost.
Seeing another body dumped, another family with their father stolen, the fire in Dorand's eyes flaired. "Another Twisting?" he asked, but was hardly question. Just wanted to hear it, just more fire for hate growing inside him. Those monsters were going to pay, and whoever had set them on this kingdom was going to pay. The magic in him shifted and surged with his emotions, aching to be released, fire under his skin.
"I remember when just the old and sick fell to it. What was that, 40 years ago?"
Longer. No cure ever found. Because there wasn't one. The Twisting was death.
You'll never see her aga--
Dorand visciously cut off his own thoughts. He couldn't think about her now, he had a battle to win. If he could. He could be soul crushed later. Because there was no cure for the black cloud.
Dorand nodded his thanks to the team and ran to the command tent.
Maybe you should go to the Med's tent, just to check, he thought.
He hasn't cured it in 18 years, he won't now.
If only you had been faster, better. Maybe she wouldn't have-- Dorand crashed it.
"We've taken Raven's Point, but holding it is going to be a challenge," the raspy voice the general said. Dorand pushed open the flap of the tent. The general's eyes flicked up to Dorand and back to the map spread before him. Then, when he realized what he saw, he looked back up, eyes eager.
"My preparations are complete," Dorand said. He flexed his arm, feeling the fire surge within.
"How did it go?" the general asked, barely a whisper. "We could really use..."
"Better than any time before." The words were bitter in his mouth. Her death was why. The death of all the people he had lost. It proved much easier to fill with fire magic when you were empty inside. At least now he held the promise of vengeance.
A sudden surge of the fire within forced him to clench his jaw to hold it back. The grass at his feet withered and then the surge subsided.
The general smiled and was about to say something, when a familiar voice shouted Dorand's name.
Dorand turned to see the lead magister, his face covered in grit. His posture exhausted. His hands worn raw and dark bags under his eyes. And a light within them, an excitemnt so pure it belong in the eyes of a young girl seeing her daddy return from the war.
"Dorand, I've done it!"
Hope jolted his heart. No, he doesn't mean that.
"I've found the answer."
He doesn't mean the plague.
"And not just how to prevent it, how to cure it!"
The hope hurt like he was dying inside. All over again. With her, again. He doesn't mean the Twisting!
"The Twisting!" Tem said.
The world around Dorand seemed to lilt to one side. The overcast light seemed suddenly very bright. "What?" he tried to say, but the lump in his throat made it no a wheeze.
"She's going to live again," the Magister said. He cracked a hand on both of Dorand's shoulders. Dorand found himself needing the support.
"But… my brother…and your mother…and… and..."
His throat closed off again. He choked on the words. His eyes stung. "My Sorra will live?"
The magister nodded. The relief squeezed the air from his chest. "Are you..."
"I've already begun reviving her, come, to the tent."
Dorand looked around at the new world. It wasn't so gray. It wasn't so heavy. He glanced back at the general, blinking.
The general, his smile brightening to match the magister's, and nodded his permission.
Dorand bolted for the medical tent. The magister stumbled to keep up. The camp felt too big, why did the tent have to be so far away? Why couldn't he run faster?
He tore past where the men ate in solem silence, and past where soldiers mourned over their lost. He reached the medical tent and ripped back the flap. Bright magic lamps lit her face. She turned to look at him, and the smile he thought he'd never see again kissed the world once more.
He raced to her. He wrapped her in his arms. She squeezed back.
"I missed you," he whispered.
--
The great groans the twisted beasts began to fill the silence the evening silence. Dorand and Sorra stood side by side at Raven's Point. A few tounges of flame danced up their arms.
The beasts emerged from the treeline, black shapes of horror in the faded evening light. Past horrors, who would Twist no more.
"We can end this war," she said. "I belive it."
How he'd missed her optimism. The beasts yipped and groaned. He looked her in the eyes. "We can."
The beasts charged.
Both lowered into their figthing stance. Flames swirled from their arms and the grass below smoked. The air warped before them.
"Come, my phoenix," he said with a cheeky grin. It turned to a smirk. "Let's burn this evil from the world."
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On April 07 2012 23:23 zalz wrote:Show nested quote +On April 07 2012 22:41 Dont-Panic wrote:On April 07 2012 18:33 zalz wrote:Took some time out from writing on my novel to write for the weekly challenge. It comes in at 852 words. I don't particularly like flash fiction (1000 or less) but it can be decent practice. It is also a nice change of pace from the novels that eat up tens of thousands of words. 1000 words weekly challenge+ Show Spoiler +The white stones shifted under the weight of his footsteps. He felt the first drops of rain falling against his skin, the kind of rain which came with the promise of more.
His head shifted from staring at the white stone path and the grey stones that stood to each side of the path. He read each of the names on the stones, trying to find the one he had been looking for. It had been a long time since he had been here.
Each of the gravestones seemed unique in its own way, standing in sharp contrasts to every other stone. Some distinguished themselves with their elaborate shapes, others with their very basic designs. He wasn’t sure which he liked more.
A gravestone drew his attention, not for its shape, but rather for the shrine of flowers that had been built around it. He stopped for a moment, taking in the sight.
A massive wreath stood slumped against the gravestone of classic design. The wreaths dark color were offset by the brighter flowers that had been placed on the grave itself, growing brighter and more festive the further down the grave.
He kneeled down before the grave and picked up the flower closest to his feet. A bright yellow flower. He felt like he should have known the name, but it escaped him. He would have considered the display of flowers to be beautiful in any other scene. Here, on this graveyard, the excess seemed wrong to him. This wasn’t a place for such happiness, not for him anyway.
He placed the yellow flower back, careful to make it seem as if it had never been moved.
He continued walking down the path of the white stones, continuing his search for the one stone that he was looking for. It would be several minutes before he finally came across it.
The gravestone was, like many others, a cross, but this one was different for its size. The massive cross of grey stone towered above, not only any other gravestone, but even him. Had his father asked for this stone? Or had the idea been his mother’s.
He read the gravestone’s white lettering, as if expecting it would read something else.
“Here lies William Dalas, loving husband and father. 1956-1999”
Underneath the inscription stood a Latin phrase, the golden text it was written in had begun to fade. He didn’t know what it meant when they took him here in his youth. He still didn’t know.
“It’s been a while, dad,” he said.
The only response came in the form of more rain. Too little to drench a person, too much to be ignored. The dark clouds stretched all across the sky. It would only get worse.
His eyes drifted towards the slab of stone that covered the grave itself. One day the other grave would be as devoid of flowers as his father’s grave. Many graves in the graveyard were already barren, but one day, they would all be.
He reached into the pocket of his suit, pulling out a sheet of paper. Still crumpled, he held it up like a lawyer would hold up a critical piece of evidence in court, the same accusatory air.
“Mom sent me this last week,” he said. “Her health isn’t what it used to be, dad. She said she wanted me to know, but she couldn’t even tell me in person.”
The rain grew heavier. The noise of rain striking against the stony path had begun to drawn out most other sounds. He shook the adoption papers more violently, holding it up against the gravestone that loomed over him. “What do I call you now, dad?” he asked. He felt the sting in his eyes, he had promised himself he wouldn’t.
The gravestone remained as silent as it had always been.
“What do I call you now!” he screamed, throwing the piece of paper onto the grey slab that covered the grave. Without flowers, it was all the decoration the grave had.
He looked at the paper, fading from white to muddy gray as the rain tore away at it.
He crouched down, gathering a hand of white stones from the path. He screamed as he tossed the handful of stones at the giant stone cross. The stones ricocheted off the immoveable cross, not inflicting so much as a scratch against it.
He felt the wind picking up, freezing his now drenched hands. He stuck his hands into his pocket to warm them. It proved a poor attempt.
He felt his black hair, made to cling against his face by the rain. The rain that had now gotten too worse to weather. He looked up at the gravestone for what felt like the last time. Maybe it was, he didn’t know. “Bye,” he mumbled. He wondered why he had even come here. Upon reflection, it seemed almost childish.
He began to walk away, only to pause and turn around. He stared for a few moments, weighing the words in his mind. “Dad,” he eventually decided to add before finally walking away from the grave. Wow that was pretty good! Would you mind giving me/us a short overview on how you approach writing such a short story? Personally I try to come up with the general theme or what I want to express first. Then I try to think of the best way to tell it to the reader. Then I start writing. Do you do it similarly or do you have a completely different approach? Well, in this case the theme was already stated, so the process of coming up with the story was pretty different. In most cases I just let my mind roam, in this case it felt more like crossing off a lot of things from a list because I didn't feel like I could write a story within the agreed upon theme. Eventually I settled upon someone discovering that a parent wasn't their real parent. Once I had the core of the story, I began to expand on it with something that resonated with me. For example, a child can discover this very same idea in a variety of ways. You could write the same story (child discovers parent isn't their real parent) by writing about a child sitting on the stairwell, overhearing his parents. He might get told by a father in a drunk rage, etc, etc. So why did I decide on the graveyard setting? Wish I could answer that with something more in-depth than that it resonated with me, but that is really the gist of it. Some settings just feel very vivid in your mind, and those are the ones I prefer to write. But I didn't have much more than that. I just have a general aim and then I proceed to start writing. I know where I start, I know roughly what I want to tell, and then I just start writing. I don't plan every small detail. Things like the grave with flowers or throwing the rocks, only came to me when I got to those parts. I explore those details at the same pace as the characters do. I write them when they get there. The only things I prefer to plan out are the big focal points, which in this case was just the single reveal, so it didn't take a lot of planning. The 1000 word limit provides a lot of interesting choices when writing. You really need to balance how you use the space that you get, because a 1000 really isn't as much as it sounds. In this case, I made the choice to exclude any secondary characters, because I feared the dialogue and the surrounding description (like how people stand, or their facial expressions) would eat up too much of my wordcount. He could have gone there with a sister, with his mother, he could get a phonecall, he could meet a gravekeeper, hell, he could meet a ghost for all I care, but those would all eat into my wordcount. By excluding characters it is a little harder to explore character depth in a natural way (introspection can feel a bit forced) but it opens up more space for area descriptions. In total, I started planning yesterday, and I can't say how much time I spent thinking on it, but writing it took about an hour. On average I can write faster than a 1000 words per hour, but it took a little longer due to constantly thinking about the wordcount. Which, for the record, is a good thing to practice. The more you can say with the fewer words, the better (imo).
Thanks for the explanation! There are some points which I hadn't thought about before.
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So... are we going to extend the date to sunday?
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Just finished, at 999 words, it wasn't easy for me, took 8 hrs, but I like it
+ Show Spoiler + Once upon a time there was lonely boy working in a Casino whose puppy eyes gazed longingly upon just one girl, a skinny pale girl with the wild red hair, and a name so simple, yet so unforgettable, her name was Love.
Whenever Love would walk by the boy’s table, his heart would swell and beat at an abnormally fast pitter- pat pace. He tried his best to stay cool but whenever he called out her name the only words that he could muster out was an incoherent stuttery ka- ka- ka squeak, as Love passed on by.
He asked his conscience for a reason why she kept ignoring him, the conscience replied, “What do you expect you just called her kaka!”
The boy cursed under his breath as he wondered why was it that whenever Love was nearby that he lost all ability to talk, think, or breathe. “Is it possible to be allergic to someone?” he naively asked. His conscience laughed and exclaimed “No you dumbo, obviously, your in love for the first time!”
“But why does Love keep ignoring me? lamented the boy, the one time we talked she smiled and asked if I was special.” “Actually because of your incoherent speech she probably thinks that you have down syndrome”, joked the boys conscience. The boy sneered and immediately disregarded the thought, but suddenly an idea solely his own descended upon him. All he had to do was become someone special to Love, and only than could he finally experience that feeling his heart had so desired. His eyes darted into the distance again to find Love in the middle of a laugh that tickled his ears oh so often, their eyes met and she flashed that knowing smile whenever anyone admired her beauty. The boy gulped as he took in a deep breath and summoned up the courage within himself to change so that he could finally become the man he was supposed to be. The next day, the boy had completely changed as he arrived to work with a new thugilicious style, complete with two fake gold teeth and cornrows full of braided hair. All the girls in the Casino squealed and complimented the boy, all except the one girl that he wanted to hear a compliment from the most.
Love makes her way towards the boy’s empty table walking slowly on her sweet candy canes. She briefly acknowledges the boys new look with a raised eyebrow, than goes back to her normal state of being so carefree.
Perched high in his seat, the mesmerized boy holds out hope that tonight Love will acknowledge his swaying heart, but instead her lazy eyes disappear out of sight as she surrenders to sleep.
“I wonder what she’s day dreaming of?” asked the boy to his conscience. “I don’t know but that smile on her face means don’t wake me up.” answered his conscience. At that moment as the boy gazed upon Love’s open smile, he remembered the story built upon pure fantasy about the sleeping beauty who drifted to sleep after biting into a poisonous apple.
Love’s lips were now magnified, as they shined a ruby red just like an apple as the spellbound boy could no longer control the burning urge to bite into them.
The boy closes his eyes while hearing a familiar voice inside his head scream no, as his lips slowly creep forward until they find the warmth of her flesh.
A crashing slap greets the boy back to reality, as Love awakens and yells angrily,
“What the hell is wrong with you, why did you kiss my eye?”
“I- I - I thought closing my eyes would make our first kiss more romantic but instead I missed your lips, and … “ stammered the boy.
“You have got to be the weirdest, most perverted, idiotic dumbass in the entire world.” declares Love.
“Are you mad because it wasn’t a French kiss? Cause we can always practice.” jokes the boy as he sticks his tongue out like a lizard.
“Shut up you jerk, eat mace and die!!!” yells Love at the top of her lungs, as she unloads the contents of the canned mace upon the dumbfounded boy as he lays on the ground, terrified.
The cops arrive and drag the blinded boy away, he tries to look through a haze of tears to see Love one last time, and smiles when he see’s Love waving goodbye to him.
The cop laughs at the boys reactions and sadly informs him, “Sorry Bud but she’s actually waving her middle finger at you”, the boy sighs as he gets transported to jail.
The boy paces in his jail cell and tells his story of how he got there to a sympathetic inmate.
“Cool story bro, but you need to just get over it. Hey I have a friend, who can cure your loneliness.” says T.
“I can only remember when she was my ambition, but maybe part of loving someone is learning how to let go. Okay who’s your friend?” asks the boy.
“His name is Big D. Just stick your head through the bars so I can introduce you to him. All the inmates around here know that he has a real big…”
“Heart?” interrupts the boy.
Heh heh heh something like that, laughs T.
“He sounds just like me, well any friend of yours is a friend of mine” says the boy as he sticks he head through the jail cell,
“ I think I’m stuck, okay where’s your friend?”
“He’s right behind you.” whispers T.
“ Huh?” says the startled boy.
“My friend, Big D. lives in my pants” explains T.
“Has anyone ever told you that you have a really nice butt?” compliments T. “Oh my God, No!” screamed the boy!!! “Please put your friend back in your pants!!!” cried the boy.
It was only than that the boy realized how bad it could hurt to finally experience the feeling of love…
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On April 08 2012 11:56 Dark_Chill wrote: So... are we going to extend the date to sunday? Sure, why not.
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On April 08 2012 13:18 spangled wrote:Just finished, at 999 words, it wasn't easy for me, took 8 hrs, but I like it + Show Spoiler + Once upon a time there was lonely boy working in a Casino whose puppy eyes gazed longingly upon just one girl, a skinny pale girl with the wild red hair, and a name so simple, yet so unforgettable, her name was Love.
Whenever Love would walk by the boy’s table, his heart would swell and beat at an abnormally fast pitter- pat pace. He tried his best to stay cool but whenever he called out her name the only words that he could muster out was an incoherent stuttery ka- ka- ka squeak, as Love passed on by.
He asked his conscience for a reason why she kept ignoring him, the conscience replied, “What do you expect you just called her kaka!”
The boy cursed under his breath as he wondered why was it that whenever Love was nearby that he lost all ability to talk, think, or breathe. “Is it possible to be allergic to someone?” he naively asked. His conscience laughed and exclaimed “No you dumbo, obviously, your in love for the first time!”
“But why does Love keep ignoring me? lamented the boy, the one time we talked she smiled and asked if I was special.” “Actually because of your incoherent speech she probably thinks that you have down syndrome”, joked the boys conscience. The boy sneered and immediately disregarded the thought, but suddenly an idea solely his own descended upon him. All he had to do was become someone special to Love, and only than could he finally experience that feeling his heart had so desired. His eyes darted into the distance again to find Love in the middle of a laugh that tickled his ears oh so often, their eyes met and she flashed that knowing smile whenever anyone admired her beauty. The boy gulped as he took in a deep breath and summoned up the courage within himself to change so that he could finally become the man he was supposed to be. The next day, the boy had completely changed as he arrived to work with a new thugilicious style, complete with two fake gold teeth and cornrows full of braided hair. All the girls in the Casino squealed and complimented the boy, all except the one girl that he wanted to hear a compliment from the most.
Love makes her way towards the boy’s empty table walking slowly on her sweet candy canes. She briefly acknowledges the boys new look with a raised eyebrow, than goes back to her normal state of being so carefree.
Perched high in his seat, the mesmerized boy holds out hope that tonight Love will acknowledge his swaying heart, but instead her lazy eyes disappear out of sight as she surrenders to sleep.
“I wonder what she’s day dreaming of?” asked the boy to his conscience. “I don’t know but that smile on her face means don’t wake me up.” answered his conscience. At that moment as the boy gazed upon Love’s open smile, he remembered the story built upon pure fantasy about the sleeping beauty who drifted to sleep after biting into a poisonous apple.
Love’s lips were now magnified, as they shined a ruby red just like an apple as the spellbound boy could no longer control the burning urge to bite into them.
The boy closes his eyes while hearing a familiar voice inside his head scream no, as his lips slowly creep forward until they find the warmth of her flesh.
A crashing slap greets the boy back to reality, as Love awakens and yells angrily, “What the hell is wrong with you, why did you kiss my eye?”
“I- I - I thought closing my eyes would make our first kiss more romantic but instead I missed your lips, and … “ stammered the boy.
“You have got to be the weirdest, most perverted, idiotic dumbass in the entire world.” declares Love.
“Are you mad because it wasn’t a French kiss? Cause we can always practice.” jokes the boy as he sticks his tongue out like a lizard.
“Shut up you jerk, eat mace and die!!!” yells Love at the top of her lungs, as she unloads the contents of the canned mace upon the dumbfounded boy as he lays on the ground, terrified.
The cops arrive and drag the blinded boy away, he tries to look through a haze of tears to see Love one last time, and smiles when he see’s Love waving goodbye to him.
The cop laughs at the boys reactions and sadly informs him, “Sorry Bud but she’s actually waving her middle finger at you”, the boy sighs as he gets transported to jail.
The boy paces in his jail cell and tells his story of how he got there to a sympathetic inmate.
“Cool story bro, but you need to just get over it. Hey I have a friend, who can cure your loneliness.” says T.
“I can only remember when she was my ambition, but maybe part of loving someone is learning how to let go. Okay who’s your friend?” asks the boy.
“His name is Big D. Just stick your head through the bars so I can introduce you to him. All the inmates around here know that he has a real big…”
“Heart?” interrupts the boy.
Heh heh heh something like that, laughs T.
“He sounds just like me, well any friend of yours is a friend of mine” says the boy as he sticks he head through the jail cell,
“ I think I’m stuck, okay where’s your friend?”
“He’s right behind you.” whispers T.
“ Huh?” says the startled boy.
“My friend, Big D. lives in my pants” explains T.
“Has anyone ever told you that you have a really nice butt?” compliments T. “Oh my God, No!” screamed they boy!!! “Please put your friend back in your pants!!!” the boy cried.
It was only than that the boy realized how bad it could hurt to finally experience the feeling of love…
Oh god, that story took a strange turn, lol.
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So, should we have a poll or something to have a winner? I'm torn.
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On April 09 2012 07:43 FoxyMayhem wrote: So, should we have a poll or something to have a winner? I'm torn. I guess this should be up to the people who wrote the passages, you included?
If writers want to stretch themselves or try new things without judgment, then perhaps feedback if people want it, but no poll.
If writers want to find out how well received their writing is vs others (to compete), then poll.
Either could be good. Which one did you have in mind?
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So, when's the next topic coming?
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yeah, i'm totally enjoying these weekly writing prompts, it's a fun process of daydreaming, writing, editing and than feeling proud enough to post your work in this thread.
thanks foxy for all the resources that you posted and inspiring me to be creative and write again.
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<3 you guys.
This week's topic is to write a reconciliation – with a friend, lover, parent, mentor, horse(?), whatever – but it still has a build up of tension and release. In other words, you can't just start and end with everyone being all happy, he needs to have an element of suspense.
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Hey, I know last weeks prompt is over but I ended up finishing a story anyways. Here it be. Any feed back is greatly apreciated, oh and my vote for winner goes to the grave yard thing.
+ Show Spoiler + The langley research centre loomed over the horizon. Niel armstrong had been called there this very morning on urgent business.
When he arrived at Langley's first security booth the man inside stood at attention and saluted Niel.
“Sir! The directer is waiting for you in head office! Unfortunately the roads have been closed down for repairs so you'll have have to walk there, would you like an escort sir?”
“roger that, and no trooper, I'll be fine on my own.”
Niels little nudge at standard procedure made the guard smile. In response Niel army marched away from the security booth, pronouncing each step until he heard the guard burst with laughter. Then he too smiled, and so did everyone else he passed on his way to Langley. This was after all a nasa research facility, and in the eyes of the people, Neal was nasa.
When he had just about conquered the first quarter of the hill Langley upon which Langley was situated (not an easy task at age 69) his phone began to ring, it was his wife Carol.
“What does Housten even want with you anyway?”
“I dont know sweetie, maybe he needs my advice on something, or he could just need a signature.”
“Alright neilee bird, but Remember if he asks for your autograph, sue him. We can use his pension to fund this amazing little league base ball program I found in Uganda. Oh and I don’t think I need to tell you this, but no more trips on apollo 13.”
She chuckled after that, Niel did likewise, thanks to years of practice his chortles seemed almost genuine, but anyone close enough would certainly see the straining of wrinkled skin beneath the defiant flicker of hope filled eyes. Good thing Niel never let anyone that close.
“Dont worry dear, this man took his last step for mankind along time ago.”
The phone hung up before Carol could retort and Niel let loose a slight sigh of relief. Exhaustion had begun to nibble away at his enthusiasm(the only thing that had kept him on his feet after his legs started choking)He knew that he should have just sat down and finished talking with his wife, but he also knew that the frequency jammer at Langley would kick in if he got close enough. Thats why despite his fatigue, he had actually started walking faster.
Speaking of Langley, Niel was just about there( much to the relief of everything below his abdomenem). he could see the facility so clearly now that he was having a hard time keeping nostalgia at bay. He had begun to day dream of acceleration drills at the break of dawn, and the way sound proof walls would sway in perfect silence as a shuttle launched, when a patrol of soldiers materialized out of the brush all around him. Before Niel could raise his arms the soldiers dropped their weapons, took thier caps in thier hands and then set their hands at their sides. The biggest of them walked right up to Niel.
“Mister Armstrong sir, were to escort you directly to headquarters sir!”
In response, Niel smiled once again, openly this time. He and all but one of te troopers set off to cover the remaining 200 yards to Langley. The last and smallest soldier stayed behind to pick up and drag back to camp all the weapons that been thrown at the feet of Niel Armstrong.
10 minutes later, Niel had finally arrived. The grunts weren’t allowed to go any farther so they waved goodbye and set off back to camp. Once they were out of sight Niel turned his eyes a little ways beneath the sky and faced his destination. Langley was composed of eight cells that were all connected in a circular fashion, in theory each cell would be constantly working on it's own specific assignment, but Langley hadn’t had that kind of man power or budget in years, so only cells one, four and seven were ever fully operational.
Niel hadn’t been to Langley in over 20 years, and even back then the building was considered to be in dire need of repair. Specificaly the Central tower, that served as Langley's head quarters, had been just about ready to retire for decades(Only the first 32 of it's total 50 floors were deemed habitable). Niel though, curtesy of his space tinted glasses, was incapable of seeing Langly as anything other than a gargantuan old roll of unspoiled cheddar( that he'd just happened to have found in a little nook beneath the floorboards).
Niel's admiration of his old home was cut short when a tall red haired woman grabbed his shoulder from behind.
“Sir I need you to come with me, I have a lot to do today and if it's all the same with you I'd appreciate if we could conclude your business here as fast as possible.”
“Oh... Uh, well of course maam, say do you happen to know who I am?”
“Of course Mr Armstrong, now can we please hurry?”
Niel asked the redhaired woman for her name, she said it wasn’t important and took off towards the entrance . Niel followed her as best he could, but was of course a bit put off by her impatient manner. Niel concluded that it must have just been her time of month.
Strangely though, the spiteful red head's insulting behaviour echoed throughout the building. Greetings were curt and disrespectful(one engineer waved Niel away when he offered to shake his hand) and the deeper Niel and the red head dove into Langley the less Niel received the acknowledgedment that a hero like him was owed. Here of all places, why would fellow astronauts and scientists mock him? He could clearly make out laughter pouring from every hall he passed. The very sight of Niel made some chortle and some cringe. All the while the red head kept on trodding at the same brisk pace.
Mercifully, Niel's struggle to keep up took his mind off the situation. Before he knew it the circus was behind him, and he was slumped against the button panel of central tower's only elavator. Eventually the lift had arrived at floor 32, Niel stepped out, the spiteful red head did not join him.
“The directors office is the third from the right, have a nice day Mr Armstrong, I trust you can see yourself out?”
Before Niel could retort the elevator doors slammed in his face.
Niel now desperate for a familiar face, sprinted twoard Housten's office. Only to find that Housten was gone, in his place was a skinny little green eyed man, sifting through a large stack of lamenated paper.
“Ah Mr Armstrong, I'm glad you could make it.”
“Wheres Housten? Who are you?”
“Housten has been let go. I am directer Adam Marowitz, his replacement”
“What!? Why would Housten be replaced?”
“Thats actually what I've brought you here to talk about Mr Armstrong. Oh where to behin, ah! Tell me Mr Armstrong, have you heard some of the speculation regarding the validity of your journey amongst the stars?”
“ You mean the moon launch conspircacy theories? Please don’t bring up that nonsense around me. People will buy almost anything these days”
“On the contrary mr Armstrong, we normal people are all much more skektical than you think, and the theories arent all nonsense, the youtube videos usually get a few details wrong, but for the most part they all grasp the jist of the grand lie.”
“What are you talking about? I WAS ON THE MOON.”
“No mr Armstrong, you were on drugs, that is, according to these documents signed by ex director Housten.”
“Give me those ! My god... Housten really did sign these papers! I cant bilie- no, I refuse to bilieve any of this! how can you possibly expect me to accept that the last thirty five years of my life have been based off a lie?
“It's all there Mr Armstrong, you were sedated for long periods of time, and then you would be awoken in custom environments under the influence of highly suggestive compounds.”
“So what? The Apollo 13 was just a facet of my imagination?”
No, The ship you spent 6 months of your life in was more or less real, but totally flightless, it was placed in a high powered inverse gravity chamber, a chamber that also served as a three dimensional theatre that constantly streamed live footage of actual stars, footage we received from satellites.
“And the moon!? Are you telling me it was fake too? I can remember it as clear as day light! The coarse and ash like ground,! The sphere of stars all around me! The feel of each three foot high step! I was as light as a feather!”
“ Well It says here that the chamber was adjusted to allow a bit of gravitational pull, so that explains the feather part, and the moon itself was made of marble, white beach sand, rocks ,cardboard and traces of led. Although I'm sure the set designers would be flattered by your conviction.
“What about Aldrin? Did you manufacture enough deception to fool the both of us?”
“Actually, Aldrin didnt need to be fooled, he was in on it.”
“You cant be serious, why would you just fool one of us?”
“Because they only needed one, remember, it was you who took the first steps and it was you who said the words, no one cares about the second man on the moon, and thats just how Nasa wanted it. The grand lie was always going to be perfect on the technical side of things, but a genuine performance was needed to close the deal, and you gave them just that.”
“I dont understand, how could my own country do this to me?”
“Remember that contract you signed at the start of your “training”? The one that asked if you were willing to do anything for the sake of your country? You gave away your rights then and there for a bite of immortality. Oh don’t be ashamed, no man wouldn’t have done the same. To be the first human on the moon, I cant imagine how that must of felt. ”
“But why? Why couldn’t you just actually send a man to the moon instead of touting this horrific lie to the entire nation!”
“Because it was impossible at the time, we just didn’t have the technology.”
“So no one ever made it to the moon!?”
“I never said that.”
“Wait- dont tell me the Ruskies beat us there!”
“I never said that either . You see, some of the biggest wigs of the time were getting a bit nervous, reports were coming that suggested Russian rockets were going to be space worthy in six months time, whereas our own shuttle prototypes wouldn’t have launch capability for at least three more years. Of course it turned out that the russian reports where completely baseless, but we didn’t know that at the time and we weren’t going to take the risk. A meeting was called between Nasa, the president and a few other choice parties. Kennedy was adamant about going to the moon no matter what, so simply faking the landing wasn’t an option. As a compromise, he agreed to a fake launch so long as we were willing to eventually send a man to the moon.”
“So who was that man?”
“That would be harrison Schmidt, he was the first, Eugene Cernan,his partner, was the last, . and the apollo 17 was the only manned shuttle to ever successfully complete a voyage to the moon.
“Wait, I've know both schidt and cernan for years and they would never lie to me! Especialy about something like this!And what about all the other shuttles?”
If it makes you feel any better, neither Schmidt nor Cernan had the scarcest idea of how monumental their mission really was, and as for Apollo 14 ,15 and 16, they were all fakes, just like yours. Though unlike you, all the men who were supposed to be taking those particular shuttles to the moon knew full well that the operation was fake, and they were rewarded handsomely for thier silence and compliance.
“Why would you need four fake flights?”
“Oh cmon Niel ,use your head, we fly a man to the moon, then we stop for two years and start up again out of the blue? No, it would’ve been too obvious, the 4 in between flights served as buffer until we could actually do the impossible. Besides, why would anyone go up there more than once? We didn’t need a pair of eyes two feet from the pasty white dirt to tell us that there is absolutely nothing useful on the moon.”
“I dont understand, why are telling me all this now?”
“Because Terrorists have hacked government archives and destroyed whatever information they couldn’t take, and tomorrow there going to leak everything they’ve found onto the internet. Information detailing the truth of apollo 13 was on the archive that was attacked, and were not sure if it was destroyed or taken. Just in case we all thought it would best if you heard the truth from us first. We’ve also begun cleaning house as you can see, Houesten and pretty much anyone who was directly involved with the apollo program has just been canned. Now, I am a very busy man, and this meeting has gone on much longer than I had anticipated, any last questions?”
“Why me?”
“Come now mr Armstrong how would I know that? For all we know your name couldve just been drawn out of a hat, or it could have even been because you looked the most pretty in front of the camera. Silliness aside, I personally think they realized that you were the one carrying the right words. I'm sure they didn’t know what those words were, but they knew you had them. And you certainly didn’t disappoint.
Off somewhere in the infinite distance, Neal could hear those words being uttered by a man who once thought himself a god. He heard their echo even as he wordlessly turned towards the door.
“Oh and Mr Armstrong, the pirates may not even have the record, so dont do anything rash till tomorrow, it would look bad on all of us. Besides no matter how you look at it, you’ve still done a great service for your country.”
That night Niel made out hundreds of phone calls, some were with to friends, a few were with family, but the bulk of the calls were dedicated to old co workers. After that he went online and auctioned off everything he owned, he mused about wether or not his possessions would be worth more or less in the wake of the coming scandal, just before he committed suicide by leaping off the roof of his five story mansion. The next day exploded in controversy. Head lines were split between-
“Leaked Government archives sure to bring about global scandal!”
and “First man on the moon dies peacefully in his sleep?”
There had been nothing in the archives about the apollo 13. Once again the most important event of Niel Armstrong's life had been twisted by the hands and for the sake of his most dearest beloved.
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Ok after reading over the story I realized there was something like 1500 words that didnt need to be in there. Heres the 1000 word version.
+ Show Spoiler +“Ah Mr Armstrong, I'm glad you could make it.”
“Wheres Housten? Who are you?”
“Housten has been let go. I am directer Adam Marowitz, his replacement”
“What!? Why would Housten be replaced?”
“Thats not what I've brought you here to talk about. Tell me Mr Armstrong, have you heard some of the puplic speculation regarding the validity of your journey to the moon?”
“ You mean the conspircacy theories? Please don’t bring up that nonsense around me. People will buy almost anything these days”
“On the contrary mr Armstrong, we normal people are all much more skeptical than you think, and the theories arent all nonsense, the youtube videos usually get a few details wrong, but for the most part they grasp the jist of the grand lie.”
“What are you talking about? I WAS ON THE MOON.”
“No mr Armstrong, you were on drugs. You would be sedated for long periods of time, and then you would be awoken in custom environments under the influence of highly suggestive compounds.”
“So what? The Apollo 13 was just a facet of my imagination?”
"The ship you spent 6 months of your life in was more or less real, but totally flightless, it was placed in a high powered inverse gravity chamber, a chamber that also served as a three dimensional theatre that streamed live footage of actual stars."
“And the moon!? Are you telling me it was fake too? I can remember it as clear as day light! The coarse and ash like ground! The sphere of stars all around me! The feel of each three foot high step! I was as light as a feather!”
“ Well It says here that the chamber was adjusted to allow a bit of gravitational pull, so that explains the feather part, and the moon itself was made of marble, white beach sand, rocks ,cardboard and traces of led. Although I'm sure the set designers would be flattered by your conviction. "
“What about Aldrin? Did you manufacture enough deception to fool the both of us?”
“Actually, Aldrin didnt need to be fooled, he was in on it.”
“You cant be serious, why would you just fool one of us?”
“Because we only needed one, remember, it was you who took the first steps, it was you who said the words, no one cares about the second man on the moon, and thats just how Nasa wanted it. The grand lie was always going to be perfect on the technical side of things, but a genuine performance was needed to close the deal, and you gave them just that.”
“I dont understand, how could my own country do this to me?”
“Remember that contract you signed at the start of your “training”? The one that asked if you were willing to do anything for the sake of the nation? You gave away your rights then and there for a bite of immortality. Oh don’t be ashamed, no man wouldn’t have done the same. To be the first human on the moon, I cant imagine how that must of felt. ”
“But why? Why couldn’t you just send a man to the moon instead of touting this horrific lie to the entire country!”
“Because it was impossible at the time, we just didn’t have the technology.”
“So no one ever made it to the moon!?”
“I never said that.”
“Wait- dont tell me the Ruskies beat us there!”
“Oh gods no . You see, some of the biggest wigs of the time were getting nervous, intel suggested that Russian rockets were going to be space worthy in less than six months. Of course the reports turned out to be completely baseless, but we didn’t know that at the time. A meeting was called between Nasa and the president. Kennedy was adamant about going to the moon no matter what, so simply faking the landing wasn’t an option. As a compromise, he agreed to a fake launch so long as we were willing to eventually send a man to the moon.”
“And who was that man?”
“That would be harrison Schmidt, he was the first, Eugene Cernan was the last, and the apollo 17 was the only manned shuttle to ever successfully travel to the moon.
“Wait, I've know both scmidt and cernan for years!
If it makes you feel any better, neither Schmidt nor Cernan had the scarcest idea of how monumental their mission really was, and as for Apollo 14 ,15 and 16, they too were fakes. Though in those cases the crews were fully aware of the truth.
“Why would you need four fake flights?”
“Oh cmon Niel use your head, we fly a man to the moon, then we stop for two years and start up again out of the blue? No, it would’ve been too obvious, the 4 in between flights served as buffer until we could actually do the impossible."
“I dont understand, why are telling me all this now?”
“Tomorrow were releasing fifty years worth of goverment secrets as part of our new total honesty initiative, and we thought it would be polite to let you know all this before hand. Now, as you can clearly see, I am a very busy man, any last questions?”
“Why me?”
“Because you were the one carrying the words. I'm sure they didn’t know what those words were, but they knew you had them. And you certainly didn’t disappoint.”
Off somewhere in the infinite distance, Neal could hear the words being uttered by a man who once thought himself a god. He heard them echo even as he wordlessly left the room."
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hey gumshoe, glad you contributed to the writing prompt! I liked you conspiracy story.
+ Show Spoiler + So I read both versions, first one had alot of fluff in the beginning, but than I liked the change of perception when the red head and everyone else looks at Neil, differently, foreshadowing what's to come next. And I liked the 2nd ending better, having the government release confidential information reluctantly is definitely more plausible than terrorist hackiers forcing nasa to act. Nice job following the writing prompt.
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On April 11 2012 04:25 spangled wrote:hey gumshoe, glad you contributed to the writing prompt! I liked you conspiracy story. + Show Spoiler + So I read both versions, first one had alot of fluff in the beginning, but than I liked the change of perception when the red head and everyone else looks at Neil, differently, foreshadowing what's to come next. And I liked the 2nd ending better, having the government release confidential information reluctantly is definitely more plausible than terrorist hackiers forcing nasa to act. Nice job following the writing prompt.
Thanks ( :, I defintley like having the shift from everyone looking up to him to mocking him, but It wasn't necessary and it took up a ton of space. Though there were a few lines in the first story I really didn't want to cut T_T. Glad you liked it.
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