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Heydoka on the Creative Writing thread: This smells strongly of a poorly disguised homework thread. I am glad the subject has interested people and inspired some good sharing though, one of you feel free to make the thread with a better OP. Done! This thread is all about posting fiction and discussion creative writing.
Writing Resources + Show Spoiler +Education: These are the resources that have helped me the most. The first two are free and recommended for all writers. The others are writing books best for noobs, but still good stuff for all: Writing Excuses PodcastDavid Farland's Daily KicksThe First Five Page -- A Writer's Guide to Staying Out of the Rejection PileThe Plot Thickens: Eight Ways to Bring Fiction to LifeA Dash of Style: The ART and Mastery of PunctuationI really loved that last book, made me care about punctuation as an art form, rather than a bunch of obnoxious rules. Software: I don't know how I'd make it without these. Here's a video I made showing the below stuff off: WriteMonkeyA distraction free editor that keeps me focused on the story. It comes with a ton of features. Everything is geared toward the novelist, unlike Microsoft Word and the plethora of other word editors. I <3 its auto backup. Google DocsFor collaboration with pre-readers and editors, I don't know if you can beat Google docs. It doesn't support massive files well, but it's instant collaboration and online functionality make it a joy to use and let you work on the document with another person in real-time. Drop BoxI'm able to use WriteMonkey as my main editor because of the awesomeness of Drop Box. Anything you put in the dropbox folder is uploaded to their servers and other computers with the dropbox folder on it, so your files are synced and backed up with each save. It even has a rollback feature, keeping 10 previous saves of each document in case you make a bad save and lose a bunch of work. And talk about peace of mind! Free up to 2GB (which is a lot of text!). WikidPadThis is convenient and easy to keep track of the every expanding fantasy worlds. If there is a "best way" to keep notes, I think this is it. It's a wiki for your home computer. Make sure you put it in your dropbox folder so it's backed up automatically, too. FreeMindMy second note-keeping software, FreeMind is invaluable to mapping out complex ideas that need to be seen in ways the wiki can't. It helps especially when my idea of what's actually going on in the story is less concrete, and I need to think my way through it. I hope those help you in your writing quest!
A note to those Soliciting Feedback Be Specific. Make sure to indicate what kind of feedback you're looking for, being very specific. Does the characterization feel solid (realistic)? Is the plot too slow, and why? How are my sentences? Is it lacking anything? Is there unfulfilled expectations?
If you just ask for general feedback, without being specific, we'll probably assume you're looking for a pat on the back. That's fine, we all need it as writers, but this probably isn't the place for that. If you imagine writing is forging, we're hammering here, and the strikes need precise, so you need to be specific. It also makes it more likely that you'll recieve feedback. We're not all pros here, and while a reader can tell you whether or not things felt slow for them, most probably won't tell you why your plot's themes have a poor delivery if you just ask for "general feedback".
Be tough. If you're not, perhaps go find a forum that has a history of being delicate with writers, or PM one of the contributors to the thread that gives feedback in a style you can take. Don't cry if you get your feelings hurt, and don't take the feedback here too seriously unless it really seems to resonate. You've been warned.
A note to those Giving Feedback Unless they ask for you to be brutally honest, find a nice way to say things. Seriously, hate can just shut the creative drive off as well as if the author decided playing bloody knuckles with a cement wall for an hour -- and who wants to do that? You're not cool if you can insult someone, you're cool if you can help make them better.
Please keep literary elitism out. This is about sharing stuff and having fun, and helping. Literary elitism has no part in that.
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Now, as for stories, I'll start! This story is for your enjoyment, if you like dragon-y things. (But if someone wants to type feedback, that's cool.) + Show Spoiler +She looked down on the body of the dragon. It no longer strained against the chains, but it's swirling orange eye watched, tracking her as she knealed near it.
"It's time?" she asked in a small voice. She knew knew the answer
"Yes," Haydar said, his voice gentle. He stayed back, giving them the space they needed.
"And I have to do it?" She looked up to Haydar, eyes asking for reassurance. The dragon looked between them.
"Yes." She'd told him not to let her back down. It still made his stomach twists. Our lives only depend on it, he thought, but kept it inside.
She gave a week smile and took a deep breath. "Okay."
He didn't care about his ending that much, except for the knowledge he'd worked so hard for being lost to the world. For reasons he couldn't quite explain, it was her's he cared about -- after all she'd been through so far, he wished to see her live a good life.
She reached out, hand and fingers floating through the air like whisps, toward the dragon's head. He urged her in his heart. The dragon jerked against the chains, their clicking filling the silence of the cavern. But they change bare let it shift an inch. The dragon's whole body fought to pull away, and Yauna's just closed the distance.
In the middle of the dragon's head, between it's eyes, rested a perly protrusion. Underneath, the power of the dragon flowed. Humans were not to touch it. According to the dragon, at least.
The truth was, in all the research Haydar had done, in all the countless hours over dusty books and scrolls, days with blackened fingers as he traced with charcole the etchings of stone...
Dragons needed their powers taken, even if they never wanted it. It served as an incubation, and brought them from their animistic rage when their powers returned.
But, it would not be an easy task for either.
Yauna's hand pulled back. "Why does it have to be me."
She knew why, of course. Haydar was crippled in ways the dragon's power could not touch. She may not have been the ideal candidate either -- a small girl, not the broad shouldered and magically potent men who had been used in ancient days -- but she was their only option. Time was running out.
"I know I know," she said before Haydar could answer. She took another deep breath, this time stead. She thrust her hand forward and placed her fingers on the pearly protrusion.
Nothing happened. Not like the texts said it should. Did I miss something? Can only a certain race or bloodline use it?
No, that can't be right, many races did. It's unlikely they shared any born trait.
Then what's wrong!
He glanced over her, looking. She looked fearfully at where her hand touched, fearful that it wasn't working. They could all die now.
Don't think about that.
He looked over the dragon. If anything, the hate in it's eyes had grown, driven by the defiling it must be feeling. This is for it's own good, Haydar reassured himself.
Then, he noticed the eyes. The swirling orange and red energies had slowed. Then, the pupil began dialiting, and it ceased fighting the chains, as if thrust into a trance.
Beams of light shot from the pearly protrusion, beaming through her fingers. "Grip it!" Haydar shouted.
Yauna didn't respond. She can't hear me, is that enough contact? He stopped himself from racing over and making sure her hand had good enough contact. He could not interfere; it had to be enough.
Yauna herself began to cast a subtle orange light, strongest on the hand that touched the dragon. On her finger, just behind where the fingernails began, the flesh rose up. The fingernails darkened, and new, thick, pointed nails like claws pushed out the old ones. Her fingers lengthened and muscles snapped taunt. The orange glow climbed her arm, lengthening it. Where it once was skinny, almost anemic, mucles began to appear.
She hunched forward suddenly. A scream ripped from her throat. The orange light began covering her torso, beaming through the cuts in her shirt. Something moved under the shirt. Haydar only took a moment to decide: he grabbed one of the cuts and tore the back open; as a schollar, he needed to see this.
Bony protrustion peirced the skin in her back from the shoulder blades, and Haydar's jaw slackened. Two trails of blood ran down her back, but before the would could bleed in ernest, the edge of the cuts darkened to the look of dragon skin an healed. It almost seemed as if the shoulder blade spikes had always been there, as if it was natural. Almost.
Her other hand grew claws to match the first, and her torso lenghtened, as if blessed with a sudden growth spurt to make up for all those years of malnutrition. The light reached her legs. She fell to the ground, hand still touching the dragon as if glued. Here, the texts had said, the growth would be the most painful.
In a matter of seconds her upper leg grew six inches. Yauna didn't scream, but it was only because no air remain in her lungs to make a sound; her mouth remained open. The glow reached her lower legs, growing six inches more. The glow finally reached her foot. Toes grew claws as they lengthened, making it more able to grip. The foot grew larger all around, an inch wider and several inches longer. A claw burst from the skin on her heal, and like the bone plates, grew dark skin around the edges, this time before any blood could escape.
The dragon shuddered, and finally her hand dropped from its brow. The glow of her skin recceded. She didn't gasp for air; Haydar knew she was unconcious. Instead, he saw the gentle rise and fall, the stretching of the skin around her shoulder protrusions.
She was Dartorrad -- one who has stolen the heart of a dragon. Well, really, it was the power, but the ancients liked to be poetic about it.
Haydar tore his sleeve and tapped the trails of blood on her back. Once it was unmarked, clean and, perhaps aside from the bony protrustion, beautiful, he grabbed the tear of the shirt, intending to pull it closed. He wanted to inspect…
Purely for research? he asked himself.
He knew the answer. Beside, what she'd just done for them, she certainly deserved her privacy. He pulled the shirt closed and carefully rolled her over, cupping her head. He laid it gently against the stone and looked at her new face. Of all the things that changed, this would certainly be the most...
He remembered when he first met Yauna, malnurished and hollow eyed. It had taken so long to get her to eat right, and even longer for some light to return to her eyes. When it did, they looked like a clear sky. He couldn't help but love to see her alight. She'd gone from hollow faced to an almost healthy weight, filling out the hollows and hiding the bones.
He could see the bones again, but it wasn't the marks of starvation. She looked like some yet-undiscovered race, ones with sharp cheekbones and pronounced brows, and very strong, almost pointy chins. It looked nothing like starvation. It looked like agression, carved into her face.
Pulled her eyelid up. Yes, as the text had said, her irises were now a luminescent red. Dialated and empty in unconciousness. He let the eyelid closed.
People would fear her. He only hoped she wouldn't take the rejection too hard. He glanced down at her feet, and the spike protruding from her heal. Ha, she'll be needing new shoes, too.
He held her hand and ran his thumb over the back of one of her claws. It was meant to be an inspection, but he felt a rush of tenderness behind it. He couldn't help but smile at her.
"I wonder how long until she can breathe fire," he whispered in the quiet. Thinking about what was coming to their enemies, that smile couldn't help but become a bit vindictive.
WEEKLY WRITING BLAST Every week we're have a writing prompt to keep the juice flowing and flex our writing muscles. 1000 words or less. This week, our first week, is:
Write a reconciliation – with a friend, lover, parent, mentor, horse(?), whatever – but it still has a build up of tension and release. In other words, you can't just start and end with everyone being all happy, he needs to have an element of suspense.
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A short story I wrote recently. Don't really need feedback on it but i thought I would share to get the thread moving. It's about two players playing a game of Russian roulette. (I added the spaces rather quickly, word does not copy past cleanly to forum)
Six shots at life:
Chapter 1 + Show Spoiler +Round 1
Smoke slowly danced from the cigarette to the flickering lamp that prevented the room from turning pitch dark. Prevented it only so slightly.
“You mind?” he asked? A sincere question in most cases, but the way he blew his smoke into my face I doubted his sincerity.
“Smoking kills” I responded, a poor attempt to make light of the situation. His mouth curled up to a grin “funny.”
The man pulled a big shiny revolver from his belt, the sound that revolver made when he slammed it onto the table made could have scared the daylight out of anyone too stupid to get scared at the sight of big guns. A real cowboy gun I thought. The damn thing must have been as impractical as any gun could be but I suppose something can be said for the showmanship.
“The rules” he dictated “are as follows. I will open the gun.” He proceeded to click open the iconic revolver. “There are six chambers in this gun, correct?” I nodded. “I will place one bullet into the chamber.” He placed an impressively sized piece of lead into the chamber. “We will both spin the chamber. If the other player disagrees with the spin then he can demand that we both spin again. We repeat this process until both of us are satisfied with the spin.” The man’s gaze never seemed to break from mine. I simply continued to nod in agreement to his explanations.
He took another hit from his cigarette “I provided the gun so I will spin first and you spin after me. After that we flip a coin to decide who begins.” The man threw a coin from his pocket down onto the table.
“A turn is not completed until the trigger has been pulled. When a player pulls the trigger the gun may be in one of three positions.” He placed the giant silver barrel onto his temple. “This is the first position, straight through the temple means instant death.” The man seemed to give the situation no more weight than as if he was instructing someone on how to use a drill. He shifted the barrel from his temple to his forehead. “This is the second position, make sure the end of the barrel completely touches your forehead, if you tilt it the inflicted wound is not always instantaneous in delivering death.” He opened his mouth and shoved the barrel into it. An easy joke could have been made in any other situation.
He placed the gun back onto the table, not a trace of saliva, I would have hated to get spit on me during a game like this, that would really ruin my day. “That is the third allowed position, if that’s what you decide on then remember to keep the gun aligned with your spine. The kill is delivered by shattering your spinal cord, if you miss it then…well…you don’t want to miss.” All this time he never took his eyes of me.
“Any preferred ways?” I asked him. He placed his index finger on his temple “bang.” “The other ways are messy, you can screw up, this one is so easy even a kid could do it.” Supposedly he found that to be the height of comedy and he chuckled to himself. “Well then, are you ready?” he asked without comedy in his voice. “Yeah, let’s get started.” Four little words that began our adventure. He slammed the revolver’s chamber shut, raised the barrel towards the ceiling. Dead silence made way for the rattling of the revolver’s chamber as it made countless spins. “Satisfied with that spin?” he asked. I nodded, somehow talking felt…inappropriate at this point. He placed the revolver onto the shaky wooden table and in one smooth motion he slid the revolver towards me.
The gun had seemed big when the man across me had been handling it. Clearly I had judged wrong, the gun was outright massive. The weight of the gun proved fitting for its size as I lifted it towards the ceiling as I had seen the man do it. I placed my left hand on the side of the gun and again the silence made way for the cold sounds that the spinning chamber produced. “Satisfied?” I asked. “That will do,” he affirmed.
I placed the revolver into the middle of the table. The man grabbed the coin from the table and with an almost violent spasm he threw the coin. The coin struck the bulb, it ringed with an ear piercing noise. The coin fell back onto the table and the man slammed down onto the coin as if crushing a fly. “Heads or tails?” he asked.
The man’s clothing stood in sharp contrast to the expensive watch he had on his right hand.
“Heads,” I responded. The man moved his hand, the coin showed heads. “Yes!” I shouted. Perhaps more jubilant then was appropriate given I had only won the right to decide who got to put a gun against their head first.
“You first,” I said. “Hah, predictable,” he said. His voice seemed to say that I should feel ashamed for such a boring and predictable choice. “Nice watch by the way” I said. “Ooh you like it?” he said as he reached across the table to grab the gun. He sat back into his chair and seemed to weigh the gun.
“Whatever I own, you own, you know?” he said. “How so?” I asked. “Well I won’t have much need for it if I lose will I?” he responded. True enough I suppose, although I had given little thought to plundering the dead. “And if you lose,” he pointed the gun towards me “you won’t really need it either” he smiled. “So if you want it,” he tapped on his golden watch “it’s already yours,” he said with a smile.
He placed the gun against his temple, not a shred of hesitation in his movements.
Click.
Chapter 2 + Show Spoiler +Round 2 Why? Why did I feel so relieved that the gun didn’t go off? Maybe instinct overtaking logic? Glad to see someone not die, forgetting my odds had just taken a turn for the worse. Every time a chamber proved to be empty there would be two consequences. Not only did the odds of the bullet being in one of the remaining chambers go up, I also had to take a turn.
“Phew.” The man sighed. “Glad it didn’t go off, that would have been a snooze” he said. He seemed more cheery then anyone who had just put a gun against his head should be. He slid the silver revolver back across the table, pointed straight towards me. “Your turn amigo”.
I took the revolver into my hand. It’s weight seemed to only have increased, it should have been no surprise the thing grew more beastly with every chamber that proved empty. “If you don’t mind me asking…why are you playing this game?” I asked.
“Game?” he responded puzzled. “Yeah, why are you doing this?” I asked again. He simply shrugged “same reasons as you I recon.” I wouldn’t push him, if he didn’t want to tell then he didn’t have to I supposed. I placed the gun on my temple as the guy had showed me, not as messy he had said, last thing I wanted was messy.
I closed my eyes. Back in that dark room again. No…That wasn’t right. This wasn’t the same room, this was my room. I walked over to the blinds covering the window and pulled them up. Blinding white light, a world covered in snow, nothing magical about it though, just where I was born. I turned from the window and looked across what had once been my room.
I asked my dad for a racecar bed once, only once though, my dad taught me quick. I had to do with posters of those racecars. Modern day knights, little light on the princess saving, little heavy on the metal.
I had to leave, I had spent a lifetime in this room, I didn’t need to spend another in it. I walked into the living room. Two chairs, one for dad, one for me. Lucky us we didn’t have any friends so two was fine.
The TV was probably the most expensive thing in the apartment but calling it an expensive TV would be overstating it by a good mile. The walls were bare of any decoration. There was only one thing up on that wall, right above the TV. I couldn’t watch TV without seeing that stick hang above it.
I once read about a sword of Damocles. But you could run from that sword, this stick seemed to always find me no matter how far I ran. The quiet buzzing sound of the refrigerator filled the room. I sat down at the dinner table. Some bad nights I sat down at this table for what felt like years.
“God fucking damn it,” he roared as he threw the door open. He dragged me into the living room and slammed the door behind him. “You told me you had gotten a what?” he shouted at me. I just kept sitting at the dinner table. It was a strange sight seeing myself stand in the living room from the dinner table.
I never understood why in my dreams I was so old. My father kept shouting at the me in the living room, a full grown man crying and sobbing. “You said you got an A, does this look like an A?” he yelled as he flaunted the paper with the red F on it.
I didn’t even remember what class it had been.
“I feel like I have to ask because I’m not even sure if you can read.” Ooh how witty he was that father of mine. “You’re not just worthless, you’re a fucking idiot too aren’t you?” he turned to grab his sword of Damocles from the wall. “You are all your mothers work” he sighed. The stick had made place for an actual sword.
That was new.
I looked on as my father began to cut me apart. He shouted obscenity after obscenity until I stopped protesting. He fell into his chair and started watching the TV. I stepped up from the dinner table and walked over to the pile of gore that used to be…Was me. The heart still pumped for whatever it was worth.
“Every day you’re a disappointment.” My father grunted as he watched TV.
The pile of gore began to creep away, down the hallway, back to my room. It always ended there.
That stick would find me no matter where I ran, so I kept running for the rest of my life. As I opened my eyes the cold winter landscape made place for the dark smoky room.
Click.
Chapter 3 + Show Spoiler +Round 3
My heart was racing, how long had I let the gun rest against my temple?
“You alright buddy?” he asked me. I threw the gun back onto the table and stood up. “Your turn,” I simply replied. I pulled off my tie, who the fuck offs himself with a tie on anyway. Sweat had turned my cheap blue shirt dark blue at the chest and armpits. I pulled the shirt from my belt, shuffled it around a bit to get some air in.
“You know, we can stop this at any moment,” he said. His chair stood tipped on the back legs, the gun casually spinning around his index finger.
My look must have said it all as he was quick to respond. “Just kidding, you don’t back out of this one.” “Now sit down, you’re making me nervous as shit with that walking around,” he said in a commanding tone of voice.
“Fuck you,” I said. “I’ll spend whatever time I got left whatever fucking way I feel like.” He grinned at that, little I did or said seemed to faze him in the slightest.
I leaned against the wall and looked at the floor. The best thing that you could say for it was that it matched the wall and the ceiling. They all looked like shit and they all looked like they were housing some killer mold, if not two.
“Take your time, but at least look at me when I pull the trigger, no fun if I blew my brains out when you’re not looking right?” The gun continued casually spinning around his finger.
“I just…give me a minute ok?” I said. “Sure, sure, take however long you feel like man,” he said. He placed the gun back on the table and fished a lighter and a cigarette from his pocket. The metallic lighter lit up the cigarette with that iconic glow.
I felt it coming from my lungs but I never could keep it down, god knows I tried. My body pulsed rhythmically to the beat of the coughing.
My legs gave out and I crashed knees first onto the wooden floor. My arms kept me from going stretched but the coughing didn’t seem to have a mind of leaving me quite yet.
Like an old friend the taste of blood filled my mouth. The coughing had finally broken, I loudly gathered my spit and cleaned out my mouth. More blood then spit. Given the state of the floor I figured that I probably cleaned that up too. He still calmly sat in his chair smoking, the son of a bitch had even put his feet up on the table. “Smoking…kills huh?” he said. I simply grunted as I lifted myself back onto my chair. “I’ve been smoking all my life,” he said almost proud. I didn’t feel like talking about this with him, hell I didn’t want to talk about this with anyone.
“Congratulations, now you know what nobody else knows, secret for a secret?” I asked. It took a good while before he finally nodded and said “sure, what you want to know?”
That was a good question, I had simply wanted to change the subject, any subject would do really. “What…is it you do?” I asked. “Hah,” he exclaimed. “I guess I can tell you.”
He threw his cigarette on the floor, putting it out by placing both his feet solidly back on the floor. “Now that I think about it, this is like the perfect shrink,” he said. “How so?” I asked. “Well no matter what I say in here, either you end up dead and can’t tell a soul, or I end up dead and I won’t be around to give a shit,” he said. In a twisted way I suppose he had a point.
“So what is it I do?” he said. “Well, no need to put it lightly.” “I’m a criminal, plain and simple.” Not an answer I found entirely unexpected. Your everyday nine to five suburbia man wouldn’t find himself in a room like this.
“What kind of a criminal?” I asked. “Ooh, I go with the wind, it’s been drugs, it’s been robberies, it’s been anything in between,” he said. “Tell me about something” I said. “Something?” he asked confused. “A crime,” I stated resolutely. He laughed. “You know, I’ve told a dozen stories for a beer, no need for all these theatrics,” he concluded. I simply kept looking at him. “Alright, you want a crime story, here you go,” he placed his elbows on the table.
“One early morning I woke up to this ungodly shrieking, so I stumble out of my bed thinking the world is coming to an end.” He began solemnly.
“I walk out into the hallway and I find my kid crying like…well, like he thought the world was ending,” he said. “I sorted him out good, taught him quick,” he said with a smile as he faked a punch on his own cheek.
“So the kid calms down and I ask him, why he was making all this noise, and he tells me his mom is nowhere to be found.” He placed his hands on the table. “At this point it kind of starts to sink in, his mom feeds him every morning, no shit the kid is freaking out without his mom to get him some food, get him ready for school and whatnot,” he said. “Of course the kid knows better than to bother me with that shit so he was practically starving there.”
“So where is that mother of his I wonder?” he places his finger on his head to show me he was thinking real hard. “Well I don’t got a clue where she was at so I decided to go scope the usual places, placed some calls around, see where she was at you know?”
I don’t know why I nodded as if I understood the guy.
“So she isn’t at work, she isn’t at any of her friends either, what’s up I wonder at this point.” The guys hands wrap around the side of the table.
“So eventually one guy gives me a call, a real champ, and he tells me he saw her at a train station, like I said, this champ tells me which train she gets on.” His grip on the table tightens.
“Lucky me I could still get on a few stops later, ask this nice women of mine why she was wasting my whole god damn day.” The table seemed to shake ever so slightly when he cursed.
“So I get on the train, a train going straight out of the city, so that’s enough for me to wonder about already, and I walk from back to front to find her.” His demeanor seems to take a turn for the better “then I spotted her,” he said.
“I walk right up to her.” He slowly taps on the table to show his steps
“I tap her on the shoulder like this.” Two taps. “Then I put the gun, this gun in fact, up against her head, like this.” He pushes the barrel up against his forehead.
Click.
Chapter 4 + Show Spoiler +Round 4 “Even the gods must be on my side to let me get away with that one.” His bombastic laugh echoing through the entire room.
“That wasn’t a crime story though,” I said. “Ooh?” he asked, fake surprise on his face. “Most countries count shooting women in the face as at least a misdemeanor.” His snide remark seemed to bother me more than his confession of murder.
“Glad you’re on my side slick, tell you what, if you make it through this one I promise to tell you another story, catch.” With an underhanded throw the revolver was sent flying through the air. I reached for it…A miracle catch if I had ever seen one. Maybe I just put more effort into catching guns then I ever did footballs.
As I sat back on my chair the light flickered. “It’s not going to last very long,” I said. “You’re right, that lamp is really priority number one,” he said. He sounded tired. “Focus on what we need to do.” His eyes never seemed to leave mine. “Do what we are here to do.”
I raised the gun up against my temple, once more my eyes closed and the dark room made way for my life. “Do you know where I can find professor…” I turned to meet the voice. “I’m sorry…professor who?” I asked the girl. She said the name again, but I couldn’t remember it.
I could remember the white stone path that cut through the impossibly green grass like a maze. I could remember her face, her bright blue eyes and long blonde hair. But I couldn’t recall her question, I never could. The park made way for graduation, I sat amongst a sea of faceless people, on the stage she stood radiant amongst faceless students.
Even in my dreams, she was more than I ever seemed to be.
She walked up to the microphone to give that speech, had it been anything special? I hoped that it wasn’t because then it would have been a shame that I forgot.
“I never loved you,” she said. The crowd erupted into applause. I tried to wrestle through the crowd, trying to get to the stage. The further I got, the more violent they turned, they always did, but I always tried.
The crowd climbed over me, burying me alive in their numbers.
A hand wrapped around mine and dragged me effortlessly from the pile.
“I’m afraid I have some bad news,” the doctor said as he shook my hand. “I don’t want to hear it,” I said calmly. “I insist that you hear it.” He truly insisted. “I DON’T WANT TO HEAR IT,” I roared. I smashed my fist into the doctor’s arrogant face. His thin framed glasses gave way, the glass shattered and rained against the hospital floor.
This rage…how long had it been my companion. Did I get it from my mother in birth or from my father in life? The victims of my rage probably didn’t care either way.
This life of mine. I had seen it pass me by every day of my life, always serving as reminder of what I had been deprived of. Rather, I thought, is there anything this world has not deprived me of?
My parents, my only love, my education, my job and even my body. All had betrayed me, stole from me. Was I not justified to strike back? When you steal from a man, can he not steal back? An eye for an eye, a coin for a coin, a life for a life. This world has treated me like shit since the day I was born, I deserved the world but the world felt entitled to me. “Greedy little man,” she whispered as she wrapped her arms around my waist. “G-g-greedy?” I stuttered more outraged then anything.
I pulled her arms from me and grabbed her by the throat. “You would call me greedy?” I said, my voice filled with that familiar rage. “The whore that stole everything from me and then takes off like a thief in the night?” The hand around her throat clenched shut.
Her smile only grew wider. “Do it,” she whispered. “A real man could do it,” she said. “A real man would do it,” she screamed.
Click.
Chapter 5 + Show Spoiler +Round 5
“Down to the very last,” he said as I placed the revolver back onto the table.
“Still two left,” I corrected him.
“Sure, but think about it though.” He had picked up the revolver and leaned back in his chair. “If the next chamber is empty, we know what number six has right?” I suddenly realized what he had meant. “And if this one is full then…” I uttered slowly. “Then it ends right here for me.” He smiled.
“Either way, once I pull this trigger the mystery is over,” he sighed. “Bit of a shame isn’t it?” he said. “How about that story first, I feel like you might pay more attention if I keep the mystery alive for a moment or two longer.
“But what about.” He slammed his hands down onto the table, the gun in his hand only adding to the sound it produced. “A majestic heist? A life wasted? A murder mystery?” his eyes fixated entirely on mine. Brown eyes like mine. “What about the time I killed my father?” he asked coldly. “No…do a-a-another,” I stuttered. “Really?” he said surprised “I figured you would love that one, my crowning achievement in this world, patricide.” “What about the time I beat my son senseless?” he asked with the same cold voice.
“Another,” I demanded. He tapped the guns barrel on the side of the table rhythmically. “What story would you like to hear then?” he asked me. “The time you robbed that convenience store,” I said. “Nah that’s boring, what does that say about us?” he asked.
“Nothing” I said.
“There is a fifty percent chance this chamber has the bullet in it,” he said as he put the gun on his temple. “And you want to talk about nothing?” He lowered the gun again.
“Just not about me,” I said. “Not about me huh?” he said. “I don’t think I know any stories that aren’t about me, I’ve been a very self-centered person,” he said. “No that’s not true,” I yelled.
“You know that story about the turtle and the scorpion,” he said. I nodded, who didn’t. “What do you think it’s about?” he asked me.
“Never trust a scorpion,” I said.
“Many people like to think that, but I disagree,” he said as he leaned back. “I think it’s about how a scorpion is always going to be a scorpion.” He tapped the gun on the table to give weight to his conclusion. “I will be what I am, no matter how I try to change, you will be who you are, forever,” he said, he kept his eyes closed for the first time.
“You think that’s a sad message?” he asked me. “Never being able to change who you are,” he reaffirmed. “There are always second chances aren’t there?” I asked him.
“But what about the people that are just complete fuck ups from day one?” he replied. The lamp flickered.
“The kind of person that isn’t grateful for his second chances, the kind of ungrateful waste of space that thinks a second chance is him winning the lottery rather than him getting offered a job at a grocery store?” he said.
“Those kind of people could get all the second chances in life but they are to prideful to accept anything that isn’t a gift from the gods,” he concluded.
“He beat me, every day it started all over again” I yelled. “He beat me too, he beat the both of us” he said calmly. “Your pain, my pain, is there any difference?” he asked as he looked down at the floor. “All I ask is for a bit of honesty.” He stood up. The revolver reached to his knees.
“It’s a bit of waste this,” he said as he held the revolver in both his hands. “There is no mystery left.” I fell to my knees, I buried my fists in the cheap floor. Cheap as it was, my fists gave way before the floor did. Blood siphoned from my knuckles.
He placed the silver barrel on his temple. “Say it with me now.” His voice sounded like he had lived a million years more than he had ever wanted to.
Click.
Chapter 6 + Show Spoiler +Round 6
“Click,” he said.
He let the silver revolver slide from his hand. As it crashed onto the wooden floor it made a sound befitting its size and weight.
“We knew that from the start, now finish what we came here for,” he said. He kicked the revolver with his right food and it slid across the floor, ending perfectly before me.
“I….lost the game,” I stuttered.
“What game?” he asked coldly. “This was never a game.” He walked over towards me and sat down next to me on that cheap floor.
“Let’s stop blaming everyone else, do something good for a change.” He put the revolver in my hand.
“They made us this way, why should we pay the price?” I exclaimed in desperation.
“We were born defective, the world never made us do all the things we did,” he said.
“But, my father…” I begged him. “He beat us?” he carelessly said. “So what?” “How many people grew up with abusive fathers?” he said as he wrapped an arm around me. “They didn’t all turn out as twisted as we did.” There was almost a hint of compassion in his voice.
“Maybe he just saw how deformed we came into this world,” he said.
I lunged at him, my hands found his throat fast enough but he threw me off him with the same effort one would swat a fly.
My body crashed into the floor, I coughed my lungs out as I lay there.
“Your father never made you beat your wife or your son, he sure as hell didn’t pull the trigger on her.” His voice boomed through the room.
“One bullet for the whore, one bullet for that guy that tried to be a hero, three bullets for that cop that tried to shoot us when we got off the train and one…For you,” he screamed.
I tried to get up but I got no further then crawling. He wasn’t at the gun, had he gotten behind me?
“For once, just once, try taking responsibility for the waste of a life you lead,” he whispered into my ears.
I flailed wildly behind me to hit him but all my hands found was air. I crawled towards the revolver.
“You are the author of your actions, nobody else made you live the life we led.” The entire room seemed to shake as he spoke.
“They all conspired against me,” I yelled as I crawled on. Too far, it was still too far away.
“You were too prideful to accept less.” His voice caused earthquakes.
Through the walls I heard police sirens grow louder and louder.
“Bear the punishment,” he roared. “How did they…ooh god they found me,” I screamed. I frantically reached for the gun, almost.
I leapt forward with all my remaining strength, my heart raced as my hands wrapped around the gun. I rolled onto my back and there he sat. His feet were up on the table, his chair on the back legs, smoke curling up from his cigarette. “The only way out of here is paying your dues,” he said. His voice no longer shook the earth, it was as calm as it had always been.
I lined the gun up, at this range I couldn’t miss.
“Scorpions.” He sighed.
My finger curled around the trigger.
“Police!” a voice roared from outside the room. What right did that man have to pollute my world, what right did any of them ever have.
“You aren’t ever going to change, always the easy way out, always blaming the world.” He stepped up from his chair. I kept the barrel fixed on his face.
He crouched in front of me and put his forehead against the barrel. “Just like this,” he said. “Let’s not make it messy.” “I never deserved this,” I cried. “You deserved much worse than this,” he said.
The door creaked loudly as the invaders of my world began kicking it down.
The trigger felt light to the touch.
The golden watch on my hand ticked away the seconds I had left. Three, two, one.
Bang.
Feel free to comment if you like but I doubt I will be going back to edit much of it.
Finished another recently (two days ago actually) and currently working on a short story set in Eastern-Germany during the end of the Stasi.
Have a few more ideas for short stories (generally take a week to write them) and then it's time to figure out which of the two big stories I have running in my mind is best suited to turn into a novel.
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I think we should have a subject to discuss, too, especially for non-authors. Story openings!
What catches your eye? What makes you groan? What are some great examples of openings?
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Groan: chosen one openings, bloody murder openings, orphaned child/traumatic incident openings, bad openings
Good: original, not derived, not giving all information.
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Awesome, TofuD! That's great.
Why don't you give us a reason to care? How about the teaser on the back, or the genre, or why you're passionate about it?
I agree that "Child Losing Parent" Pretty much shuts me down. But I think murder openings can still be done. If the writing grabs me, the scene is powerful, I'm all for it. But I will be looking for originality, and if I don't see it shortly, I'm likely to put it down soon.
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Looking for help with grammar sentence structure and feedback on how well the humour works
Heres the first chapter of a story I'm writing for fun.
[/spoiler]When I was five and a half the sunset countess came to my home and murdered my father. She broke down the door of my family’s single space apartment and set her gaze across the room to us at our dinner table. Before my family could even react to the intrusion she reached behind her scarlet dress and pulled out a golden gun, the like of which I haven’t seen since. She then raised both her gaze and her aim to my mother’s swollen belly.
The threat directed at my father's wife roused him from listlessness; he pounced upon the table, breaking it in half with the weight of his lunge. He stood defiantly atop the ruins of our cheap table and absorbed the line of sight that led directly to my mother, but it made no difference to the sunset countess: she fired, and sure enough the bullet traveled through my father’s heart and arrived in my mother’s shoulder. An instant after his death, mother let loose a terrible shriek half due to the pain erupting from her shoulder and half because of the grief rapidly consuming her thoughts: that was my cue. As the countess moved in for the kill I leaped in front of the remains of my father, spread my arms in defence of my mother and stood as tall as a pre-adolescent could. In response the sunset countess relinquished a single puzzled look before I was met with a great backhanded blow, one which flung me into the left wall of our awfully cramped apartment. The damage was too great for a six and a half year old, my body could no longer move. I watched the last events of the evening unfold atop a stained mattress and a small pool of blood accumulating beneath my broken lip. My mother desperately crawled backwards, like a crab, away from the sunset countess and her husband’s fate, but soon enough she had been backed up against a wall with the golden gun placed against her temple. In that moment I realized the odds of me growing up all alone or even dying then and there along with my mother were especialy probable: but then a flash of anxiety hit the countess' face, and the moment passed. The sunset countess lowered the golden gun and levelled her mouth to my mother’s ear. She whispered something to my mother, something which I would not learn for over 20 years. Then, as unexpectedly as she appeared, she vanished: but despite the loss of such a terrible creature, there was no relief to be had within that shattered home, only two unwilling survivors, a corpse, and a secret.
A few months later my mother gave birth to a girl within the very apartment where her husband had died, she wouldn't go to the hospital no matter how much I begged. She conspired to let none other than herself, I and a discount midwife know of her child’s existence. Her labour was merciful, just 6 hours separated my mothers declaration “my waters broken!” and the midwife's declaration “its a bitch!”(I did say she was a discount midwife). The discount midwife packaged the baby up in a bundle of soiled bedsheets and then she was gone, leaving me my mother and my infant sister all together for the first and last time.
As soon as she had the strength to cry my mother told me that I had to kill the child. She told me it was for the best. That it was us or her. I didn’t understand. Of course I didn’t, no one would, but moms frame had been quivering for the past half hour like it always did when she was on the verge of having a stroke, so refusing even her wildest notion(which this most certainly was) was not much of an option.I promised my mom that I'd do what she asked and swore it’d be painless, even though she never asked it to be. I pried the girl from her hands and bolted from the room as fast as I could. My last clear memory of the outdoors at the time had involved 6 foot high trenches of snow. But the great Mounds of frost so clearly there in my last impression of the city, had been replaced by packs of burgeoning greenery. It was already early spring in the world outside my apartment. We walked the town, the haphazardly wrapped baby and the roughly dressed six year old. We could've made a killing as beggars. Eventually we came to a forested ravine where I ended up mock considering a few potential kill sites while considering what to actually do with my baby sister. The solution came to me as a starved fox crossed our path and snarled at us before slinking off back into the growing dusk. I left the ravine and wondered what kind of home would I want to grow up in if I could choose?
It was already late into the afternoon by the time I found a suitable home. It was massive, as tall and wide as the first half of my apartment. From the classily worn down look of it the place had to be at least over 50 years old (vines had long since begun adorning its pale brick walls). It's roof jutted up at several points into ornate spires, its' front yard was the size of a field and the few glances I caught of the pampered family within the mansion were more than reassuring. Looking back I don’t know why I was so sure that complete strangers would just take in someone elses child. I would pin the conviction on childish naivety, but somehow, all those years ago, I had been right about the people who lived in the castle. When I got home mom asked me what I had done with the baby, I told her I fed her to a fox.
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Noticed you had the word Eris in the description, thats enough for me. If I ever get a kindle your book will be the first thing I buy with it.
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Are you soliciting feedback, Gumshoe, or just posting for our pleasure?
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I've wanted to write a novel for some time now but have procrastinated it something fierce due to not knowing if my ideas are any good or not. What I would like is some feedback on whether you would read this;
Timeline: Based in the future where man has just begun to explore/colonise the galaxy with the invent of FTL engines Openning: A bioweapon facility on Mars goes dark after sending out a distress call, a team from a PMC is sent in to investigate why. They find that the people there were mucking with a virus that could seek out and kill people with certain DNA strands. The virus mutates and gains the ability to turn infected people into zombies once they die. These zombies are controlled by the virus (think hivemind styles) so what one knows/sees/hears, they all know/see/hear. The people call for backup and get picked up by their battlecruiser (of sorts). These people then infect the people on the ship ship which jumps away and disappears for 30 years Main story: The ship jumps back into our solar system with a buttone of other vessels accrued over the past 3 decades and an allout war starts for humanity. The main character(s) find a way to stop humanity from getting pwnt and thwart the virus' plans for galactic domination for the time being
Inspiration: Starcraft, Battlestar Gallactica, any zombie movie, Mass Effect, Star Wars, Event Horizon and more
What are your thoughts?
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On January 20 2012 10:09 FoxyMayhem wrote: Are you soliciting feedback, Gumshoe, or just posting for our pleasure?
I thought the point was feedback. Regardless yes I will graciously receive feedback.
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Then read the OP. It explains how to ask for feedback in a way that makes it easy for us to give you feedback. <3
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Grammar, sentence structure, hows does the intro sound and is the humour out of place.
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well eff you for making me go back to look at my old writing, haven't done this all in a while. I found one written about 5 years ago, named
School Shooting
+ Show Spoiler +School Shooting She was waiting after-school for her mother to come pick her up. She was chatting happily with a couple of her friends as they stood around, waiting for rides. When her mother showed up, she hugged her friends, said goodbye, and got into the car. Mom gave her usual offhand “hello” and they drove off.
Mom was listening to NPR when the girl, Emily, got into the car. When the radio station took a break for a few commercials, Emily struck up a conversation to help the ride pass by more quickly. The mother-daughter pair wasn’t on the best of terms, so they had little to talk about to each other. As such, the conversation revolved around the only conversation starter they had, the daily news.
After a few minutes conversing about pet food tainted with rat poison (the last thing NPR covered before the break), Mom mentioned that there had been a school shooting. Emily’s curiosity was piqued by this fact, because she hadn’t heard anything about it. But Mom apparently didn’t know much about what had happened, other than it was on a college campus. Emily’s interest soon turned to worry, for she was a high-school senior. She began to worry for her older friends: she knew quite a few college-goers. When NPR came back on, she listened apprehensively while they covered the shooting story again. The shooting was at Virginia Tech. Reports said—
Sarah goes to Virginia Tech.
The shooting suddenly became much more important. As the report went on, Emily’s thoughts turned to horror. Sarah, her best friend in the world, goes to V.Tech. Emily had just been on a college visit their over spring break; had just been there with Sarah. And now, well, now Sarah was still there. And according to the radio, they didn’t know who was safe. They didn’t even know if the shooting was over. What they did say only made Emily feel worse: someone was shot in Sarah’s dorm. Oh God…
After the nauseating drive home, Emily felt faint. Her mother couldn’t comfort her, her father was out on some business trip, and her confidant, the one person she could talk to, might have been shot while Emily was safe at [home/school], laughing at her own blissful ignorance.
She couldn’t believe this had happened, that she didn’t know how Sarah was. Emily tried to call, but she couldn’t get through. She hung up the phone and unmuted the TV. She was sick with fear now, Sarah wasn’t picking up. The TV said it was because everyone is trying to call into campus: the phone lines are jammed. But why won’t she answer her cell phone?
It was Sarah’s dorm. They said they still didn’t know who was safe and who…wasn’t. Emily was beginning to panic. No one who knew her could get through, and the school wouldn’t talk to anyone. She called Sarah’s parents, and they hadn’t heard from her either. Sarah is reliable though, why wouldn’t she call her family to say that she’s okay?
That last thought would haunt Emily. It first occurred to her when Mom tried to get her to eat something at seven o’clock. It was on her mind when she fell asleep at 2:00 a.m. She didn’t go to school the next day; she couldn’t. Emily had slept four restless hours before she awoke to find she had made herself sick with worry. Her mother still had to go to work though, so the only thing left to comfort her was the thankless 24 hour news and her unanswered phone calls. She got progressively worse as the day went on.
Sometime that evening, Emily made her hundredth phone call. She had been calling Sarah to see if she was okay, Sarah’s family to see if she wasn’t, and her assorted friends to see if they had found out anything. She looked at the clock, which read 7:42. She hadn’t called anyone for at least 20 minutes now, so she went to get the phone out of the base. As her hand reached for the phone, it rang. Startled, she hesitantly lifted the phone, pressed the call button, and put the phone to her ear.
“Hello?”
it's been a while since I've dug into this folder, wow.
To media + Show Spoiler +to media:
what would you do if no one died today?
The McDonald's Man
+ Show Spoiler +The McDonald’s Man
The man stands, silently, solemnly. He watches; he waits. He doesn’t ask for change, nor beg for food. Most ignore him, but he sees them. Now he is getting some attention; a group walking out the doors looks over and decides to move on. The man determines that his approach isn’t working, so he takes the first step. Another person walks by him, and this time he exchanges a few words with the passerby. A couple walks out of the doors, and the man gives them something. They both look at what he handed them, then drop it in the trash and walk away quickly. A large woman walks out, and when the man hands her something, she becomes angry and throws the object on the ground. It is a business card.
As the man continues to hand out the business cards, a trend emerges. Those he talks to consider him either insulting, a nuisance, or ignore him altogether. He is talking almost solely to the occupants coming out of the building; those going past on the sidewalk go by unnoticed. The building, a McDonald’s, has a “no soliciting” sign on the door, and if not for that the man would be inside, closer to his target audience, the McDonald’s patrons themselves.
Now, when someone comes out, the man is able to effectively get their attention. He is learning how to talk to this audience, and he even gets a few positive responses. He seeks out the largest men, women, and children, despite the fact that they react to him with the harshest criticism.
He is out front a few hours, and when the lunchtime crowds come around, he gathers his own small crowd. By now he has learned how to interest the audience, instead of anger or annoy them. Some people listen to him talk, others just grab a card and walk by. Either way is fine, because the message gets across either way. The clear-cut card explains everything else the man is saying in a few words:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ` ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ____________________________________ ` ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ | ` ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ | Do you need Arterial Bypass Surgery? ` ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ | Call now for a FREE plaque ` ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ | screening and consultation ` ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ | 410-555-9423 ` ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ | ` ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ | This courtesy provided by: ` ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ | The Offices of John T. Roberts, M.D. ` ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ |____________________________________ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~
Edit:
On January 20 2012 10:03 TofuD wrote: I wrote a book, if anyone cares XD
nyerp -A
it's a buck, I'll give it a shot, it's in my to read list now.
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Arright, I'll put myself out there!
A while back, a friend of mine challenged me to write a book. I decided to push myself to write a chapter a week; as I went, I posted what I had on Blogspot so that my friend could follow my progress. The entire thing is here:
http://hplamour.blogspot.com/2010/06/act-one.html
I made the mistake of letting the aforementioned friend decide what I would write, and he insisted on a Western. Since I have a weird sense of humor, my "Western" draws heavy influences from Douglas Adams, Terry Prachett, and Kurt Vonnegut; the first chapter begins with the introduction of a very confused Lovecraftian monster, to give you an idea. I'd also like to note the fact that Captcha named my main character: a gunslinger named "Polk Buckhorn."
Fair warning: this is a first draft, and it shows. My rule for myself was "no filler;" every chapter had to develop a character or advance the plot. Expect a lot of hasty exposition and "broad strokes" character development as a result. Still - given the fact that I had no idea where the story was going when I started out, I'm fairly happy with what I came up with.
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I wrote a novel aswell, but I trashed it as soon as i had finished it.
I wrote it purely for myself to see if i could do it.
I don't think there is anything that taught me as much about writing as when i tried to write my own book. In the end I ended up not liking it very much. It was far to obvious that large parts just were not of my own invention. It had a twist which I initially thought was pretty clever but ended up actually being far too hard to explain properly.
Still, despite hating the thing and never intending to show it to anyone, I keep it on my comp to make me remember how much I learned from writing it.
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On January 20 2012 10:22 FoxyMayhem wrote: Then read the OP. It explains how to ask for feedback in a way that makes it easy for us to give you feedback. <3
Hey Foxy, I looked over your short story!
I really liked your writing style , liked Haydor, liked the minimalism, liked the dragon, hated Yauna. I wrote notes along side your story below, they were in bold before but the transition here erased that so anything thats framed by lots of brackets is comments on your story, hope you find some useful stuff there! Also theres a long stretch where I don't comment because its all excellently done.
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She looked down on the body of the dragon. It no longer strained against the chains, but it's swirling orange eye watched, tracking her as she knealed near it.
I know it seems stupid but with us living in the era of whats new and creative its kinda hard to start off with something like a dragon, the general impression of which is that it is the greatest cliche of the fantasy genre, that said it is also a staple and can be very effective if used well so I'll just trust you for now
. Neat writing, I like how in your story I can always keep track of how the characters are moving and feeling. The excitement/ concern aspect of Haydar's character ragarding Yanau and the dragon is good,
The dragon description is great and I like the idea of power transmuting into anger.
The one thing I dont like is Yauna, a protagonist should always be relevant to the conflict, t Yauno as far as we know was just picked up off the street and the only thing that makes her relevant to the story is the fact that she is the vessel. I understand theres more to it, shes probably in this situation because of the war but so are probably at least 50000 other orphans, why her? I'm sure you don’t want to reveal her past until later which is good, but a characters immediate occupation should tell us something interesting about them or at least hint at why there in this situation in the first place. Yet this all only relevant if Yauno remains the pure and only protagonist, if this is a multi perspective story(which it seems like) than you can have this scene play out later or better yet, have a prologue that introduces you to a relevant character and then have this intriguing start as the first legitimate chapter of the story.
Your description of everything is very strong but I would like something regarding setting, is the dragon in a dungeon? You dont need to explain the setting fully, its just right now the only clue we have is that the dragon is in chains and just having Haydar hold a candle or something would let us no that this place is dark so you dont have to go too far out of the way to let us know. Also dont like the names Haydar and Yauna, thats just me.
"It's time?" she asked in a small voice. She knew knew the answer
"Yes," Haydar said, his voice gentle. He stayed back, giving them the space they needed.
"And I have to do it?" She looked up to Haydar, eyes asking for reassurance. The dragon looked between them.
"Yes." She'd told him not to let her back down. It still made his stomach twists. Our lives only depend on it, he thought, but kept it inside.
(((((((((((((“See this desperation answers why they have to do it, but not why you as the writer/god have chosen her. I dont find her at all unique or especially courageous, I get that shes your clay to mold into whatever, but wouldnt it be nicer to have something to build off? Its like d and d, its easier to role play if you have some characteristics defined, maybe she can be just a bit bolder, reckless even for a full grown man. Its just seems like the key character is a bit too bland and our interest in her relies heavily on the change thats about to occur for her.))))))))))))))
She gave a week smile and took a deep breath. "Okay."
He didn't care about his ending that much, except for the knowledge he'd worked so hard for being lost to the world. For reasons he couldn't quite explain, it was her's he cared about -- after all she'd been through so far, he wished to see her live a good life.
((((((((((Yeah yeah old man I get it you like her but I'm far more interested in how hes almost using her to sate his curiosity.)))))))))))))
She reached out, hand and fingers floating through the air like whisps, toward the dragon's head. He urged her in his heart. The dragon jerked against the chains, their clicking filling the silence of the cavern. But they change bare let it shift an inch. The dragon's whole body fought to pull away, and Yauna's just closed the distance.
((((((((((IS the dragon completley bound? Her can move somewhat... why isnt her eating her or bette yet burning her alive, heres an oportunity for some neat imagery, have a chain be bound amaterley around the dragons muth with more smoke pouring out the ends and the nostrils as Yauna gets closer.))))))))
In the middle of the dragon's head, between it's eyes, rested a perly protrusion. Underneath, the power of the dragon flowed. Humans were not to touch it. According to the dragon, at least.
(((((((((This is really good, you reveal dragons to be intelligent shed and little light on thier relationship with humans ))))))))))
The truth was, in all the research Haydar had done, in all the countless hours over dusty books and scrolls, days with blackened fingers as he traced with charcole the etchings of stone...
Dragons needed their powers taken, even if they never wanted it. It served as an incubation, and brought them from their animistic rage when their powers returned.
(((((((((((((((But again mister Haydar are you doing this for Yanua, the dragon? Or just for youself. Hes a really good character no qualms with him like that hes crippled.)))))))))))))))))))))
But, it would not be an easy task for either.
Yauna's hand pulled back. "Why does it have to be me."
She knew why, of course. Haydar was crippled in ways the dragon's power could not touch. She may not have been the ideal candidate either -- a small girl, not the broad shouldered and magically potent men who had been used in ancient days -- but she was their only option. Time was running out.
"I know I know," she said before Haydar could answer. She took another deep breath, this time stead. She thrust her hand forward and placed her fingers on the pearly protrusion.
Nothing happened. Not like the texts said it should. Did I miss something? Can only a certain race or bloodline use it?
No, that can't be right, many races did. It's unlikely they shared any born trait.
Then what's wrong!
He glanced over her, looking. She looked fearfully at where her hand touched, fearful that it wasn't working. They could all die now.
Don't think about that.
He looked over the dragon. If anything, the hate in it's eyes had grown, driven by the defiling it must be feeling. This is for it's own good, Haydar reassured himself.
Then, he noticed the eyes. The swirling orange and red energies had slowed. Then, the pupil began dialiting, and it ceased fighting the chains, as if thrust into a trance.
Beams of light shot from the pearly protrusion, beaming through her fingers. "Grip it!" Haydar shouted.
Yauna didn't respond. She can't hear me, is that enough contact? He stopped himself from racing over and making sure her hand had good enough contact. He could not interfere; it had to be enough.
Yauna herself began to cast a subtle orange light, strongest on the hand that touched the dragon. On her finger, just behind where the fingernails began, the flesh rose up. The fingernails darkened, and new, thick, pointed nails like claws pushed out the old ones. Her fingers lengthened and muscles snapped taunt. The orange glow climbed her arm, lengthening it. Where it once was skinny, almost anemic, mucles began to appear.
She hunched forward suddenly. A scream ripped from her throat. The orange light began covering her torso, beaming through the cuts in her shirt. Something moved under the shirt. Haydar only took a moment to decide: he grabbed one of the cuts and tore the back open; as a schollar, he needed to see this.
Bony protrustion peirced the skin in her back from the shoulder blades, and Haydar's jaw slackened. Two trails of blood ran down her back, but before the would could bleed in ernest, the edge of the cuts darkened to the look of dragon skin an healed. It almost seemed as if the shoulder blade spikes had always been there, as if it was natural. Almost.
Her other hand grew claws to match the first, and her torso lenghtened, as if blessed with a sudden growth spurt to make up for all those years of malnutrition. The light reached her legs. She fell to the ground, hand still touching the dragon as if glued. Here, the texts had said, the growth would be the most painful.
In a matter of seconds her upper leg grew six inches. Yauna didn't scream, but it was only because no air remain in her lungs to make a sound; her mouth remained open. The glow reached her lower legs, growing six inches more. The glow finally reached her foot. Toes grew claws as they lengthened, making it more able to grip. The foot grew larger all around, an inch wider and several inches longer. A claw burst from the skin on her heal, and like the bone plates, grew dark skin around the edges, this time before any blood could escape.
((((((((((((All this description is solid and compleltey absorbing))))))))))))))
The dragon shuddered, and finally her hand dropped from its brow. The glow of her skin recceded. She didn't gasp for air; Haydar knew she was unconcious. Instead, he saw the gentle rise and fall, the stretching of the skin around her shoulder protrusions.
She was Dartorrad(((((((((((Stop ripping off skyrim lol kidding, though really maybe change the name a bit so it in no way resembles dovakin... You know how trigger happy bethesda's liars are about ip rights.))))))))))))) -- one who has stolen the heart of a dragon. Well, really, it was the power, but the ancients liked to be poetic about it.
Haydar tore his sleeve and tapped the trails of blood on her back. Once it was unmarked, clean and, perhaps aside from the bony protrustion, beautiful, he grabbed the tear of the shirt, intending to pull it closed. He wanted to inspect…
Purely for research? he asked himself.
He knew the answer. Beside, what she'd just done for them, she certainly deserved her privacy. He pulled the shirt closed and carefully rolled her over, cupping her head. He laid it gently against the stone and looked at her new face. Of all the things that changed, this would certainly be the most...
He remembered when he first met Yauna, malnurished and hollow eyed. It had taken so long to get her to eat right, and even longer for some light to return to her eyes. When it did, they looked like a clear sky. He couldn't help but love to see her alight. She'd gone from hollow faced to an almost healthy weight, filling out the hollows and hiding the bones.
He could see the bones again, but it wasn't the marks of starvation. She looked like some yet-undiscovered race, ones with sharp cheekbones and pronounced brows, and very strong, almost pointy chins. It looked nothing like starvation. It looked like agression(Like this line alot, reveals her new nature), carved into her face.
Pulled her eyelid up. Yes, as the text had said, her irises were now a luminescent red. Dialated and empty in unconciousness. He let the eyelid closed.
People would fear her. He only hoped she wouldn't take the rejection too hard. He glanced down at her feet, and the spike protruding from her heal. Ha, she'll be needing new shoes, too.
He held her hand and ran his thumb over the back of one of her claws. It was meant to be an inspection, but he felt a rush of tenderness behind it. He couldn't help but smile at her.
"I wonder how long until she can breathe fire," he whispered in the quiet. Thinking about what was coming to their enemies, that smile couldn't help but become a bit vindictive.
(((((((((((((Nice fore shadow! Overall good fun take on dragons maybe have a bit of a prologue before this scene maybe do something about Yauna...(I dont know its kinda lame to have a deep conflict between ones human and dragon sides when their human side has all the personality of a peeled potato.) and be careful not rip off skyrim even if your just spiritually taking from it. Again great description really like your writing style good luck on this story!)))))))))))))))))
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Thank Gumshoe! Ha ha, great crit. This is exactly the kind of feedback that really benefits writers.
I feel what you're saying about Yauna. The first draft of the story focused the dragon, transformation, and creating an emotional connection with the perspective character. (Speaking of Dortorrad, I suppose I should blame Skyrim's main quest for being so awesome that it made me write a short. You caught my muse in the act! :D)
So, the main things I hear you say are missing are 1) something interesting about Yauna pre-embuement, a reason to like her aside from the sympathy of her hard upbringing, and 2) a bit more setting.
Also, Haydar is not old, so I need to indicate that. He's early thirties.
Also, I don't like the name Haydar either.
My main concern is putting in setting description before the transformation happens. For me, if I don't care about the story, I don't care about the cave/dungeon they're in. But then, I suppose it will only take one good line.
I really like your review style. You balance compliments with criticism, and you describe things well. I especially appreciate you starting off with the positive stuff -- it's amazing what that can do for one's receptivity.
And for those reading, I've given him feedback on his stuff as well in PM. I suggest everyone read his, if you haven't already. I think this is a great start to the thread! Good stuff, everybody.
EDIT: I asked gumshoe if I could post the crit, and we was all for it. I figure it might be interesting to some peeps.
+ Show Spoiler +Thoughts (and remember, these are all opinions, though, hopefully, educated ones. Take it with a grain of salt.): -You can introduce her as the Sunset Countess, but after that you either need to stick to just Countess or the full Sunset Countess. You keep changing back and forth, and it's distracting. If you chose to call her Countess from then on (recommended), then refrain from using her full title until the "Sunset" part is very relevant to the goings on. -I love the emotional effects of this sentence: "I watched the last events of the evening unfold atop a stained mattress and a small pool of blood accumulating beneath my broken lip." -This is great: She whispered something to my mother, something which I would not learn for over 20 years. This helps hook us into the larger plot, something that is desperately important in the opening of modern novels. -"but despite the loss of such a terrible creature". Loss implies death, how about absence? Also, if the Sunset Countess doesn't look human, that should probably be mentioned at some point in this first section. -With the end of the first section, I am led to believe the perspective character is a quadriplegia. -"She conspired to let none other than herself, I and a discount midwife know of her child’s existence." Oxford comma after the "I" please!-"As soon as she had the strength to cry my mother told me that I had to kill the child." My first thought: the countess impregnated mom. Not good or bad, but just feedback authors need. -"I [pried the girl from her hands and bolted from the room as fast as I could." "Pried" gives me the impression mom was reluctant to let go. -"My last clear memory of the outdoors at the time had involved 6 foot high trenches of snow. But the great Mounds of frost so clearly there in my last impression of the city, had been replaced by packs of burgeoning greenery." This REALLY grabs me. I like seeing people struggle through crazy and abnormal situations (part of being a Speculative Fiction fan, I suppose), and on top of the other stuff going on, my interest is now firmly cemented. We'll see if it's maintained. -I chuckled at "We could have made a killing as beggar," and this line makes me like the perspective character, the first thing to endear me to him aside from sympathy. While trying to protect his parents was admirable, it's also kind of standard. Not bad, and important for the character, but it's not a reader-hooking action like this line is being in a small way. -"Eventually we came to a forested ravine[comma] where I ended up mock considering a few potential kill sites while considering what to actually do with my baby sister." -"I left the ravine and wondered what kind of home would I want to grow up in if I could choose?" This thought seems like a non-sequiter; why would he have a choice? Why is he wondering about a choice he doesn't have (assuming) when he should be thinking about survival? EDIT: Next line answer that. Maybe "house" would be a better word? Home makes me think "What kind of people I could grow up with as parents." EDIT2: The next part clarifies even further. Leave it, it's good. -"Looking back[comma] I don’t know why I was so sure that complete strangers would just take in someone elses child." -"I would pin the conviction on childish naivety, but somehow, all those years ago, I had been right about the people who lived in the castle." I think "was" is correct instead of "has been", but I'm really not sure. Was sounds better to me, though. -"I told her I fed her to a fox." I chuckled, and I'm interested. As a reader I fear our perspective character will soon and for a while not have any influence on the story, aka, not be able to change what's happening around him like he did with the baby. It makes me cautious going forward. I personally don't like powerless heroes -- I'm okay with them struggling with horrors of the past when they were powerless, but I don't like going through it with them. I imagine most don't, but I might be wrong, so I hope to see the character keep making decisions that have effects, good or ill. I'm personally also looking for something bright that makes me say "yes, it's okay to get invested in this world." For me, that needs to appear very soon. I think the first section could use some work as far as sentences go, but it's great for everything but the last drafts or two. When you want to work on that part, check out this podcast: http://www.writingexcuses.com/2011/03/27/writing-excuses-5-30-writing-action/Very good work!
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Bump with a motivational wallpaper I just made for myself. Thought it would be great to share.
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This is a story I wrote in grade 12 (almost year ago, when i finished, more when I started) for writing class.
There are a coupe of things you should know before you read it though. 1. I tend to miss words now and then (maybe quite often actually), though this was proofread so that should help a bit. 2.It is about 7000 words long (I will try to spoiler it but this is the first time I've tried to spoiler something). 3. Looking back on it now there is one part I don't think fits very well. I won't say what part because that could spoil the story. But if you think you've found it you can comment on it. 4.Comment and critique anything (i know you want specifics, sorry) or just read it for your enjoyment, if you enjoy it that is.
Oh yeah one more thing, I suck at paragraphs.
So here goes I will make my first attempt at spoilering
+ Show Spoiler +Chapter 1
Nothing. Darkness. Light. Grey above. Clouds? Clouds. A distant something I feel somewhere far off. It is not good. Pain. Why? How? Getting fuzzy, and dark, again, quickly… I awake, I think I was awake not to long ago before this, I don’t remember very well, but if I was I did not have the vigour in my bones which I do now. My eyes are open and there is nothing pulling at them to close. Up above and down below, the clouds, the pain—both remain. I can see the clouds, and clouds are in the sky, so I must be lying on my back since I am neither standing or sitting. Something appears before my eyes, stops there when I see it; a strange creature with many limbs. Ah, it is my hand, my left hand. And here is my right before my eyes now as well. My hands, well what about my arms, and my legs and my feet, and my head? My eyes must be fine because I can see my hands, but can I move my head, should I try? I try, and my head moves. I move my head so that my chin approaches my chest, nearly resting upon it. I can see my chest, my stomach, my legs and my feet. Upon my chest is a piece of light blue and grey cloth, it goes down slightly past my waist. It also covers my arms to the wrists. A shirt, that’s what it is. And upon my legs is another cloth of brown which goes down to my ankles, pants. My feet are bare. There are a few tears on my shirt and pants. The pain, in my … back, it is still there but not that bad, only a discomfort really. I move to try get away from the pain by rolling onto my side. Now the pain is gone from my back and in my side instead. I look down at the ground where I lie; it is solid rock though made of tiny mountains that strain to touch the sky. This ground is very jagged, perhaps my back does bleed. I feel with my hands and know that all is well. Now I realize in my effort to escape the pain I have moved my full body. My neck is not broken and neither is my back. I shall stand. I try with the help of my arms and hands, but the effort makes me dizzy and sends strange lights across my eyes. So I sit. And wait. My vision clears and then my head unmasking a slight throb in my mind, which I now notice, my head does feel. If I can stand now, perhaps walking will do me some good. On my feet I now see I am on a mound of rock. All around are mountains. To my right some ways from the mound of rock is a forest which disappears behind a mountain. I turn to look in the direction which my feet had been facing as I lay. The forest now lies to my right. Up above the clouds have taken on a bulbous look. They are fit to burst, I can smell it. It hangs in the air. I begin to make my way down the rock to the forest. Hopefully the foliage of the trees will be enough to keep me dry. I feel the first light drop upon my shoulder; several others follow in quick succession. I pick up my pace and make haste. I scramble off the rock and onto the soft grassy ground and head down a slight incline towards the forest at a light run. The rain is falling more quickly now and more heavily. When I make it to the trees I will be quite wet. I am. I stumble into the cover of the trees and after a few steps the rain is nearly gone. The branches of these trees are many and tangled thickly above. The ground quickly becomes much drier as I push forwards, though behind me it is being swallowed by flowing rivers. It is very dark in this wood barely any light can slip through the intertwined branches above. But it is dry, for now. I should find some higher ground to make a fire. I could always sleep in a tree, but then of course I could not have a fire. My course is simply deeper into the forest, in hopes that the ground will begin to rise. I do not bother to pick up any fallen wood as there are ample amounts all around. So if I find a suitable spot some dry wood will not be far. For a while the ground in the forest has been simply dirt mixed with the droppings that forests leave. I think night has now fallen, though perhaps the foliage has simply grown even thicker. But the air is not as warm now. It is a cold forest where the sun does not shine. Thoughts of fire warm my mind but my body can only be satisfied by its true light. I will keep walking for a bit to try and find a clearing in which to make a fire. As I step around a great tree I enter a small clearing, suitable for a fire. Overhead the branches of trees encroach upon the open sky. It is just as dark as everywhere else. I pick up a few fallen branches and a bunch of little twigs and set them down in the center of the clearing. Taking two small branches in my hands I begin to rub them back and forth against each other. I had forgotten until now how long this takes. And I am getting tired, more tired as it goes. The longer it takes the slower it goes and the longer each blink takes.
Chapter 2
My legs spasm, my heart nearly breaks free of my ribs and my eyes rip open sending pieces of sleep flying. I must have fallen asleep, but why did I awaken in such a fashion? What caused it? Last time I woke up, the last two times I woke were very peaceful. Anyways awake now sitting down, my back against a tree. Two pieces of wood lie, one on each side of me, near my hands. I must have fallen asleep while trying to make a fire. How long did I sleep? I look up at the canopy of branches overhead, the forest is slightly brighter now, I think. Perhaps day has come, which would mean I slept for a good while, if it truly was night when I started to make a fire. I feel unrest in my gut. I must eat. I rise to my feet and stretch. My shoulders crack, so does my back. I remember when I sat down my back was to the direction to which I was travelling. I am hungry and I don’t see any food around, might as well keep going in the direction which I was walking before I stopped to try and make a fire. I set off winding my way a long paths through the trees and forging my own through the underbrush when necessary. It is still as dark as ever and I must go slowly to make sure my eyes are not skewered by low branches. The ground begins to rise slightly. Eventually it starts to grow rockier as well. Slowly the trees thin and the way becomes better lit. I speed up my gait now that I can see better. I break free of the forest. I am on a rocky cliff flanked on either side by mountains, overhead grey clouds still hold sway over the sky. On the mountain to my left I spot what may be a rocky path curving its way around the mountain. Below the cliff is wide a valley in which rests a forest. Some of the trees are so tall they almost reach the cliff where I stand. In the distance there are more mountains who are being swarmed by storm clouds. I take the path to my left which clings to the mountain. The ground is covered in a thin soft, green moss. The moist feeling of the moss is nice on my feet. The path is fairly wide, I think four of me could walk abreast and we would not have to touch shoulders. As I walk I see the occasional island of bedrock surrounded by the moss. The side of the mountain is to my left. In it are many cracks. The higher I look the less there are, but it could just be that my eyes cannot see what is there that far away. I watch the clouds roll and change. They are very strange. And they are getting hard to see now, night is coming. Up ahead there is a very wide spot in the path, though it is not very long. Here in the side of the mountain is a small horizontal depression, just enough to shelter me from the rain if I curl up tightly. There is no wood here to make a fire with. Hopefully it will not grow too cold when dusk turns to night. I lie down on the moss and watch the clouds slowly clear above as the light flees the night. Slowly I open my eyes. I guess I fell asleep. My gaze returns to the sky up above there are no clouds which I can see. But there are many tiny, bright, white lights. The sky itself is black though very lightly tinted purple. What are these lights? They are so strange and so mesmerizing. What is bright, tiny, and reside in the sky? Stars. That’s what they are. Then my gaze drifts to the right and there hanging in the air is what appears to be an enormous star. It is so large that I can easily see it is in the shape of a great disk. I realize now, as I raise my hand and see its shadow, that this great disk casts light. It is big, hangs in the sky at night and casts light. The moon. And the sun. The sun which is present during the day. But this is the moon. Almost pure white and casting purple light. I blink, but only half way, I do not think I will complete the other half for a long while.
Chapter 3
I am in a great cave. Its walls are blue and white mixed into one. I try to stand. I slip and fall. This is a cave of ice. But a river flows somewhere near, I hear it. Towards the sound I walk, winding my way through a maze of inverted icicles. I reach the river. It is not very wide, but wide enough that I would not want to swim when it must the exceptionally cold. I follow it down stream. There are also icicles, properly verted, hanging from the ceiling. Some connect with the ones sprouting from the ground. Still I follow the flowing water. The river bends and ahead I see the sea. The great cave ends here and the ice stops at the mouth. I step out onto the sand of the short delta. To my right the land swells out in a great sandy cliff. I stare up at the sky. Dusk is approaching, I think. Then my view falls out upon the sea. Out in the water is a large island. Too far to swim to. It would probably take a whole day of swimming, but I do not think I could last even an hour in those waves. On the island there is a mountain, a towering peak of grey. I look to my left and once again the land swells out in cliff, though the swell is less than that of the one to my right. I look back the way I came, it is all cliff, and very high. I doubt I could find a way up. My gaze wanders back to the island and then up to the sky where the moon rests in its court attended by the stars. I break my gaze away from the sky and it seems as if I have been staring at the sky for ages. I look down at the ground by my feet, but behold my feet are not there. Where have they gone? I look all around. The rest of me is gone as well. What has happened? Then I notice the moon is now much larger. I look around and down. Far below is the beach and the island and the top of the cave; a coastal plain which flows into foothills and rises up into mountains. I am floating here far above my body nowhere I can see. I don’t what to do or if I should even do anything. I begin to descend, picking up speed quickly. I am falling, towards the sea. There is nothing I can do I shall strike the water and be dashed to pieces. But I have no body how can I strike the water? I don’t even know what I am. But it is close. It is here. The water barely moves as I enter it, and I can barely feel it. There is no light not even that of the moon or stars. And then in the distance a tiny purple and pink stream appears, very tiny flowing through the darkness. I try and swim towards it, and the water moves so that it barely touches me leaving no moisture upon my skin. Still I make progress towards the light. I get closer and closer and then it writhes spasmodically and splits into more strands inside of which I can see yet more, smaller strands. They move towards and encircle me and begin flow all around in strange jerking movements which really are not very flowy. The water is gone now, or at least in so far as I can tell it is. I reach out to touch one of the strands but when I am about to touch it, it is suddenly very far away and very small looking. I try to touch another one and the same thing happens. I look back to where the first one I tried to touch was when it was far away, it is no longer there. Probably it is circling me now in its strange jerky fashion.
Chapter 4
My eyes open peacefully. But why? I was just awake in that place of strange lights. I walked from the cave to the sea and then… flew to the moon? Can I fly? Quickly I stand and try to fly as I did to the moon. Nothing happens. Because I do not know how to fly, I guess, or even if I can. This is strange I thought I had been sleeping, that is as it seems, but apparently I was not. Apparently I was in some other place where I could fly. How did I get there? I think, very hard, I don’t know. Can I get there again? If I don’t know how I got there how would I know how to get there again? I wouldn’t, I don’t. Then my stomach gives me a jab, bringing me back to where I am now; on the rocky path on the side of the mountain with a forest below. Most likely there will be better prospects of food in the forest below but for the time being I see no way down. I continue walking in the direction which I had been walking before I lay down, to sleep, ha, as if I got any sleep. Though I do feel very well rested and awake. Overhead the clouds are a myriad of different colours, some deep blue, others white, and in between rocky grey. Behind them is the bright blue of the sky. I cannot see the sun but I see its rays casting shadows on some of the clouds. I bring my eyes back to the ground upon which I tread and see ahead of me many large rocks fallen across the path and down into the forest. I climb up on the mound on the path, it continues on the other side. But the rocks also provide a natural way for me to get down to the woods, I think. Yes, I believe I could negotiate those fallen stones down to the forest floor. I begin my descent, slowly, and carefully. Some of the rocks are loose. I am lowering myself down to a rather large flat rock. Suddenly one of my handholds, the right one, breaks apart and I am hanging by one arm, then my grip breaks as well and I fall. I manage to cushion my fall a bit with a partial roll without falling off the edge of the large flat rock. My left arm is bleeding, from a small scrape near my elbow, and so is my left knee. Other than that I believe I am fine. I stand and look down to the forest; it is only a few more rocks to the ground. Now I move very slowly and carefully even though there is no spot so dangerous as the one which caused me to fall. I hop off the last rock and onto the forest floor. Here the trees are much smaller than the ones in the forest in which I slept and much more widely spaced. It is easily possible to see the sky whenever I should wish to do so. The trees are also very black. I wander away from the cliff and deeper into the trees. The ground here is strange almost like rock, but not quite. It seems as if each step takes slightly more work than it did when I was on the path above. Where trees sprout from the ground it encroaches right up to the edge of their trunks hiding all roots. Though some I see have broken through here and there. Unless I can break a branch from a tree I doubt I will be able to have a fire, for there are almost no fallen bits of wood at all. I will not try yet when the time comes there will be trees a plenty around to choose from. My foot comes down upon a root which protrudes, as I push off it cracks, crushed under my weight. I look back at it; it is not broken all the way through, though more than halfway. The wood inside is a dull light-brown and yellow colour. I walk up to one of the trees and kick with the bottom of my foot. It leaves an indentation of cracked bark about the size of my foot. The wood of these trees is very soft. In the forest before the cliff the trees were much tougher than this, I stepped on many roots and nothing of this sort ever happened. If the trees are so weak I should think that there would be many more fallen branches on the ground. A strong wind could tear limbs from these trees quite easily I would imagine. I look back in the direction in which I have come, there are little markings on the ground, they lead tight up to where I now stand. I squat down and look at the closest one. The next closest one looks the same except it is the opposite in some ways. I shuffle over in my squat to get a different angle. There, where I was squatting are two very similar marks. I move again and see the same marks. These are simply the marks of my feet the, the ground here is very soft—everything is so far. I stand up, turn and start walking again in the direction I was going before. Eventually the ground starts to rise, slowly. Up ahead I see a slightly more open area than is normal here with a large round protrusion of rock rising from the ground. I enter this clearing, though the forest to be filled with slightly smaller clearings. I approach the stone, it is not much taller than me, but it is much wider, probably almost twice as wide as the length of my body if I lay down. This would be a good spot to rest and build a fire, it is just starting to get dark anyways and the rock might be able to give me a little bit of cover in case it rains. I walk over to a tree and grab a branch with both hands and pull down wards there is a mighty crack, but the branch is still attached to the tree. I pull again and the branch comes free. It falls to the ground. I pick it up. It is heavy, but not so heavy that I cannot carry it. I bring it back to the rock, set it down and begin pulling the smaller branches off it. I select two good sized ones and begin rubbing them together; hopefully I will not fall asleep this time. After a short while my gut twists again causing me pain; reminding that it is hungry. I have not eaten for three days! But as far as I know I have not seen anything to eat either. Probably I am already weak from not eating, and will only continue to grow more so. Perhaps the reason that branch was so heavy is because I have grown weak without food, or drink! I have not had anything to drink in three days either, and I do not think it has crossed my mind until now. Perhaps I had forgotten what drinking was and why it is important to drink…water. I must find water and some food. After get a fire going good I will go out and look for both. My arms are very tired now, but the wood is smoking in my hands. There are no leaves on the trees or grass on the ground to help me start the fire. The wood is hot enough now I think. I set both pieces on the ground the one on top of the other. Then I begin stripping pieces away from one of the smallest branches. Now I have several small, thin pieces of wood. I rub the smoking pieces of wood together again briefly. Then lay them back down and place three thin strips of wood in between them. Slowly they begin to smoke as well, then one lights; a tiny flame. I add two more pieces thin pieces. All of the original ones are on fire now, and the fourth and fifth pieces light quickly. The two pieces I rubbed together to start the fire have caught now as well. I add another piece about the same size as those two, and then another one which is slightly larger. The fire is going quite well now. I break the largest branch in two and add one half to the fire. Once it catches I will go to look for food and drink. It is caught. That was fast! I guess the fire is pretty hot, and I am pretty hungry. I stand up, stretch and look around. It is much darker now, though the sky, now cloudless as far as I can see, still has some colour, but some stars are slowly appearing. The trees still barely cast shadows, though the places where there are no shadows are like islands slowly being enveloped be the sea. I turn around to face the rock, look to my left and then to my right, I will go right. In this direction the ground slopes down as I leave the rock but becomes much more gradual maybe even flat. Unless I could eat the trees I do not see much of value in nourishing me. I turn my path slightly to the right, I see something out of the corner of my left eye; a flicker of darkness, which is strange in a place and time as dark as this. I turn back to the direction in which I saw the flicker and hasten my pace. I keep my eyes and my ears open wide, but it is very dark, shadows lie nearly every where now, and there is nothing to hear, or at least nothing that I have heard. I hear something. Something crashes down upon me. It is stuck to me I try to roll to get it off but it doesn’t work. I grab at it and I try to pull it off. Manage to pull off one piece which feels as though it is shaped like a tree branch but it just latches right back on. I strike at it flailing. As I bring my hand back over my head to strike down my fist connects with something and the grip on me slackens. I quickly shrug the thing off and roll away.
I look back at the thing which was on me. It appears to be a creature perhaps similar to me; it has two arms, two legs and what I think is a head. However, its looks like, and now that I think of it felt like, black stone or very tough bark, actually more a mixture of the two. It is also much shorter than me. The thing gets to its feet and instantly runs at me. I take a few steps back and then grab its left arm with both hands and swing it against a tree to my right. It smashes into the tree and as it starts to fall, with me still holding its arm, I help its descent with my left foot, smashing it into the ground. I hear a crack which must be its skin breaking. I deliver another blow with my left foot, this time to its head, then two more in quick succession, once again to its head. Even in the nearly completely faded light I can see that its head has been caved in from my blows. It is dead. It could be food. I doubt I could eat its skin without injuring myself, but what is inside might be edible. I pick it up in both arms and start back towards my fire; at least I think this is the right direction. I start to walk I realize, my left foot hurts, from stomping on the thing I would imagine. The pain is not that bad and I keep walking. I look back at where I have stepped, in the dark it is hard to tell but I believe I am leaving some blood behind with each step. Oh well, nothing I can do about it right now.
Looking back in the direction I am walking I see the flicker of my fire in the distance. The fire grows brighter and the ground begins to rise slowly, I am close. There! I can see the wood itself burning in the fire. I reach the fire and lay down my burden beside it. The fire has grown much lower. I add the other half of the biggest branch, it catches quickly. I look at the thing. It is near pitch black even in the light of the fire. I feel its skin, it is like a mixture between stone and bark (as I thought before), and has many ridges running all over it, a good number of which are sharp. That is how my foot got cut.
Its head has no eyes, mouth or ears that I can see, but it does (or did since they are somewhat destroyed in the middle now), have several very wide, vertical, dull ridges on the front. Where its body is caved in I grab an edge of the hole and pull a piece comes free, I do this again and again and again and again. There is a clear liquid on my hands now. I lick one of my fingers tentatively; the liquid tastes sweet, it is good. I reach a hand into the hole, pull my hand out and lick it all over. Very good, but I must see if there is a part of this I can eat as well as drink. I pick up one of the few remaining branches and hit the place where the things left leg connects to its torso. The skin cracks. I hit it three more times, the wood as a club is now useless, I throw it on the fire, but in its short club life it made good progress. I seize the limb and give it a good twist it comes off. I poke my hand inside there is something solid in there perhaps edible, I will cook it. I take a long thin branch and stick it inside the leg, then holding onto the branch I place the leg on the fire, but not completely, this way the branch will hopefully not light. I place the thing on my lap now, enlarge the whole in its torso a bit and then begin drinking by plunging my hands in and then licking them.
My thirst is quenched for now. I take the leg off the fire. I stick my hand inside and grab onto something solid. I pull it out. It is a dull yellow coloured hunk of matter small enough for me to hold in one hand. There are long, thin, shallow dips in it which run its length. I try to pull a piece away. It comes away easily in a nice strip. I put it in my mouth, it is little too tough to chew easily, but I am very hungry. I barely chew, swallowing it I almost choke. It has no taste. I take another piece and place it in my mouth chewing it more slowly, its taste is similar to that of the liquid, though not as sweet. I must not have noticed the taste the first time because it barely touched my mouth. I take more pieces until the whole thing is devoured. I reach inside the leg and pull out another piece. I take another strip and begin chewing, but I do not feel that hungry anymore. I finish the piece anyways. I would have thought that I would have been more hungry, but I guess not.
I am tired. I put the thing on the other side of the fire; it is too sharp for me to rest my head upon. I add the rest of the wood to the fire. There does not appear to be any comfortable nooks or ledges in the rock to rest my head upon. Oh well, I curl up with my back against it and rest my head on the ground. I feel a throbbing in the bottom of my foot. It is my wound I received when stomping in that thing. I should probably look at it, but I think I’ll do that tomorrow. Anyways I’ve got a bunch of other little cuts as well, I can check them all at once. For now I am tired, I will sleep.
Chapter 5
My eyes open slowly. I sit up, my neck hurts. I must have slept funny. The fire is only a few coals now, though they still have some heat. I add the last of the tiny twig branches. I will cook the rest of the thing, eat as much as I can and then carry the rest with me. I look down at my shirt; it has a few more holes than before I think. Around some of the holes the shirt is darker, my blood. My pants seem okay, I don’t think I have any cuts on my legs. I take off my shirt and inspect my body. I have some cuts on my chest and stomach. The outside part of my upper right arm has so many cuts on it that it is almost one bug cut. Fortunately the blood from all my cuts has hardened. I don’t see anything stuck in the dry blood either. I think there is nothing I can do… even if I knew what to do if there was something wrong. I put my shirt back on and add all the rest of what little wood is left to the fire, except for the two biggest pieces, though they are not very big, that I will use to break apart the thing.
I take off the other one of its lower limbs without breaking the stick I used. I add the second leg and what remains of the first to the fire. I take off the right arm and the stick breaks. I throw its remains on the fire as well as the arm. The left arm comes off; the second has not yet broken. I put the left arm on the fire and take off both of the legs. My stick breaks while I am trying to separate the head from the torso. I use my hands and tear it off. I suffer a few more cuts. Over both of the spots were I broke the skin of this thing, one on the head and one on the torso, a sort of soft bark-like structure has formed. It is the same colour as the liquid I drank last night. Perhaps this thing bleeds just like me, and what I drank was its blood. I throw the head and torso on the fire and take the arms off. I feel hungry. I pick up the partially eaten leg and reach inside, I guess it is fully eaten; there is nothing left which I can find. I take the other leg, I reach inside of it, I pull out a piece, I eat it. It is very good. I take another piece from the leg, much larger than the first one. It satisfies my hunger.
I take the head and torso off the fire. I should start moving; I don’t want to sit here all day. But the head and torso are hot and I would like to carry them, I will wait. Hmm… why do I walk? Why do I keep moving? I mean, perhaps there are more of those things around, I could live off them if there are. And there is ample wood for fires. No, I do not want to stay here, maybe, probably, I don’t know why that is. I touch my left hand to the torso; it is cool enough to carry now. I shift into a crouch and hold the torso against my chest with one arm so that its widest sides face up and down. In my hand I take an arm, I place it on the torso, I take the other too and the head upon the arms. I stand. I turn. And walk around the rock. I keep walking in the direction in which I was before I sat down to rest last night. The ground is rising slowly. The trees are thinning. I come out of the last of them. In front of me is a short steep slope of the same strange, grey, soft, rock as the ground. I hold the pieces of the thing to my chest with my right hand and begin my ascent. There are few hand holds but I use my left arm to help myself where I can. I grasp the lip of the small ridge with my left hand and pull the rest of myself over. I sort of roll onto my feet and stand; now holding my food with both hands. All I can see are sort partial arcs of stone springing from the ground like miniature mountains. They very in size, some are slightly shorter than me. Though many much are taller, at least twice as tall as me. A few I can make out appear to be much larger than the others, though nowhere near as tall as mountains. All of them are made of a stone much harder than that of the forest I have just left. There colour is a mixture of white and very light grey, or perhaps it just is very light grey. At their bases many connect leaving no space to walk among them. Though ahead of me is a path through them which twists out of my vision. I hope it keeps going. I believe it keeps going. Forward I walk down the path. It does keep going. It winds again, again, again. I fear that on one of these winds it may end.
Above the clouds cover the sky. They are very dark, almost completely black. But I can still make out different layers and forms because of the occasional barely grey edge. I look back the way I came and already the black clouds have extended their reach so that they are all that I can see in the sky. The pillar-arcs also block my view of the soft forest where I ate. I turn back and start walking again along this winding way. The more I walk the more it winds, this is the nature of the way. I am growing weary; I think I have been walking for a long time. It must be approaching dusk, but I cannot tell because the clouds do not change. But I am not tired, nor is it cold, though it is by no means warm. I doubt I will find anything to make a fire with here and the ground looks just as uncomfortable in all places. I will keep walking till I am dragged down by the weight of my eyelids. I turn a wind and there is a large piece of rock lying in my path which comes almost to my chin. Above it is what appears to be a pillar-arc with its end missing and the rock on the ground looks as though it fits the part. I look on either side of the fallen piece—there is no way around either side unless I should climb among the arc-pillars. I place the torso of the thing, with the arms and on top, upon the fallen pillar-arc. They fall off the other side and make some muffled clicking sounds as they strike the ground. I grasp the top with my hands and full length of arm and, with the help of my feet pushing off the ground and the pillar-arc, pull myself up on top. Lying on my chest and stomach now I turn my body and slide off the other side of the rock. The rock rubs my chest; it is uncomfortable but not painful. I land on my feet. My pants and shirt are covered in the rock dust which is all around, here. I turn to look down the path once again. The legs and torso of the thing are there lying several steps away. Of the head I see no sign. I pick up the torso and legs and place them in a pile in the center of the path. I look at the edges of the path, where the pillar-arcs sprout, for the head. I cannot see it. Perhaps it bounced up and into the place where the dust falls from. I will not look for it there though it would be far too difficult and potentially treacherous and probably futile in the end. I pick the torso and place the legs on top. I start walking along the path again in the direction which I was going before. The path winds and I see it forks in three directions. Which way should I go? I do not know. My mind has grown weary and my body says it is time to rest. I look around for a good spot to lie down, none seem any better than the others. I take the legs off the torso and lay them down in the middle of the fork. I lay the torso down too. I sit down, pick up one of the legs, break the seal which has formed on the torn end. I reach inside and pull out a lump of food. I eat quickly, for as I now realize I am hungry. I take another piece and eat it. I reach inside again for more, but there is no more. I will rest now. I take shirt off and fold it once. I place on the torso of the thing. It is now a comfortable place to rest my head. I lie down with my head on my shirt which is on the torso. Lying on my back I look up at the sky, the clouds. They are still black, but their barely grey edges let me see them roiling. The position of individual clouds in the sky, where it is possible to discern them from the great mass blotting out any celestial beings, does not seem to change; only their form does. The edges of the clouds start to gain new colours, and they move randomly and wildly. I have not seen this happen in all my time here, perhaps it is the sunset. I have seen the clouds take on different colours from the sun before, I have not seen these black clouds do so before now. I shift my body slightly to get more comfortable, but I do not see any pillar-arcs, when, I believe, I rightly should. The clouds are all around wherever I look. And I cannot see my body. This very strange, but this has happened before, though them the only I could not see as my body. I hear a deep booming noise. My eyes open at this. My eyes. My eyes were simply closed, and those were not the clouds, but the ever present darkness when it is dark and eyes are closed, and the light which roams across them. I feel sleepy and that’s why my eyes closed. And without me even noticing. But what was that booming noise? And where did it come from. I see a twisted string of light appears in the sky, lasting just long enough so that I can see it before it disappears. Then the booming sound rumbles across the sky again. There, I see another string which splits. The noise again. What is it? They seem to come consistently, so far, one after the other; the light then the noise. Perhaps the light causes the noise? I think it does, or something similar to that is the case. I think it is thunder… and lightning, but in the reverse order. The light is lightning and the sound is thunder. But I have had enough of thinking for now. Darkness is tugging at the edges of my eye. I will let it pull me away into slumber.
Edit: made it so the story can be read (fixed paragraghs).
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Whenever I have a dream that follows a definitive plot, I try to write it down as soon as I wake up before I forget it. This is the most complete dream I have recorded. I am considering developing it into a novel.
Please forgive my terrible grammar and sentence structure. I was barely awake when I wrote this.
+ Show Spoiler +scenario starts with a group of kids playing a school sponsered simulation of zombies. at the end, everyone revives. awards are given to the person who lives the longest. kid has two friends who are into it really hard, but are ultimately blinded by it.
first round, kid tries to play it conventionally and dies. Second round he just runs away and lives and wins. Third round, he runs away again, but finds a very secluded room where another boy has been holding up the whole time and who thinks its real. The room is not part of the simulation and is a glitch. He tells the kid about reaching the finish line and resetting the game, but the finish line is gaurded by a giant octopus.
well more people come into the secret room, including a girl whom kid is madly in love with. they hold out there for a while, but ultimately are overrun when these sword throwing people bust through. well, one of the swords cuts the wall and the kid escapes outside. Zombies are all over the place, so he just runs through the forest, hops over fences, and eventually comes to this large group of buildings. He sneaks around inside, avoiding everyone, but eventually comes to a room where all the kids are mangled and dismembered. Turns out the zombies are real and are actually killing everyone. If you die, you respawn due to someone hitting the magic clock, but if you just get injured or eaten, you come back here to get patched up and are forced into manual labor.
The kid runs into some of the group again. the girl had been injured, but not severely and so she goes with him. They eventually escape from there, along with girls new boyfriend, stealing a cop car and going. They need gas so at the first gas station, they get out. It is crawling with cops who presumably are working for the strange place. Since they have a cop car, the guy is able to convince the people there that he is a new recruit. There is a young girl investigator who talks and stares at him strangely. It makes kid suspicious so they floor it out of there. They eventually ditch the car because kid is paranoid that they now know what car they are in, so they take off on foot again. The new boyfriend volunteers to stay behind and hold them off for as long as possible.
more woods chasing - zombies still there, after all
they come across a spaceship who talks to them. The spaceship is an agent for the giant squid and is able to control humans by making them love it. The girl stays behind, smitten, but the boy is able to resist and presses on. They are getting close so he jumps into the water (they are on an island or something) and swims along the shore. Remembering about the giant squid, the boy gets scared and starts climbing this terribly steep rock face that is covered in large mushrooms. He is able to pull himself up to the top just in time to avoid the squid who looks menacing below.
The finish line/clock is there and he steps into it, winning the game. The world resets and he is transported to the time right before the school sponsered zombie game is about to start. He, along with the girl have retained their memories and politely elect to leave and do. They go to the spaceship and find its first human slave working alongside the new boyfriend who is also enslaved. He didnt reset because he wasnt a part of the zombies program. The scientist and the boyfriend cannot tolerate each other because they are both madly in love and want to be the only one, eventually the boyfriend pushes the scientist off the cliff and he dies. The spaceship is finished creating its fuel, so it takes the boyfriend up, takes the squid up, removes the reset clock and flies away after giving the kid and the girl a soda-cup's worth of its precious fuel as a momento.
The girl tells the kid that this is why the secret organization was holding the game and forcing kids into work - to get this fuel. One drop can power anything for thousands of years or something. so they take the fuel to the secret organization and walk straight up into the CEO's office. All the important people are there, including that girl at the gas station. They test the boy and girl by throwing pillows at them - the boy dodges every single one and the girl catches every single one.
They explain that this is the only reason why they did zombies and agree to stop, destroying the system in front of them in exchange for the fuel. The boy then throws the cup of fuel at the leader, spilling it everywhere and says "fuck you". They spaceship is gone so it is impossible to make more. The two then walk out of the building and I wake up from my dream.
What do you guys think?
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Coasts, that is one monster of a wall of text. So I have to ask, can you please break it up into smaller paragraphs? It's a lot easier to get people to read your stuff if you make it readable.
ZaplinG, I'm liking the premise by the first paragraph. By the end I can definitely tell it's dream logic. So far there's enough plot for a light novel, it that the size you were thinking?
Take a listen, it's funny and 15 minutes long, and will give you some clue how to start experimenting with making it as story. Writing Excuses Podcast: Idea to Story
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I had a personal project with a fan fic that I wrote when I was 14 that I still have on my computer, not sure if it's worth posting here though, as it is a bit cheesy and 15.000 words long.
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FREEAGLELAND26780 Posts
This thread looks promising =)
Going to bookmark for reading when I'm more awake.
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Sorry, the tabbed-inness of the paragraphs didn't carry over. I tried to to do it manually on TL but "tab" didn't work. "ll try and try somehtinge;se though
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Hey guys, so cool that a good thread about writing finally got started. I've always wanted to write since I was a little kid. I used to churn out countless pages of fantasy drivel (which is what I enjoyed at that point in my life, nothing wrong with fantasy, just very easy to be extremely cliche with it). I even participated in NaNoWriMo for two years (failed both times). Anyway, to the point of they story, not counting school essays and stuff, I haven't written seriously in almost three years. I want to get back into writing as a hobby. I don't know what I want to write about, I don't know what my goal is, I just want to get back to the point where writing is an enjoyable leisure activity. Where should I start? Are there any interesting books or aricles you read that inspired you to write, or gave you great ideas for plots or characters? Any videos you watched that made you lunge for the nearest keyboard? And is there any advice you can give me as to how to get back into my old favorite hobby?
To make my point more clear, I used to have thousands of plot ideas constantly swimming right under my conscious. Now I can't think of a single interesting topic to even consider writing about. that's why I am asking for help. Thanks.
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On March 17 2012 17:45 ZaplinG wrote:Whenever I have a dream that follows a definitive plot, I try to write it down as soon as I wake up before I forget it. This is the most complete dream I have recorded. I am considering developing it into a novel. Please forgive my terrible grammar and sentence structure. I was barely awake when I wrote this. + Show Spoiler +scenario starts with a group of kids playing a school sponsered simulation of zombies. at the end, everyone revives. awards are given to the person who lives the longest. kid has two friends who are into it really hard, but are ultimately blinded by it.
first round, kid tries to play it conventionally and dies. Second round he just runs away and lives and wins. Third round, he runs away again, but finds a very secluded room where another boy has been holding up the whole time and who thinks its real. The room is not part of the simulation and is a glitch. He tells the kid about reaching the finish line and resetting the game, but the finish line is gaurded by a giant octopus.
well more people come into the secret room, including a girl whom kid is madly in love with. they hold out there for a while, but ultimately are overrun when these sword throwing people bust through. well, one of the swords cuts the wall and the kid escapes outside. Zombies are all over the place, so he just runs through the forest, hops over fences, and eventually comes to this large group of buildings. He sneaks around inside, avoiding everyone, but eventually comes to a room where all the kids are mangled and dismembered. Turns out the zombies are real and are actually killing everyone. If you die, you respawn due to someone hitting the magic clock, but if you just get injured or eaten, you come back here to get patched up and are forced into manual labor.
The kid runs into some of the group again. the girl had been injured, but not severely and so she goes with him. They eventually escape from there, along with girls new boyfriend, stealing a cop car and going. They need gas so at the first gas station, they get out. It is crawling with cops who presumably are working for the strange place. Since they have a cop car, the guy is able to convince the people there that he is a new recruit. There is a young girl investigator who talks and stares at him strangely. It makes kid suspicious so they floor it out of there. They eventually ditch the car because kid is paranoid that they now know what car they are in, so they take off on foot again. The new boyfriend volunteers to stay behind and hold them off for as long as possible.
more woods chasing - zombies still there, after all
they come across a spaceship who talks to them. The spaceship is an agent for the giant squid and is able to control humans by making them love it. The girl stays behind, smitten, but the boy is able to resist and presses on. They are getting close so he jumps into the water (they are on an island or something) and swims along the shore. Remembering about the giant squid, the boy gets scared and starts climbing this terribly steep rock face that is covered in large mushrooms. He is able to pull himself up to the top just in time to avoid the squid who looks menacing below.
The finish line/clock is there and he steps into it, winning the game. The world resets and he is transported to the time right before the school sponsered zombie game is about to start. He, along with the girl have retained their memories and politely elect to leave and do. They go to the spaceship and find its first human slave working alongside the new boyfriend who is also enslaved. He didnt reset because he wasnt a part of the zombies program. The scientist and the boyfriend cannot tolerate each other because they are both madly in love and want to be the only one, eventually the boyfriend pushes the scientist off the cliff and he dies. The spaceship is finished creating its fuel, so it takes the boyfriend up, takes the squid up, removes the reset clock and flies away after giving the kid and the girl a soda-cup's worth of its precious fuel as a momento.
The girl tells the kid that this is why the secret organization was holding the game and forcing kids into work - to get this fuel. One drop can power anything for thousands of years or something. so they take the fuel to the secret organization and walk straight up into the CEO's office. All the important people are there, including that girl at the gas station. They test the boy and girl by throwing pillows at them - the boy dodges every single one and the girl catches every single one.
They explain that this is the only reason why they did zombies and agree to stop, destroying the system in front of them in exchange for the fuel. The boy then throws the cup of fuel at the leader, spilling it everywhere and says "fuck you". They spaceship is gone so it is impossible to make more. The two then walk out of the building and I wake up from my dream. What do you guys think?
Ahahaha, man I love describing dreams. They make so much sense what they're occurring, but they're so unbelievably weird when you wake up and think about it. I've always wanted to get around to recording them, but I find myself to be too lazy in the morning.
Your dream seems to be a lot more coherent than any I've ever experienced. Mine usually digress constantly to the point of no return, and are never resolved.
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There once was a man named Toe Jobojangles whose hair was greasy and thin. He wore a clown suit on Mondays when he'd pick up his daughters from soccer practice. The coach there hated him, they all did. His only friends would be found after work in the alleyways and in the night clubs. Toe was a sad man at times, but a happy one he once was.
Back in 1962 Toe knew a girl named Susy Monsentarella. She was a beauty: blonde curly hair rolling down to her shoulders and neck that just grazed her breasts. In the middle lay a silver locked pendant that dangled and fluttered about her soft skin. Everything about her was perfect for Toe, but his fate was to meet an unfortunate turn.
The night of the prom was supposed to be his greatest moment: when he'd finally sum up the courage to ask Susy to marry him. The school held the event at a local barn, and attendance was en masse. Lights, music, MCs were set up according to plan. Then it all happened.
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Hey TL buds,
This is my first post and I wanted to share my story with you guys. I had a real chill job working at a Casino and I recall having three goals for my intraverted self 1. Make friends 2. Throw a party for my friends & 3. Get a girlfriend.
8 months later I had moved on to a different job but when I reflected back at my times at the Casino I realized that I didn't accomplish any of my goals.
So instead of getting sad and dwelling on once again failing, I thought, hey I can rewrite the past by writing a story where I accomplish my goals, and at the same time I can go back and give my writings to the people who inspired me, hopefully I can make them laugh.
I take on the hardest project first, its a Fictional Disney Love Story in the Casino, however expressing love and writing about love is quite difficult for me to do, & I miss my self imposed deadline. But I dont want to fail again, I want desperately to finish what I started and make something permananent in this world...
The love story becomes my obsession, I want to make everything perfect, but my obsession leads to depression when I visit the Casino on Halloween and discover that the girl I'm writing to, has an engagement ring on her finger.
I tell myself hey this is a fictional story your not in love with her but than why am I feeling at this moment all these different emotions, feeling so dumb, getting angry wondering who is it? Than accepting the cruel reality of the situation and croaking out to my friend Congratulations before saying goodbye to her for the last time.
I go home with a heavy heart stuck in my throat and get home and find myself pressing the Delete key alot now, I shorten my story to 9 chapters but leave it unfinished because she's getting married & I'm not going to be the guy who runs down the aisle while the preacher asks any objections? And scream to my friend Wait!!!! Read this!!!
But I still have this need to create something and get inspired by another casino girl, who is surprised to see me and says What are you doing here? I tell her I just visit and come here during my lunch break, she than treats me with respect by greeting me like a customer and says Good Morning, and I reply Good Morning, its 1pm? She replies, Well its morning for me!!!! and walks away... at that moment I felt the need to create something for her...
I start writing to her on Columbus day of 2011, I remember crying so much when I wrote this story that I could have easily sank the Nina, Pinta, & the Santa Maria, with my tears. Columbus would have been pissed, and yelled stop crying you fool!!! Your sinking all my ships!!!.
The source of my crying was because when I looked back at the past I realized that this girl was my favorite, because for once a girl looked up to me and respected me and I cried cause I missed being there at her table, encouraging her like I used too, our relationship was like a Father looking after a daugher, like I remember thinking if anyone messes with her I'll F them up...
So I wrote a story with the goal of saying goodbye... Like i've been running away since 11th grade where I transferred from private school to public school, I didnt say goodbye to those friends that I knew since kindergarten, and when I got to public school I got kicked out cause I kept ditching school cause I didn't have friends than during College it takes me 8 yrs to graduate because I'm a loner and hate it so much, but at the Casino, I was for once happy, just to be around people and hear their own unique story, but in the end I treat everyone like shit by leaving without saying goodbye...
It takes 4 weeks to write the comic, I want it to be short and sweet not long like my first failed attempt, plus the girl I'm writing to has a short attention span, so with the help of my brother he helps me illustrate my message and I'm so proud when its done, I can't wait to share it with this girl and thank her!!!! Its Thanksgiving time and I wrap the comic in a Fed Ex envelope, get her a stuffed Tweedy Bird animal, and write a poem about her being Somebody Special.
My back aches so much from the stress, I dont know how she'll react so I tell her the comic is for our mutual friend. I want to say surprise its actually for you, and when she gets to the end I'll say hey did you know we went to the same High School together!!!! Ha ha ha? When she figures out the comic is for her she puts up a defensive posture and tells me she doesn't like to read and tells me I'm so weird and Im so crazy...
I'm stubborn like a rock so I wait for her outside and she sees me and yells OH MY GOD than she asks someone that works from my old company to walk her to her car, Im really hurt cause she's totally over reacting so I take a few steps walk past her body guard and she keeps telling me Im not reading it!!! Than I just blurt out the most obvious thing, I say Hey the comic is for YOU!!! She smiles ear to ear and says No no its not and than drives from 0 - 60 mph in 2.3 seconds I'm like looking around the corner she just passed and I'm thinking is this a joke??? But it wasnt she left and never ended up reading what I wrote...
Now when I visit the Casino I have two security guards follow me, one in front of me and one in back of me, I ask one of them hey how come your following me, he says Im VIP, im like really? Yeah your a Very Important Pervert... Sigh
I just wanted to let a special person know that hey you made me into a better person, Thank you so much for being you!!! But sometimes things done with the best intentions have the most disastrous consequences, like the time the native americans gave the pilgrims corn for Thanksgiving and in return the pilgrims accidentally gave the indians blankets full of germs with small pox causing sickness and death...
Now when I visit the Casino everyone points at me and laughs, i stare back at their mediocrity. I'll never go back and see any of them again but I still keep them in my heart because they all taught me so much, The love story showed me look I AM capable of expressing love to someone, the to someone special comic is something I can always look at and feel proud at making that's forever,
So here is my comic that I decided to publish on Youtube.
My Sentimental Comic
Thanks for reading,
Hope you enjoy
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I would like some advice on my amateur story I've written here. If you like fantasy, you might enjoy this. Any advice whatsoever is appreciated. Especially with things like details that I tend to skimp on or words that could be stronger.
edit: looks like v3chro seems to think he has the opposite problem as I do in that he believes he has too much detail. Hmm... + Show Spoiler [Intro Part 1 Chapter 1: The Dark Escape] +Boom! Crash! Slash! Bam!
"Aaahhhhhh!"
Darnok and Monfador make their way past the ever growing pile of bodies in the middle of the battlefield. Darnok is a young ambitious mage who just graduated from mage school and became Monfador's apprentice in the dark arts.
"urggh!" "neagghh" "plop!" "What in the...." "Oh My!!!"
Skeleton Warriors seem to be breaking their way through the crust of the earth, much to the dismay of the soldiers fighting above them. One grabs hold of a horse, tripping the horse and rider, and sends the whole line of horsemen to the ground like dominoes.
"Monfador! Is this your doing?!?"
Up came a red-colored Lieutenant. The sign of the North.
"Yes, child. This is to give time and a distraction. We shall arrive at the Dwarven Tower of Djarksul before nightfall if all goes well."
"What about the others?"
"Those young mages shall be fine, they still have Master Joko. He is well skilled in the accepted arts of magic. I on the other hand must go to where my knowledge will be most appreciated."
Master Joko was, as his name might suggest, a master mage who, instead of teaching his students, "bonded" with them through his own bad jokes. Any kid in his class got an M as long as they smiled during each class.
"You better not be up to anything Monfador! If I find out that you are up to your old schemes then I will hunt you down, I will trap you, and I will persecute you!"
Darnok and Monfador sneaked past the armies of northern and western Knomelf as well as the skeletons that seemed to be pushing the two armies farther and farther away from the mages. The mages got as far as Gonkar's Bridge before being stopped by a nasty, green, ugly, red-eyed, Troll.
+ Show Spoiler [Chapter 2 The Troll Bridge] +"Pay toll of Troll Bridge or die!"
Darnok looked down at the bridge, and seeing that it was not anything any troll could make, said. "This bridge be of dwarven making! Let us pass or you shall pay for our passage with your very life!"
"YOU INSULT TROLL!! YOU DIE NOW!!!!"
The troll charged Darnok and Monfador with his club high in the air when Monfador raised his staff high in the air and...
"Ju Ha Lei Gyu Darmak!"
The troll stopped in its tracks and started sinking into the ground.
"Bad Mages! You Ruin Troll Lunch! Bad! Ba....a....
As the troll's head went underground, Darnok had to look away to keep from crying, something his master despised even more than love.
"Well, that should take care of him..."
Darnok and Monfador walked past the bridge. Darnok stopped, realizing that Monfador had stopped near the bridge for some reason.
"What's wrong Master?"
"We are being watched."
"By?"
"Let us see..."
*Crumble...* *Shake.* *Pop!* "Raaawrr!!!"
Out of the ground comes a gigantic half-Dwarf half-Elf! The Dwelf lunged at Monfador with its hammer and lunges at the dark mage. Monfador dodged the hammer but tripped and fell. As the Dwelf charged for another attack with its hammer Monfador struggled to get up, his old age finally showing. Darnok just stood and watched, and finally, he came to his senses just in time to yell, "Master!!! Nooooo!!!!"
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This is a short story I wrote awhile ago as a prequel to a trilogy I made in school. Do note that it contains quite a few errors and says some pretty dirty things. Warning do not read this if you are easily offended and I do not mean to offend any one.
Call of the Slenderman + Show Spoiler + GET UP YOU FUCKING DIRTY JEWS! A Nazi officer woke up the inhabitants of Auschwitz including Jacob. THE GOD DAMN RED ARMY IS COMING HERE SO WE ARE GOING TO GO TO A DIFFERENT CAMP! The Nazi said. GET YOUR ASSES MOVING AND IF YOU DON’T MOVE YOU WILL BE SHOT! Said the Nazi in a fierce voice.
The Jews began there death march to the other death camp. Jacob was scared that he will get shot. “Robert”. Said Jacob to one of his last friends. “Yes Jacob” said Robert. “I hope the new camp is not as bad as this one”. Said Jacob. “I don’t think it will be worse then what we seen in the horrors we been through” Robert replied.
Jacob and Robert have been hearing weird noises after five hours into the march. Noises like they had never heard of before. “I think even the Nazis are scared of the sound” Robert said. Jacob was just silent after having a flash back of putting his brother into the furnace. All Robert and Jacob hope for is to make it out of the third Reich.
The marching stopped for a little bit in front of the back woods where the path leads to. “OK YOU FUCKING DIRTY JEWS WE HAVE BEEN HEARING WEIRD NOISES LATELY AND DARK TALL PEOPLE. IF YOU STOP WALKING YOU WILL HAVE TO SCOUT FOR US!” said the Nazi officer with a slightly scared tone. “I don’t know if we will be able to escape this camp” said Jacob. “Don’t ever give up hope Jacob” Robert said.
As they kept walking and walking they smelled a familiar smell. The smell of death and Decay. As they got slightly further they saw something disturbing. It was a skeleton of a recently killed Nazi solider. Jacob was watching the Nazis talk to each other probably about the fact that will was a horrible idea. “Are we going to be okay Robert?” Jacob said in a nervous voice. “Who knows just look at the cup half full” said Robert.
As Jacob and Robert kept walking and walking there saw a corpse on the road. It was a corpse of Ben, a friend of Jacob who went to scout for the Nazis. “This is not a murder from a Nazi” Robert said in a slightly skeptical voice. Jacob was silent with horror as another friend of his died. The Nazis now have their guns out ready to shoot the unknown horrors that reside here.
Finally Jacob and Robert reached the concentration camp. It had plants grown in as they were aged corpses of Nazis and Jews impaled on the fence of the camp. “Death …. Has come ….. For you” a strange whisper from an unknown voice was heard. “WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT!” said Jacob. “I don’t know Jacob but that was not a voice I had heard of before” Robert replied now looking a little scared. Jacob and Robert walked inside the camp. “Al’kaza kl’ka N’rana end’er saph’ian” said another unknown voice. “OK WHO THE FUCK DID THAT!” said the Nazi officer. Nobody replied to his question.
Jacob and Robert went into their cabin which was very dark and disturbing. They are skeletons inside that look like they have been dead for years. Even the rats and the other animals where dead inside look like they have been killed recently. The smell of death and the sounds of a terrible silence was present. They went to bed in fear. “Robert” said Jacob. “Yes Jacob?” said Robert. “I don’t think we are the only ones here.” Said Jacob. “I don’t believe in super naturals but something is not right here” said Robert while looking around the room. “Like some different specie lives here” said Robert.
Robert went to bed while Jacob was awake scared. Then Jacob saw a tall mysterious black figure that had weird looking limbs. It had glowing purple eyes and it looked very powerful and dangerous. “You …. Are ….. Already dead” said an unknown voice. Right after Jacob heard the voice he got knocked out into his sleep.
Jacob suddenly woke up with Robert beside him. Robert was asking Jacob why he was making weird Noises. Jacob could not tell whether that was a night mare or a real event. Jacob and Robert proceeded outside of the rotting barracks. There was no one in sight. “This is strange” said Jacob now biting his nails. “I wonder where everyone went” said Robert while looking concerned at Jacob. “I just hope the Nazis don’t shoot us for waking up late” said Jacob. The Sky was cloudy with black clouds while the back wood forest seemed more hell like then ever. “This is getting even creepier” said Jacob in a horrifying way.
Jacob and Robert walked around the camp. They were no corpses but no living things either just them. The stench of death and decay is larger but it is unknown where it is from. The only present sound was the sound of Jacob and Robert walking. Then Jacob and Robert heard childlike voices singing one of the most distorted nursery rhymes they had ever heard. “ La … La … La …. La … La … La … kt’y ….. n’rah …. Slen’der ….” Said the child like voices. Jacob started losing his sanity now slowly.
Then Robert heard some footsteps. “RUN JACOB!” said Robert. The teenagers ran as the footsteps got closer and closer. Then they got backed into a corner, trapped. Finally a talk black figure similar to the one Jacob seen had appeared. “Go ……….. away” said the tall black figure. “AWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYY!” said the black figure. Jacob got knocked out again but woke up in an unusual place. It was a house in western like place but does not look like anything he had ever seen before.
He jumped out of his bed to go to a room that looked like a kitchen. There was a tall beautiful woman in there. “Hello sweaty” said the woman. “What day and year is it?” said Jacob. “It is 1972 and it is Yom Kippur” said the woman in a cheerful voice. Suddenly Jacob heard gun fire. Jacob then had a brief vision of himself putting his own brother into the ovens of Auschwitz. Then a tall man wearing a fancy suit and a hat appeared and said in a rough voice “Honey, get are kids together we got to retreat! The Arabs are attacking!” Jacob went with the tall man as he heard gunfire come closer to him.
Jacob and the couple he woke up with ran straight to a advance looking car car. “Where are we?” asked Jacob. “We are in Israel in the holy city of Jerusalem” the tall man said kindly. As he went to the car he saw another tall black figure ready to do something horrible. Jacob was too scared of dying to ask where he went as the couple began to drive the car. They drove for a hour and finally went to a city different from what Jacob had ever seen. They parked outside of a bunker like building as the couple told Jacob to get out of the car. After Jacob came out of the car some mysterious figure that he saw earlier kidnapped him. “Even death is not eternal” said the mysterious figure as Jacob got knocked back into his sleep.
Jacob finally woke up again. He was alone in a house in the backwoods in the darkness. “I wish Robert was here” Jacob thought to himself. Then Jacob heard a noise outside. He went to check the window only to see something disturbing. It was a black goat and the only thing he saw on him other than his goat like body is 7 eyes. The black goat started walking slowly to the house Jacob was in. It gotten closer and closer and then finally it opened the door. Jacob was too scared to move and when the goat came in it transformed into something. It became a tall black figure that Jacob had seen multiple times. “Your friends had abandoned you” said the figure. Finally its eyes started to glow and this is where Jacob usually falls asleep but no this is different. The mysterious figure slashed Jacob crossed his body. Jacob had felt the most pain in his life but he could not die. “Even death won’t save you!” said the mysterious figure. He kept slashing Jacob apart and eating his flesh. After that he took his legs and ate the flesh of it! Jacob wish death could save him but that can’t happen. “This is for Gara’bar, For Malanar, and for the ender brood!” Jacob saw his heart ripped out of him as he started to see only darkness.
Jacob finally woke up as he saw a blast in the rotting Barracks he was in when he entered the death camp. A few Ally's soldiers came inside. “Come with us!” Said the soldiers in a hurried manner. Jacob finally saw Robert with him and finally smiled for the first time in several years. He was as happy as he can be because he knows he is now free. As he went inside the truck he guided to go in he saw his parents! He was so excited and happy that he can live with his parents instead of finding a new family. “Mommy and Daddy?” asked Jacob in a cheerful voice. “Yes Jacob?” His parents replied as they smiled as bright as they can. “Can we adopt Robert?” asked Jacob. “Yes we can” said his parents with a slightly smaller smile. Robert and Jacob cheered as they will live together now as brothers. Finally as he left the camp with his family he saw a black figure. “In Proto Terra, death will be upon you.” Said the mysterious figure. Jacob then felt a weird feeling. He felt like he will never grow again and will never die. This is the beginning of the Rise of Humanity.
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Started this particular Story when I was in 9th grade. I have only touched on it here and there, and since then I still can't find a good continuation without totally wanting to throw myself onto another story all together. But I like it, and I've just been preoccupied, writers blocked, or uninspired.
I still write, but I've lost a lot of my 'umph' mainly because I'm not in school currently, and I feel that had a big impact on how I went about writing, I liked to get criticism from a lot of people, whether negative or positive so there is more reason to continue working on and progressing the story. I've started others, but I thought recently this piece deserved to be revisited, revised and continued, and with that decision, I encourage you to read this, it's Sci-Fi themed, but you may not notice that till the end of Ch.1. Any feedback is appreciated, I wrote this awhile ago and quickly went through it now, so any small mistakes you can ignore, if you see something major let me know please
Before I get to it, I'd like to say thanks in advance should you read my story, I appreciate it and hope you enjoy, art is best when shared.
For organized/normal version in a Google Doc. edit2: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1fnmxmuMfhhPr3i7iHZShiuqGnIm79aqosR9YIkUFGKo/edit
WALLOFTEXT INC!
Chapter One: Dim before Dawn (edit:I've tried to organize, and even indent paragraphs and dialog, it won't let me) + Show Spoiler + I came to my apartment door, all the while juggling the keys till the one with red-grip had shown. I unlocked the door and kicked off my shoes as I started for the Kitchen which was connected to the hallway leading into the apartment. Once in the kitchen I flung my keys onto the table and set my bags down alongside the archway which was the break from the Living room to the Kitchen. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my money and receipt. The receipt read ‘$14.50’, I placed the money alongside the receipt on the table and started for the couch which was in the next room over; the living room. I sat down; put my feet up on the coffee table and took out the remote from the hidden chamber in the couch arm. I flicked on the History Channel hoping for something interesting; but nothing. “Another commercial, as usual.” I got up, walked into the Kitchen and opened the refrigerator. I ripped a can of soda from the plastic wrapping. As I turned my head I stopped. “Have you ever been a victim of fraud, or possibly a financial bankruptcy?” Somehow the idea of hearing that from the television brought the receipt back into my head. I walked into the kitchen and over to the table and decided to re-count my change; One Dollar, Fifty cents. “This bastard beat me again, this will be the last time he’ll be able to work a register” I thought I turned off the T.V., grabbed the receipt, slipped on my shoes and threw my sweatshirt on. As I was walking down the hallway to leave, I heard a bang which sounded from my bedroom, which was in the back of my apartment. I paused and listened, there were muffled voices and a few cracks of the window pane. I slowly approached the archway and poked my head around; Two men in all black, with ski masks on. One was already searching the bedroom- the other was desperately trying to silence his intrusion as he climbed recklessly through the window. I pulled my head back and opened the closet door across from me, in the hallway. I looked in search of my wooden baseball bat. I reached up on the top shelf, and tried to shuffle around for it but everything came crashing down. Instinctively I dodged the mess and ran for the Kitchen, anticipating that the intruders heard the ruckus. I passed the archway and crawled on the side of the refrigerator which was on the same wall with the archway; out of site if the robbers were to enter from the archway. Surely one of the men arrived to check the disturbance, he walked with his back hunched and eyes alert. At the slightest hint of his distraction I dashed out and smothered him, lowering him onto the pile of electronic, and sports equipment as he slowly faded in and out of sensibility. Noticing the bat was hidden amongst the debris I checked my opponent for vital signs - O.K. “Knowing my luck he'dve died” An animalistic, and primordial blood now boiled in my veins, I grabbed the bat from underneath the body and charged to the trespasser who was rifling through my dresser. Anger and an insatiable thirst for vengeangce filled my head: the assailants will pay. As I approached the intruder, time slowed, adrenaline at its peak: with the bat I swung and forcibly took what was left of his consciousness. I grabbed the bottom of his pants and pulled him into the hallway, adding his friend to my left-grasp. I dragged the perpetrators down the stairs, off the stoop and about 15 feet to my car. The men’s heads bobbed and clanked, I picked up each body and placed them inside the trunk of my father’s pass-me-down Dodge Ram. I opened the driver’s side door and got in, then started the ignition. I began driving, driving in an unknown direction. After about 20minutes of driving I stopped the car and reached under the left side of my seat, and popped the trunk. I got out and pulled the bodies to the floor. “Want to break into my house, rummage through my shit… let’s see how they thug this one out” I grabbed each by their shirts and dragged them beside a tree in the middle of what looked like a small dirt lot. I tied them up, together, and to the tree which was directly behind them. It was a small tree, and I made sure of that considering my dearth of rope. I double checked the knots around their ankles, wrists and waist, just to make sure my efforts wouldn’t be in vain. I got back in the car and started to drive back home. Almost immediately after calming down, my choice of action struck me as peculiar, and very odd, but I just laughed and shrugged it off" "I have done weirder" I reassured myself. I made a U-turn and followed street signs to the nearest high way. After a few blocks, I signaled, and turned onto the Myriot Express Route, Southwest. My eyes were getting heavy and my mind was set on other things; things that we’re a little bit more pleasing to do, besides beat up and bind two robbers, or go after a Deli Clerk. I decided I’d let the Deli Clerk go, I’ll just talk to him the next time I see him. Off into the corner of my eyes appeared a glaring white light. The light was small, very small and could have possibly been getting closer. “Hmm, what the hell could that be?” I asked myself I turned my attention back to the road - the luminous light died out and probably wasn’t going to come back. I glanced ahead, squinting my eyes, faintly making out what Exit was ahead “Exit 18 - home” I got off at that exit and made a left down 89thstreet and took it up to Yoporane Avenue. “Yoporane Avenue? I don’t have a Yoporane Avenue near me!” Frustrated, tired, and well aware I was surely nowhere near Exit 18, I stopped at the red light and once green; made a left. Down, down, down on a road which seemed to take me nowhere. I realized I had passed a Deli; I turned down the next block and proceeded forth. This area was unlike any I’ve seen before. The houses were beautiful, the Christmas decorations shone brightly and shifted simultaneously with the wind. The houses were all of white and bore gold-lined mailboxes. The lawns and pavement were covered in a sheet of glorifying white. It was amazing to see but unfortunately it ended as I made the next left and then another left up the block to the Deli I had previously passed. I parked the car in front of the store and got out; then locked the doors and entered the Deli. I walked over to where the freezers stood and opened the glass door. The man at the register watched curiously. I pulled out a dozen ‘Mike’s Hard Lemonade’ and walked toward the counter. As I reached in my pocket the cashier asked: “May I see your I.D sir?” in a most demanding voice. I grabbed my wallet from my pocket, took a twenty out dollar bill and slid my I.D from the side pocket of the wallet out and placed both on the counter. The man looked at the I.D stared at me, as if reading me like a book. The man mumbled “Brown hair, blue eyes, is your name Dirue Vidassir, and what’s your birth date?” Yes, I am DEER-OO-V-DAS-EAR – born in 1989” He slid the I.D from his grasp across the counter. “Thanks, have a good night” I said as I picked up my bag, walked outside and into my car. “Hmm, maybe there’s a McDonalds around here or something” I pulled out and into the dark dead street. Through the tree’s ahead, some lights could be made out. I flicked on my blinker and made a right into the parking lot of a Burgerking “Just what I needed, some food to cure my wonderful day”
I pulled in next to a Red Toyota who’s paint was no longer paint, but a mere sight of brown rust. Laughing as I opened the driver side door I headed for the side entrance of the Burgerking. I tried opening the door; locked. Frustrated - I backed up and rubbed my head.
“It says right there ‘OPEN ALL NIGHT’” A woman approached the door and pushed the fast food franchise favorite; the push bar, in, making not a sound, and only the hiss of air. She beckoned me inside and I followed willingly as she was a very attractive women with an alluring scent. “Heh, Was that door locked, cause’ I tried to get in but it seemed to be locked” I said curiously “Why no, you must’ve had your foot in front of the door when you tried to open it – silly” “Oh, ha-ha, that makes more sense now, Thanks anyhow”
Still laughing I gave the cashier my order. “Can I have; one double bacon cheeseburger plain with just the lettuce, cheese, and bacon. One large fry and a Medium Dr.Peper, to go please. Thank you” I moved off the line and to the place where I’m guessing they give you your food and I put my back to the wall. I rubbed my head for several moments, thinking that there’s no way this day would fit the average reality level. “Well I guess this is what you’d call ‘Extreme Living’ Like all those damn Reality shows. Ever since I was a kid I was hungry for knowledge about how things worked, how stuff moved, why things were the way they were. I’m a real thinker – a thinker of thinkers, a philosopher if you will. I’ve never liked Reality TV or anything that shows the primitive side of Human beings – Just savages like the people in barbaric times. We like to the think we’ve evolved but we’re still working out of the lesser Reptilian brain and have only modernized and purged all things of their true form. The government has everything in their hands; they’re taking away retirement funding. And we human beings have turned this beautiful land into a Coast-to-Coast shopping mall. But hey I’m just the average person, and couldn’t do anything if I tried.” “Order number 264 is ready” I spun out from my self-lecture and grabbed my bag, and paid the cashier. I stopped at the Soda Machine and pushed my cup into the ‘Dr.Peper’ holster. The cup filled and I sat down at a large red booth which was encased on 3 of 4 sides by walls covered in movie star décor. The place was empty and minimally manned; there was the cashier; a young woman in her 20's,, and a multi-tasking burger-fry-nugget-janitor guy. I put the tray down, easily, ensuring not to disturb the sacred eating ritual. I put my head back, kicked my feet out, relaxed and occasionally stuffed my mouth with a few french-fries. I contracted my relaxed ways and slid out from the booth, stretching as I searched for a clock; 2:45am – nice. I leaned over, bagged the remaining food, and ditched the tray. Once out of the door I reached in my pocket, and jiggled the keys in my palm till the small black box one shown. I unlocked the doors and got into the driver’s seat. “Well it is almost 3:00am; I should probably head back home tomorrow – well later today technically” I reached down to the right of my seat and pulled the notch back, my seat slid back. Then reached to left and pulled the bar up, the seat reclined. “Ah, there we go” I laid back, adjusted the seat, then took my sweatshirt off and covered myself. After adjusting the seat to my ‘sleep number’ I sat up and finished my food, and two of six ‘Mike’s hard Lemonade’s’. I reached over to the door panel, rolled the windows down about an inch and checked to make sure the doors we’re locked then laid back down. Through my eyelids a large insanely bright light passed but when I opened my eyes there was nothing but blotchy red spots flaring. I blinked a few times, and then fell into a heavy, most needed slumber . . .
If you're going to give feedback, I'd like to point out what criticism I'd specifically like to hear: Am I being overly descriptive? Does it flow well? Did it interest you/encourage you to read on? Redundant, repetitive, boring?
The OP had some good, basic ones that would help me also: Does the characterization feel solid (realistic)? Is the plot too slow, and why? How are my sentences? Is it lacking anything? Is there unfulfilled expectations?
And any others areas you would like to give feedback on, that's fine, I need the outside opinions
There is a Ch.2 which is more interesting IMO, and actually goes into more of what the book is about but it's not completed, only about 50-60%, so I'd like to put my focus on the stuff that matters: an actual beginning to the story.
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Diablo fan fiction I entered in the latest Blizzard writing contest. Any general feedback would be great. Is it readable?. More specifically any tips on grammar, dialogue and fight scenes would be much appreciated. Cheers.
+ Show Spoiler + Hellbent
Kitsune ran deeper into the wilds. Black trees dotted the landscape, their skeletal branches clawing at the obsidian sky. The snow, mixed with ash and sulphur, sloughed across the dark landscape like melted wax. The spindly undergrowth scratched at her bare arms and legs, pulling at her long, dark hair as it trailed behind her. She didn’t look back but she could hear the howling of dogs and coarse yells gaining on her. Half tripping, she heard a horn blown behind and to her left. A few seconds later another note blasted to her right. She kept running, not knowing where or why anymore. The running both fed the fear and kept it at bay. The wind chill cut through fabric to strike flesh. Her feet bled from the rocky dunes and the cloth of her shift was frozen stiff. Lurching forward she headed further inland, away from the screams of the beach. Fortunately, a full moon lit her way, reflecting off the snow to either side as she stumbled on. Still she could hardly discern obstacles as more than darker shades of black and grey. Kitsune shrunk down lower as she heard howls from the beach behind her. The sound was not the haunting, hollow call of wolves but deeper and more guttural with a menace that made her joints ache. They had found her scent. Her feet felt like they had been shredded on glass then frozen solid. Ignoring the pain, she slammed them down on the frosted earth, again and again. She picked up speed, fright fuelling her legs as she put yard after yard between her and the howls. Far to her right she glimpsed one of her pursuers pass through a moonbeam as it shadowed her through the trees. It was one of the khazra, come to life from childhood tales. It had the appearance of a humanoid goat and carried a long bow in one hand. The goatman ran on its hind legs with horns like an ibex curving up behind a long, bestial head. Thick hair tapered from its broad shoulders down to a simple loincloth and a belt carrying a full quiver of arrows. Kitsune ran onwards, feet pounding the ground and her praying they were more than bloody stumps. Her lungs stung and heaved as the cold air moved in and out in jagged breaths. For longer than she thought possible, her knees kept pumping, up and down, as if her muscles had forgotten how to stop. Her foot snagged in a patch of scrub and she went down. Hard. The air blasted from her lungs. Her cheek lay moist against the cold earth. Warm air wheezed out of her lungs and became mist before her eyes.
*****
Kitsune remembered the galley that had taken her from her home in Xiansei. A stubby vessel sporting an angular, ribbed sail of white cloth. Her uncle had sold her to its merchant captain soon after her parents passed away. The plague had hit the small port town hard, food was scarce and her uncle could not support another mouth. She wept in the ship’s hold for days, seemingly destined to be an exotic plaything in the harems of Lut Gholein. The captain came below some nights, lantern swinging light around the dark hold at mad angles. His breath smelt of old turnips and his stubble rubbed unnaturally against her skin. Despite his desires he had let her be for the most part, greed winning out over a lust that threatened to devalue his cargo. During the days she was left in the hold. She was not chained, but on the open sea there was nowhere to run. Alongside the captive girl, the cargo consisted mainly of squat, red-clay amphorae. Early in the voyage she had pried the seal off one, finding only a powdered, brown spice. It made her sneeze, smelling faintly of old sweat and the markets of home. About a week into the voyage, a storm hit. So powerful that it had blown them far to the West, gutting the craft upon the rocks of the Dread coast. Kitsune remembered swimming out through a breach in the ship as it flooded whilst the merchant captain scrambled to unload his cargo. She had abandoned her heavy coat in the rising water and kicked free of her fur-lined moccasins. The chill ocean turned her skin purple and plastered her white shift to her body. Diving in the cold blasted her, like a million tiny needles tearing at every inch of skin. She swam violently, striking out at the water as she made her way free of the wreck. She swam as far as she could before dragging herself from the waves on to the wet gravel of the beach. Frantically rubbing her arms and calves to get warm, she ran up the harsh dunes and into the nearby woods, searching for shelter. She barely heard the first few screams. Then more cries carried on the wind, and closer together. Kitsune was a child brought up on tales of the Dreadlands, on the wars between Heaven and Hell; the devastation wrought by Diablo, Baal, Mephisto and the lesser evils. For a child of barely fourteen winters, being lost in such a place was a nightmare come to life.
*****
She heard the cries of the pursuit as they found her and the slavering jowls of dogs held at bay. She felt the hot breath of the beasts on her neck and half gagged at the stench of rotten teeth. A hoof kicked into her ribs rolled her onto one side in a foetal position. Looking up through glazed eyes she saw six goatmen standing over her. They were taller than she had imagined easily a foot above any human. They were all heavily muscled and most had intricate, white scars along their forearms and torsos. Their fur was matted and unkempt, thick with grease and sweat. Two held bows and the others held single bladed wood-axes. A couple also held torches high, illuminating where she had fallen. One held two hounds on leashes. She shrieked and pushed herself up and away, knees between her and the beasts. They appeared as a cross between boar and dog, with the ugliest features of both. A long crest of bristling hair ran up their spines to a forehead above shining black eyes and wide, gap-toothed maws. They snapped at their iron collars and each other with short, lower-lip tusks as they jumped up and down on stumpy, powerful legs. The tallest of the goatmen, nodded at the one holding the leashes. “Go feed ‘em at the ship, this human’s mine,” said the tall one, in a harsh, guttural accent. “Auriel save me,” whispered the girl. Shaking her head from side to side as the chieftain squatted before her. The merchant captain was one thing, the goatman before her was another beast entirely. “I am Yurgen, hunt master of Moon Clan.” “Just kill me already,” said Kitsune, pushed beyond her limits. “Nah, can’t be doing that just yet. Boss wants human girls for the blood cauldron.” Yurgen reached down and seized Kitsune’s arm, yanking her to her feet. She hit at his arm but his just grip tightened, nails grinding into her skin. She yelled, almost drowning out the pained squeals rising into the night sky between the group and the beach. “Quiet girl, or the cauldron’ll have you in pieces,” breathed Yurgen. They heard the sound of hooves and a body crashing through brush. The black-furred handler of the hounds burst from the treeline fifteen yards behind the group. “He killed ma boys, Yurg–” yelled the khazra as he was thrown forward onto the ground. A long, feathered bolt stood upright between his shoulder blades. Kitsune screamed, throwing herself once more to the ground as the goatmen spread out around the clearing. The two bowmen found cover behind a low boulder whilst the others crouched low in the shrubs, axes in hand. “Kill the torches,” said Yurgen. Darkness reclaimed the clearing and silence fell. The squeals of the fallen hounds had abated and a soft breeze stirred the hair on Kitsune’s neck. The handler remained still, moonlight shimmering off the blood pooling beneath his body. Kitsune lay on the ground, motionless, fear replacing resignation on her features. She could see Yurgen’s eyes rolling, showing white behind his dark brown irises. Sweat streamed down his forehead and hairless arms despite the cold. “Show yourself demon,” bellowed Yurgen. “I am no demon,” came a voice, “but you should fear me all the same.” A man dressed almost entirely in black stepped from the shadows to stand over the fallen handler. The light of the moon reflected off the silver gilding his leather spaulders and the bronze embossing on his oversized crossbow. He wore a hood pulled over his head, showing only a lightly stubbled square jaw, shaped into a grim smile. Moving with a calm certainty, he reached down for the bolt, slowly pulling it up and out of the dead khazra. Kitsune glanced at the two archers. They seemed mesmerised by the otherworldly confidence of the man’s entrance. Finally regaining their purpose, they fired just as the man pulled the bolt free. Two arrows shot through the air and disappeared into the darkness behind where the man had been standing seconds before. He was already midair, vaulting the arrows and shooting two bolts of his own at an angle that cleared the boulder. Both archers went down. One had a bolt through the eye and the other clawed at the quarrel in its throat. Yurgen and the two others charged to meet the leaping man in black. Kitsune watched captivated as the man landed cleanly and rolled beneath the lead goatman’s swinging blade, leaving his crossbow behind. Pulling a hunting knife from his belt the man slashed the back of the goatman’s knee as he rolled past. The khazra screamed, falling to the ground holding its upper leg. The man came to his feet, deflecting the haft of another khazra’s axe with his forearm whilst driving his knife, hilt deep, beneath its chin. The second khazra stiffened just as the first struggled to stand. Yurgen roared, swinging his axe laterally into the back of the man’s neck but his target was already gone. Instead, the axe clove into the ribcage of his dying comrade. Kitsune’s eyes could hardly follow the man across the moonlit clearing, as he all but disappeared from beneath Yurgen’s axe. The man came up pounding his fists, blow after blow, into the khazra’s gut and ribcage. She heard the snap of a rib but Yurgen barely flinched. The goatman released his axe and grabbed the man in black by either shoulder, lifting him into a sickening head butt. Blood ran from the man’s nose as Yurgen pulled him in for another. Just then, a black, feathered blur shot down between them, clawing at the khazra’s face with beak and talons. It sounded like a raven by the cawing and Yurgen was forced to release the man to save his eyes. Landing on his feet, the man ran back and dove, coming up on one knee holding his crossbow. The bird flew away, as if on queue, and three bolts punctured the khazra’s black fur. The man had another cartridge of bolts loaded before the huntmaster fell. The lame khazra tried to hobble away but a bolt cut his flight short. The man in black strolled over towards Kitsune. “It’s safe now child,” said the man as he kneeled before her. “You can call me Rikard.” “Kitsune.” She stared up at him, noting for the first time his eyes. They were a dulled gold with glowing embers in their depths. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here early enough to save your friends,” he said. “They weren’t my friends.” Rikard carried her away from the carnage, walking several miles before setting up a small camp in the lee of a giant boulder. She fell asleep long before they arrived. Kitsune awoke early the next morning in a warm bedroll, her feet clean and bandaged. She saw Rikard sitting across the campfire from her. His nose was splinted and tinged purple and black. “There’s stew if you want it,” he spoke calmly, with more warmth than Kitsune had known from any man since her father died. “Not hungry,” she said, pausing for a moment. “What are you?” “I am one of the Arrakai, a hunter of hunters.” Kitsune gave her rescuer a calculated look. “Make me like you, so I never have to run again.”
******
Rikard’s conclave was located in an underground compound several days march west of where Kitsune had saved. She was tired beyond her years when they arrived and never truly caught up on the years lost. Training in the ways of a demon hunter began as soon as her feet healed. Rikard oversaw most of the teaching: in blade, acrobatics and crossbow. Every morning, whilst it was still dark, her teacher had her up and running laps of the compound or through the surrounding woodlands. Throughout training, obstacles and hurdles were often placed in her path to improve agility alongside a seemingly endless roster of sparring partners. If she was too slow, she had to run the course again. If she lost a fight she had to fight again until she won or could not stand. The regime was brutal but effective; by her nineteenth winter she was supremely agile, tireless and lethal at any range. Soon enough she left the compound for the road, a fully-fledged Arrakai, deadliest of the land’s denizens.
It seemed so long ago now. After completing her training she rarely saw Rikard between missions. The two were still close, as the bond of saved and savior; master and student remained too strong despite their chosen lifestyle. The Arrakai were natural loners, lacking the bonds of family and friends. Few chose the life of a demon hunter. Most joined the conclave by circumstance: as orphans or runaways. Some thirsted for vengeance, some for glory; still more for righteousness but all shared one goal: to cleanse Sanctuary with steel. Rikard was known to disappear for months at a time, scouring the Dreadlands for hell spawn as far as West as Arreat crater. Hunters often returned late or not at all to the conclave. Rikard had been missing for over a year now and he was assumed lost to the road. Kitsune could not let it go at that and determined to find him. Even if it was too late for his salvation, the least she could do was avenge him. Thus against conclave orders she found herself out on the road following the cold trail of a lost hunter.
******
The ground around her was torn up as if by wild animals and stank of fetid meat. Going on the smell it was likely scavengers, animal hybrids known for burying their food if it was too fresh. A ribcage, likely human, rose up out of the slush in one crudely dug ditch. Kitsune moved quickly onwards, having no desire to succumb to the pestilence in the air. The clean bones and silence suggested the scavengers were long gone. She was approaching the last town in the area, Rothenhoff. Rikard may never have passed this way but the population centres near his last known whereabouts seemed the best place to start. The snow lay in drifts along the road. Houses lurched on either side like elderly stragglers marching south for the winter. The northern wind swept down across the Dread steppes bringing with it a bone chilling cold that tasted of ash and madness. The snow underfoot was crisp and thinly laid so that Kitsune left clear, blackened footsteps along the road. This suited her: the more beasts that found her the better; one could only stalk so many. The signs of hell spawn littered the town. Burnt into the sides of buildings and occasionally set off with a nailed hand or impaled torso. There was a certain mad artistry to these, as if the beasts of the abyss sought creative outlets in their victims. The fear such images evoked was the likely rationale, if ever there were one. She just felt a numb rage. A lone carrion bird perched on a burnt out beam in one of the two storey houses, blood-red eyes following her movement along the street. A band of hell spawn had probably stormed through here last winter and put the townsfolk out of their misery. Why anyone besides a demon hunter or its quarry would choose to walk this neck of land between the Dreadlands and the spine of Khanduras was baffling to her. It seemed the greed of the merchant princes alone kept the Northern trade route open as pioneers set up villages simply to service the caravans. Kitsune walked through the town square. Her crossbow hung loaded at her side and twin hunting knives were sheathed in belts across her torso. A full quiver of steel bolts hung neatly between her shoulders. She spotted the burnt out husk of an inn opposite and the half-destroyed town hall nearby. The white face of the town clock was scarred and yellowed with age. The hands had rusted and something had bent them skywards as if they were demon horns. She remembered this town now as she’d passed through here some five seasons past. Kitsune had needed supplies to compliment her foraging, as the wilderness had been much sparser in those years. The encroachment of the dark powers had caused most of the wildlife to migrate south, permanently. Rothenhoff had been bustling in that year, immediately prior to the destruction of Mount Arreat. The town square had been covered in stalls selling all kinds of artefacts, weapons, furs and foods. Refugees from the Barbarian cities had been everywhere, saturating the town with coin and tales of the gathering hell spawn to the north and west. Now, once again fel hosts were forming deep in the Dreadlands. The Demon Hunters were too few in number to take the demons head on. Instead they relied on hit-and-run ambushes to bloody the horde’s forerunners before retreating to the shadows. Four of her brethren had died on patrol in the previous month, alarming the conclave and convincing Kitsune to search for Rikard. Kitsune sensed nothing demonic in the town, just the traces of those who had passed through. Her solid gold eyes remained alert but dull as she scanned the surroundings. The ‘eyes of retribution’ were a well-known gift of the demon hunters, glowing brightly in the presence of hell spawn. She whistled loudly and a few seconds passing before a large raven landed on her outstretched forearm. Claws clacked loudly on her scarred, silver bracers. She smiled at the old bird, her lone companion on the hunter’s road. He hopped up her arm, perching comfortably on her spaulders. “Anything out there, Koichi?” The oversized carrion bird shook its beak from side to side, as it rummaged the top of her pack for rations. “That’s what I thought.” Kitsune reached over, patted the thief aside and pulled a dry biscuit free. Breaking it in half, she gave one piece to Koichi, and eyed the other like it was an old friend she’d rather not meet again. “I bet Mephisto’s minions eat better than we do.” She advanced slowly through the square and back onto the main street, eyeing off every darkened window and empty doorframe. Her footfalls were barely audible to her own ears, let alone anyone who might be out there. Passing an alley she saw a flicker of crimson flash past. Quickly she shot forward and to the right to intercept her prey. Meanwhile, Koichi took to the air. Kitsune burst out of an alley behind where the shadower should have been but there was nothing, just another darkened avenue. Kitsune felt a sudden chill and heard the dull scrape of snow shifting behind her. Spinning and with one sweeping movement she had her crossbow in hand with the safety released. Blue eyes wide, she looked down her bolt at the young girl before her, caped in red and barely a dozen winters old. “Please, don’t hurt me,” said the girl, her voice half breaking and jittering from the cold. “I’m sorry child, I didn’t mean to scare you,” said Kitsune. She left the safety off and hung the bow at her side. “What are you doing out here?” “Hungry,” said the girl. Her lips were slightly purple from the cold and she wore a long, stained tunic that stopped at her knees. Kitsune approached slowly, reaching out and running her hand through the girl’s close-cropped hair. She felt real. The girl flinched and shook her head. Her hair was stiff with ice and the movement sent a shower of icicles to the ground. Kitsune reached into her pack and pulled out a dried ration biscuit and handed it to the girl. She eyed it like some foreign object, right before snatching it and cramming it into her tiny mouth. “What’s your name?” asked Kitsune, handing the girl a few more biscuits. Crumbs spilled from the child’s mouth. Her amber eyes darted up and to the left, as if trying to remember. “I remember father used to call me his little Risu, he said –” “Where’s he now?” “Probably reading.” Risu glanced up and down the avenue. Her grimy fingers playing with a bronze key hung around her neck by some torn cloth. “Can you take me to him? You don’t need to be afraid.” “Sure I can. You’re not so scary.” Risu gave a quick smile and Kitsune grinned back. “Nothing’s scary when you look it in the eyes, little one.” Kitsune followed Risu’s lead towards the northern end of town. Koichi flew low overheard, swooping from rooftop to rooftop. Land had never been at a premium in these parts so the townhouses and trade building were spaced out in a haphazard manner. The road wound left to right and back upon itself in places. They passed an old butchery, a rusty meat cleaver still embedded in its chopping block. After that was a grain warehouse overrun with cockroaches. As they passed through Risu leant down and grabbed one of the bugs, squeezing it between thumb and forefinger till the white juice oozed out. Before Kitsune could stop her, the girl had swallowed it. Risu crushed a handful more, stowing them away in a pouch hidden beneath her red cloak, leaving the demon hunter somewhere between sympathy and disgust.
“Want some?” “I’ll pass… Is it much further?” “Not far now,” said Risu over her shoulder. She whistled and skipped out ahead. Disappearing beneath a thatched eve. Kitsune followed on, one hand fondling the ornate handle of her crossbow. The air was thick in this end of a town and a faint mist wreathed her ankles. “Are you sure this is the way child.” “Of course silly, there’s only one way.” Bones littered the ground to the point where Kitsune had to wind her way through. She had no quarrel with the dead, the only skulls she sought to crush were the ones who didn’t stay that way. Risu on the other hand skipped her way through, whispering a foreign ditty. The demon hunter caught a few words. “I can see, what you see –”. Kitsune coughed loudly, staring intently at the little girl in red. “Oh, sorry, this is it,” said Risu, “we should hurry inside; Father doesn’t like me out after dusk.” Kitsune tilted her head to one side. They stood before a great, stone arch, Koichi landed upon it, talons scratching against the ancient stonework. Blackened foundations spread out on either side in what must’ve been a substantial church. The demon hunter shook her head but the senses gifted her by the conclave felt muted. The mist continued to rise in waves, flowing through the dead church. “We hide in here, he said it was the safest place.” Risu moved down what must’ve been the aisle, the rotten remains of pews stretched out to either side like the ribs of an old ship. The marble altar was still in place: too heavy to move, too tough to crack. It was black with dried blood. Risu led the way into what must have been the seminary. She ducked left into the West transept and through a side door of which only the hinges remained. Down two flights of stairs and they were well below ground level. The darkness lay thick about the pair. They came upon a second door. This one was locked and banded with iron. Risu pulled the old key from around her neck and fitted it easily in the lock. She pulled gently on the door’s iron ring and it swung open as if recently oiled. Kitsune took the lead, the torches within were burning low and the floor was free of debris. The hallway led a long way in either direction, torches marking where it turned. The smell of burning oil masked any other scent. “You keep these lit?” asked Kitsune as she moved towards the closest one. The flame guttered a little as a light breeze wafted through the door. “Yep, just these ones, the dark is scary.” “What is this place?” “Father calls them his catacombs, but there are no cats down here anymore, they must’ve eaten them” “They?” said Kitsune, stiffening. “I’m the only one who can see them… they whisper to me… strange songs…” “What are you talki– ” Kitsune spun around, to see the door closing silently behind her. “I’m sorry, it’s been too long since I brought them a new toy” said Risu, as her face disappeared behind the doorframe. Kitsune rammed into the closed door, her silver lined spaulders thudding against treated timber. She rested her forehead on the door. “Let me out child, this is no time for play.” “If you see father tell him I’ve been good,” said Risu. Running footfalls quickly faded upwards and away. Kitsune reached for the nearest bracket, pulling the torch free. The door looked far too solid for small explosives and the resin used seemed fire resistant as she held the torch against it. She could hear Koichi’s cawing from outside, it seemed he had decided to leave the girl unharmed. She whistled and heard his wings beating in the narrow stairs before his beak beat upon the door. Sighing, she turned away from the door, glancing up and down the corridor. She caught a glimpse of a shadow moving at the end of the hallway to her left. She shook her head. “Just the torches getting low” The corridor was empty of all but light, stone and shadows. Her eyes remained a soft, muted gold. Staring at the same point she saw another flicker of shadow, this time at the second furthest torch. The light shone evenly but was broken again at the third. She spotted two more dark flashes at the first torch. Kitsune stepped back, her eyes alive with cobalt fire. She pulled her crossbow over her shoulder and sighted down the centre of the hall. “Make yourself known before a quarrel finds you.” The first torch guttered with a breeze and the shadows passing it blurred into stream. The sound of pattering feet echoed like steady rain on stone. Kitsune, pulled the bronze trigger of her ebon black crossbow, sending a bolt straight down the hall. It clattered against the stonework at the far end. The feet kept coming, closer now. This time she sent a spaced volley. Covering the entire corridor. A high pitched squeal went up as a bright, yellow humanoid materialised, barely ten yards away with a bolt protruding from its shoulder. Black ichor ran from where the bolt had punctured its skin. The thing was naked and genderless. The lower half of its head yawned wide in a gaping mouth of needle-sharp teeth. It had two long grooved nostrils in a V shape and beady, black eyes like oversized fish eggs. On either side of its head it had two long, tapering ears; curled inwards like conical seashells. She had heard of these creatures, illusion weavers: the servants of Diablo. They would become visible only seconds before raking your eyes with their spindly yellow fingers. It was said their touch turned a man’s eyes milky and rotten. She did not wish to test the tale. The creature turned to run, making it two steps before a fresh bolt sprouted from its forehead. The first few torches were extinguished and the hall was alive with shadows. Calmly, reloading with each step, Kitsune sent volley after volley into the empty air before her, lighting the way with the phosphorescent corpses of the weavers. Reaching for more bolts her hand searched and found only two remaining. “Tyrael’s cock!” She grabbed a pack from her side, full of small steel marbles and whispered a single syllable of activation. She scattered them on the ground and fled as they popped open into steel caltrops. Screams of frustration followed her as the lead weavers shredded their bare feet on the razor-sharp burrs. Kitsune sprinted from one corridor to the next, heading deeper into the catacombs. The walls here were older and lined with long shelves. Only skulls and scattered bones remained where townsfolk had been laid out long ago. Noone this close to the Dreadlands buried their dead aboveground. Scavengers often defiled graves and the restlessness of the dead was more than mere rumour. Kitsune heard the sustained patter of many bare feet behind her. They weren’t gaining but neither could she establish much of a lead. Rounding a corner she barrelled into a weaver as it shimmered into being. The yellow flesh of the creature was slimy, smelling of rot and mildew. Without pausing she shoved the torch in the creatures face, producing a high-pitched shriek. She palmed her hunting knife in her left hand and slashed the weaver’s belly just as it reached for her eyes. The soft flesh of the belly parted like a curtain before the knife. Translucent entrails and black blood splashed to the stone floor. She shoved the dying creature off and continued her flight. The pursuit had gained. She heard the splashes as they ran through the pool of blood barely fifteen yards behind her. Reaching for her pack, she grabbed her lone set of three grenades. She cut the fuses to a length, lit them and dropped them to the floor as she rounded the next corner. Five seconds later she felt the blast. Dirt fell through cracks in the ceiling and the floor heaved beneath her feet. The air felt as if it was sucked from her lungs and she staggered forward. She smiled at the shrieking and continued her flight. The pattering started up again behind her with renewed intent. Kitsune’s torch died but she did not slow. She could see well enough with her partial night vision and an increasing glow from up ahead. She rounded a last corner to see a stairwell, torchlight from below lighting up the round chamber she stood in. This seemed the only exit and the demons were close behind her. Descending quickly, she came out in the centre of a large, semi-lit tomb. This place seemed far older than the village itself. As if the church had been built atop the ruins of a much larger cathedral. Columns were spread evenly throughout the chamber, guarded by stone statues wearing a style of splint armour she did not recognise. Ornate, marble sarcophagi were scattered throughout, as if an entire dynasty were buried here. “It’s been too long since our last visitor, Risu did well.” Kitsune turned to see an old man, dressed in tattered, priestly attire standing near the far wall. His white robes were darkened with blood and refuse and his long grey hair spilled out over a ceremonial mantle fit with gold and precious stones. He leant heavily on a crozier, a priest’s mark of office. His was an ornate shepherd’s staff, the golden head curled into the shape of a vine. He stood on a low, stone dais at the far end of the room. Beside him was a man-sized oval of distorted space. It looked somewhat like a deep pond, but instead it stood vertically and offered no reflection. Kitsune had heard of this kind of magic before, rifts leading to the lower realms. “So you’re Father?” “Aye, I guess you’ve already met my flock. Little Risu is such an irresistible bait, especially for your kind.” The priest looked up, eyes glowing a fiery gold. “What in the he–” “You like them? The last of your brethren to pass this way was more than generous to a milky-eyed old man.” Kitsune had a bolt mid-air before the priest finished his spiel. There was a loud crack and the bolt stopped mid air a yard from the priest’s breast, hitting a spell shield and falling harmlessly to the floor. “I could always use a second set of eyes.” The old man grinned wickedly. Kitsune pulled her hunting knife and stepped forward. The priest raised his staff in response and whispered an incantation. Light shot to every corner of the chamber for a brief second, revealing the silent mass standing between the priest and the Arrakai. The demons shuffled away slightly, releasing a low moan as the piercing light shone off their subterranean skin and eyes. Rank upon rank of yellow weavers, staring vacantly at her; still more filled the stairwell above. Then the flash was gone, priest and hunter seemingly alone once again. “The last one struggled so hard. Make this easy on yourself.” The priest gestured around the dais to the heaped bones and armour. “What is this magic?” Kitsune glanced around the tomb for a way out. Seeing none besides the shimmering portal and the hostile stairs above. “You’re no mage.” “The library within this place precedes the Dreadlands itself.” He paused, seeming to savour the sound of his own words. “Some of the grimoires were particularly… enlightening.” “So you ripped a hole in reality?” Kitsune continued to buy time, her mind wrestling with the impossibilities surrounding her. “Ripped?” scoffed the priest. “Such portals take far more finesse than you could know.” “Bringing hell to Rothenhoff?” “How does that serve me?” snarled the priest, growing tired with the accusations. “I simply sought to protect the library, none shall have my knowledge, my power–” “Enough running,” whispered Kitsune as she remembered an incantation from her days with Rikard. “Solaris!” she yelled, shooting her final bolt into the center of the invisible ranks before her. She closed her eyes and sprinted forward after the bolt, right into the midst of the invisible masses. The bolt struck a weaver’s head, exploding in brilliant white light. The horde, fell back on either side, staggering and squealing as the light stung their eyes and skin. The hall writhed as yellow figures staggered against each other in confusion. The priest was equally stunned, whilst only one figure moved with purpose. Kitsune charged through the gap. Leaping. Vaulting. Slicing, side to side as she sprinted for the dais. Black ichor fell in her wake as she tore her blades through the soft, yellow flesh on every side. The priest, senses returned, uttered several incoherent syllables and a white burning sphere, about the size of a child’s skull, shot from his hands. Kitsune dived to one side and let it light up the weaver behind her. The sphere burned a hole through the creature’s chest setting its skin ablaze. Her roll took her crashing into the debris surrounding the priest’s dais. Skulls and bones and the rusted armour of dead warriors grazed her flanks as she came to a halt. Her hand felt something familiar within the debris. It was a bola: a rope, stringing together three explosive iron balls, designed to be loaded in a crossbow. It was one of Rikard’s favourites. Weavers closed in on all sides as she kicked the bola beneath her, lashing out on all sides with her knives. One blade slipped free of her grasp, slick with blood. Several blows to her back and head brought Kitsune to her knees as the priest prepared a second spell at closer range. The weavers pulled back from the blast but one remained. Held stiff on the end of her last hunting knife. Flicking the bola up with her foot she caught it with her left hand and lit it off the flaming corpse-shield. “It’s so futile, why fight the inevitable?” said the priest, stepping casually forwards. His wrinkled features and mad, golden eyes framed briefly by the swirling rift behind him. Spinning on the spot, Kitsune dropped the knifed weaver and hurled the bola at the dais. It hit the spell shield and fell, right at the priest’s feet. He looked down for a single moment then up again. Gazing in abject fear at the blood-drenched woman standing before him, surrounded by grasping, yellow fiends. The blast sent him flying backwards, straight into the shimmering darkness of the portal. Kitsune burst free of the weavers, and chased the explosion, diving through the portal. The weavers held back, momentarily stunned by the blast and the loss of Father. Kitsune landed hands first and rolled, senses reeling as she came to her feet in a colossal, underground cavern. The air was hot and noxious, smelling of ash and sulphur. Streams of molten rock flowed on either side of the path that ended in the portal. The priest staggered on the ochre bedrock before her, robes singed and blood leaking from several shrapnel wounds. “Welcome to hell,” said the dying priest. Kitsune kicked him full in the chest, sending him flailing into the lava flow. The portal behind her disappeared and a half weaver fell to the ground, split between the two realms. Her eyes blazed a white gold, senses saturated by the presence of countless demons and the screams of a fallen priest. “Nowhere I’d rather be.”
Thanks to the OP for all the programs, looks like they'll come in handy. Microsoft Word really doesn't cut it for note-making/world-building.
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This thread seems pretty awesome. Here is a short fable I wrote as a rebuttal to the inaccuracies of Twilight -
The Vampire and the Teenaged Girl + Show Spoiler + Once upon a time there lived a vampire in a large city like New York or Seattle. He feasted on the blood of the citizens of this large city and was quite content in his existence. On Fridays, he went to a secret pub full of unsavory characters such as himself: werewolves, hags, ogres, and politicians. The pub was called “The Drunken Toad,” and he got on well with the other patrons. He enjoyed these nights were he could sit back, relax and have a chat with Manny the Werewolf, his best friend. After leaving the pub he would find a bum or prostitute, someone who wouldn’t be missed, and drain them of the bright, red, life giving fluid that was his sustenance. He would then return to his one bedroom apartment overlooking a seedy industrial canal filled with the leavings of the local mafia. All in all, he lived a quiet and peaceful life, in his own sanguineous way.
One day, as the vampire was leaving the bar he encountered a group of hobgoblins attacking a young woman in a dark alleyway. Hobgoblins love the tender meat of young humans and it is common to see them preying on teenagers who have strayed off the beaten path at night. The vampire recognized the hobgoblin leading the gang as Bucktooth Dingleberry, a regular patron at “The Drunken Toad,” though not one of the vampires close friends.
Upon seeing the vampire approach, the young girl cried out to him.
“Oh, thank God! Help me please, kind sir.”
“Evenin’ Nigel,” slurred Bucktooth around the discoloured ivory spike for which he was named. That was the vampire’s name, Nigel. Nigel nodded warily in return.
“Hello, Bucktooth,” Nigel replied, enunciating clearly, unhampered as he was by such a large dental appendage.
“Hey you stupid twit!” screeched the girl, “I need HELP!”
“That’s quite a catch you’ve got there,” said Nigel eyeing the girl hungrily.
“Hey, stay away from our meat,” said Bucktooth timidly. He knew he was no match for the vampire in a fight; Hobgoblins aren’t renowned for their intelligence. While he could easily fight of the regular passerby with his bone club, Bucktooth lacked the strength or wit to confront Nigel, even with his buddies behind him.
“Hey asshole, save me already, goddamnit!” yelled the girl, her voice rising to a pitch that could cause hearing aids to short-circuit.
Faster than lightening Nigel stepped past the awed Hobgoblins, swept the girl over his shoulder and leapt to the top of a dumpster prepared to break some Hobgoblin skulls if they were stupid enough to retaliate.
“Screw you, Nigel,” cursed Bucktooth, “you fucking vampires think you own the world.” He ran off into the night with his gang close on his heels.
“You’re a vampire?” exclaimed the girl, her voice suddenly dripping with ardor, “H-h-hi, I’m Carleigh.”
“That’s nice,” replied Nigel beginning to leap up to the top of a nearby building.
“Do you know Edward?” asked Carleigh excitedly.
“Edward?” Nigel replied. He thought about the name for a minute. A vampire named Edward? Slowly he began to recall a cardboard cutout of some pretty-boy outside a movie theatre. He began to laugh maniacally. For those who have never heard a vampire laugh, it is the most bloodcurdling laugh you will ever hear. The sound chills the very air around you. Carleigh seemed unperturbed.
“You do know him? Isn’t he super sexy? Oh, can I meet him? Do you know where he lives? This one time I was dreaming about him and we were in my room and…”
As the girl babbled on, Nigel continued chuckling to himself and began to leap along the rooftops, heading home.
* * *
Eventually, Carleigh ran out of things to say. She looked up to see that Nigel had stopped on a rooftop. He set her down effortlessly.
“Ok,” he said.
“Ok, what?” replied Carleigh.
“You can go home now.”
“What?” asked Carleigh, a confused look on her face.
“You. Can. Go. Home. Now,” said Nigel slowly, “You do speak English?”
“Yes. What? Of course, but what do you mean ‘I can go home.’?”
“I mean that you can return to your normal place of habitation.”
“You mean you aren’t going to take me home with you?”
“No,” replied Nigel, giving her a once over, “you’re a bit too scrawny for my taste.”
“But, but,” Carleigh was searching desperately. Hurriedly, she adopted her most seductive smile. “I bet you could grow to like me,” she said suggestively.
“Hmm, perhaps…” said Nigel quickly hiding his disbelief.
“Yes! Please? You wouldn’t regret it.”
“Probably not,” replied Nigel honestly.
Oh boy! Carleigh thought to herself. A real vampire! And he’s taking me to his house. Maybe I will be able to meet Edward Cullen! Or even Lestat! This is the best day ever!
So lost was she in this fantasy, that she didn’t notice Nigel slyly move behind her. Suddenly, she felt a sharp thud on the back of her head. Everything went dark.
* * *
When Carleigh awoke she was lying on a couch in a dark room full of lava lamps. The walls were covered posters featuring psychedelic patterns and there was a thin haze of smoke in the air.
“Nigel?” she called.
“Yes?” said a voice from behind her head. She turned around quickly to find Nigel sitting behind her, fastening a bib around his throat.
“Oh, there you are. You scared me! My heart’s beating like crazy.”
“Yes it is,” agreed Nigel, salivating conspicuously.
“Where are we? Is this your house? It’s kinda cool!”
Nigel, who was now busy brushing his already pristinely white teeth, glanced around.
“Mmmhmm,” he mumbled around his toothbrush.
“Wow, I could get used to living here”
“I bet,” Nigel said with disinterest, unscrewing the top of a small jar, “could you tilt your head back for a second?”
“Uh, sure, I guess. What is that, some lotion?” asked Carleigh inquisitively.
“Paprika,” Nigel corrected, rubbing the spice over her jugular, “It’s, uh, good for the skin.”
“Awww, thanks!” said Carleigh, “That’s really sweet of you.”
“Yeah, no problem.”
“I think I’m falling in love with you,” Carleigh interjected, with ridiculous naivety.
“Oh really,” replied Nigel, feigning interest.
“Yes, we can live together forever and be the happiest people in the world and you can protect me and be my lover with your smooth, pale skin which makes you so hot and…” she continued for several minutes while Nigel garnished her neck with some parsnips and broccoli.
“Are you finished?” asked Nigel, cutting her off.
“What? Oh, yes,” she giggled, “Sorry, I just got a little excited and–”
Her reply was cut short as Nigel bit into her neck. Five minutes later, he dropped her exsanguinated corpse to the floor.
Moral: Bloodsucking demonic beings make bad boyfriends.
This was one of the very first things I wrote. I have always been fascinated with the history of vampire legend and was therefore horrified when I discovered Stephanie Meyers bastardization. Sure you can make vampires whatever you want in your own fiction. But seriously, ew, I found her adaptation distasteful. I was disgusted by my female acquaintances' swanning over Twilight and this is the result.
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Everybody wants to share, but nobody's reading so far. I suggest you guys "pick a partner", and swap stories. Be the initiator and ask one of the other posters.
EDIT: Make sure you guys post the partner feedback in this thread for those reading it!
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On March 19 2012 05:40 FoxyMayhem wrote: Everybody wants to share, but nobody's reading so far. I suggest you guys "pick a partner", and swap stories. Be the initiator and ask one of the other posters.
EDIT: Make sure you guys post the partner feedback in this thread for those reading it! But then we have to do more work D:
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Some people are just posting to share, some want feedback, some both. No need to partner people, just post what you have to share, and if someone wants to read and comment, they will. Give guidelines for your feedback should you want it.
Forum goers aren't going to forcefully read someones story about love, if they don't like romance stories, or read something they don't like. If I don't already like it because of the genre, my criticism will be kind of skewed
If you need immediate feedback/advice, best bet is to ask friends or family, and do some research.
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Who said anything about forcing? I was suggesting that if you want feedback, work with someone specifically. I know what it's like to post something in hope of feedback and checking back regularly and being disappointed, just trying to help save some people that. And obviously you're not going to agree to work with someone who writes what you hate.
Why did you even think I meant those things?
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On March 19 2012 07:15 FoxyMayhem wrote: Who said anything about forcing? I was suggesting that if you want feedback, work with someone specifically. I know what it's like to post something in hope of feedback and checking back regularly and being disappointed, just trying to help save some people that. And obviously you're not going to agree to work with someone who writes what you hate.
Why did you even think I meant those things?
??????????? I don't really know how to respond to what you're saying now, what did I ever say about you? What? I'm really confused.
All im saying is, let the feedback come naturally, if someone wants to partner with you that's fine, but what you said doesn't really sound like that.
On March 19 2012 05:40 FoxyMayhem wrote: Everybody wants to share, but nobody's reading so far. I suggest you guys "pick a partner", and swap stories. Be the initiator and ask one of the other posters.
EDIT: Make sure you guys post the partner feedback in this thread for those reading it!
To touch more on that, you can't really tell if people are reading, people just aren't giving as much feedback, which is fine.
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Oh, well whatever, it's all good. In that first post I meant "nobody is providing feedback", so that's probably where some of the confusion comes from.
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On March 18 2012 23:51 Arghmyliver wrote:This thread seems pretty awesome. Here is a short fable I wrote as a rebuttal to the inaccuracies of Twilight - The Vampire and the Teenaged Girl+ Show Spoiler + Once upon a time there lived a vampire in a large city like New York or Seattle. He feasted on the blood of the citizens of this large city and was quite content in his existence. On Fridays, he went to a secret pub full of unsavory characters such as himself: werewolves, hags, ogres, and politicians. The pub was called “The Drunken Toad,” and he got on well with the other patrons. He enjoyed these nights were he could sit back, relax and have a chat with Manny the Werewolf, his best friend. After leaving the pub he would find a bum or prostitute, someone who wouldn’t be missed, and drain them of the bright, red, life giving fluid that was his sustenance. He would then return to his one bedroom apartment overlooking a seedy industrial canal filled with the leavings of the local mafia. All in all, he lived a quiet and peaceful life, in his own sanguineous way.
One day, as the vampire was leaving the bar he encountered a group of hobgoblins attacking a young woman in a dark alleyway. Hobgoblins love the tender meat of young humans and it is common to see them preying on teenagers who have strayed off the beaten path at night. The vampire recognized the hobgoblin leading the gang as Bucktooth Dingleberry, a regular patron at “The Drunken Toad,” though not one of the vampires close friends.
Upon seeing the vampire approach, the young girl cried out to him.
“Oh, thank God! Help me please, kind sir.”
“Evenin’ Nigel,” slurred Bucktooth around the discoloured ivory spike for which he was named. That was the vampire’s name, Nigel. Nigel nodded warily in return.
“Hello, Bucktooth,” Nigel replied, enunciating clearly, unhampered as he was by such a large dental appendage.
“Hey you stupid twit!” screeched the girl, “I need HELP!”
“That’s quite a catch you’ve got there,” said Nigel eyeing the girl hungrily.
“Hey, stay away from our meat,” said Bucktooth timidly. He knew he was no match for the vampire in a fight; Hobgoblins aren’t renowned for their intelligence. While he could easily fight of the regular passerby with his bone club, Bucktooth lacked the strength or wit to confront Nigel, even with his buddies behind him.
“Hey asshole, save me already, goddamnit!” yelled the girl, her voice rising to a pitch that could cause hearing aids to short-circuit.
Faster than lightening Nigel stepped past the awed Hobgoblins, swept the girl over his shoulder and leapt to the top of a dumpster prepared to break some Hobgoblin skulls if they were stupid enough to retaliate.
“Screw you, Nigel,” cursed Bucktooth, “you fucking vampires think you own the world.” He ran off into the night with his gang close on his heels.
“You’re a vampire?” exclaimed the girl, her voice suddenly dripping with ardor, “H-h-hi, I’m Carleigh.”
“That’s nice,” replied Nigel beginning to leap up to the top of a nearby building.
“Do you know Edward?” asked Carleigh excitedly.
“Edward?” Nigel replied. He thought about the name for a minute. A vampire named Edward? Slowly he began to recall a cardboard cutout of some pretty-boy outside a movie theatre. He began to laugh maniacally. For those who have never heard a vampire laugh, it is the most bloodcurdling laugh you will ever hear. The sound chills the very air around you. Carleigh seemed unperturbed.
“You do know him? Isn’t he super sexy? Oh, can I meet him? Do you know where he lives? This one time I was dreaming about him and we were in my room and…”
As the girl babbled on, Nigel continued chuckling to himself and began to leap along the rooftops, heading home.
* * *
Eventually, Carleigh ran out of things to say. She looked up to see that Nigel had stopped on a rooftop. He set her down effortlessly.
“Ok,” he said.
“Ok, what?” replied Carleigh.
“You can go home now.”
“What?” asked Carleigh, a confused look on her face.
“You. Can. Go. Home. Now,” said Nigel slowly, “You do speak English?”
“Yes. What? Of course, but what do you mean ‘I can go home.’?”
“I mean that you can return to your normal place of habitation.”
“You mean you aren’t going to take me home with you?”
“No,” replied Nigel, giving her a once over, “you’re a bit too scrawny for my taste.”
“But, but,” Carleigh was searching desperately. Hurriedly, she adopted her most seductive smile. “I bet you could grow to like me,” she said suggestively.
“Hmm, perhaps…” said Nigel quickly hiding his disbelief.
“Yes! Please? You wouldn’t regret it.”
“Probably not,” replied Nigel honestly.
Oh boy! Carleigh thought to herself. A real vampire! And he’s taking me to his house. Maybe I will be able to meet Edward Cullen! Or even Lestat! This is the best day ever!
So lost was she in this fantasy, that she didn’t notice Nigel slyly move behind her. Suddenly, she felt a sharp thud on the back of her head. Everything went dark.
* * *
When Carleigh awoke she was lying on a couch in a dark room full of lava lamps. The walls were covered posters featuring psychedelic patterns and there was a thin haze of smoke in the air.
“Nigel?” she called.
“Yes?” said a voice from behind her head. She turned around quickly to find Nigel sitting behind her, fastening a bib around his throat.
“Oh, there you are. You scared me! My heart’s beating like crazy.”
“Yes it is,” agreed Nigel, salivating conspicuously.
“Where are we? Is this your house? It’s kinda cool!”
Nigel, who was now busy brushing his already pristinely white teeth, glanced around.
“Mmmhmm,” he mumbled around his toothbrush.
“Wow, I could get used to living here”
“I bet,” Nigel said with disinterest, unscrewing the top of a small jar, “could you tilt your head back for a second?”
“Uh, sure, I guess. What is that, some lotion?” asked Carleigh inquisitively.
“Paprika,” Nigel corrected, rubbing the spice over her jugular, “It’s, uh, good for the skin.”
“Awww, thanks!” said Carleigh, “That’s really sweet of you.”
“Yeah, no problem.”
“I think I’m falling in love with you,” Carleigh interjected, with ridiculous naivety.
“Oh really,” replied Nigel, feigning interest.
“Yes, we can live together forever and be the happiest people in the world and you can protect me and be my lover with your smooth, pale skin which makes you so hot and…” she continued for several minutes while Nigel garnished her neck with some parsnips and broccoli.
“Are you finished?” asked Nigel, cutting her off.
“What? Oh, yes,” she giggled, “Sorry, I just got a little excited and–”
Her reply was cut short as Nigel bit into her neck. Five minutes later, he dropped her exsanguinated corpse to the floor.
Moral: Bloodsucking demonic beings make bad boyfriends.
This was one of the very first things I wrote. I have always been fascinated with the history of vampire legend and was therefore horrified when I discovered Stephanie Meyers bastardization. Sure you can make vampires whatever you want in your own fiction. But seriously, ew, I found her adaptation distasteful. I was disgusted by my female acquaintances' swanning over Twilight and this is the result.
I liked this story a lot. Very well thought up concept. Just some spelling/grammar mistakes I found.
What is exsanguinated? Is that even a word? No word called pristinely either.
"around the discoloured ivory spike for which he was named. That was the vampire’s name, Nigel. Nigel nodded warily in return." discoloured? Don't you mean discolored? There is no "u".
“That’s quite a catch you’ve got there,” said Nigel eyeing the girl it is "eying" not "eyeing"
At the end of the first paragraph: sanguineous it is sanguinary.
The title should be "The Vampire and The Teenage Girl" NOT "Teenaged"
There, I did work. Happy Fox?
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On March 19 2012 08:59 3FFA wrote: "around the discoloured ivory spike for which he was named. That was the vampire’s name, Nigel. Nigel nodded warily in return." discoloured? Don't you mean discolored? There is no "u".
it is spelled with a "u" in some areas of the world
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On March 19 2012 09:02 Whole wrote:Show nested quote +On March 19 2012 08:59 3FFA wrote: "around the discoloured ivory spike for which he was named. That was the vampire’s name, Nigel. Nigel nodded warily in return." discoloured? Don't you mean discolored? There is no "u".
it is spelled with a "u" in some areas of the world Ahh, I had no idea. Thank you for informing me. You learn something new every day
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I wrote this about one and a half years ago. During that time, I pretty much exclusively read the works of H.P. Lovecraft, so this is my tribute to the best horror author I have ever had the pleasure of discovering.
Note that English is not my first language and I certainly do not possess the vocabulary of Mr. Lovecraft. It's just a little something that came to mind one night and I jotted down a quick outline of the story, then wrote it in about two hours in between doing other things on the next day.
As for feedback, not really looking for any on this particular story, since it was finished a long time ago. But I am always looking to improve my language skills, so if there are any glaring mistakes, please feel free to point them out.
Alright, here goes:
That Thing From Which You Cower + Show Spoiler +When next the opportunity presents itself to look someone intently in the eye, think twice about whether or not you are prepared for what you might see.
Foolishly, I once made that exact mistake, and I consider myself lucky to be able to convey the tale of that fateful moment, even if it still haunts my days and nights like an ancient evil born in a forgotten world, whose sole purpose is to loom over my every movement, waiting for the right time to strike down and rekindle the slowly dying flame of fear once more.
I do not mean to bore you with excessively overblown reports of what came to pass back then, my intention is merely to warn whoever might be lucky enough to read these pages. Before you dismiss what is written here as the incomprehensible ramblings of a lunatic, know that what is about to follow was brought to paper only hours after the events it attempts to describe, and is therefore colored by rampant emotions, the foremost of them fear.
Please, I beg you, heed my warnings. Avoid the eyes.
Those eyes, albeit at first sight seemingly emotionless, showed quickly fading bursts of an intense, glowing hatred for everything and everyone after a few moments of more intense study. I felt them staring at me, staring through me and finally transfixing me with their merciless beckoning that I could not withstand, no matter how strained my efforts.
Eventually I had no choice left but to give in and steal a glance of what I will never forget as long as I walk the soil of this planet. Unspeakable forms and shapes, unbeknown to man, yet exuding a distinct and immeasurable malignity, marching freely through landscapes of utmost hideous appearances, defying any explanation as to their origin and actual location.
The blankness of my expression was at that point matched only by the blankness in my thoughts. The only immediate remaining urge was to find answers, to somehow make sense of what was essentially unexplainable. Producing nothing but whispered, incoherent utterings, I continued my observation of the now slightly altered scenes that were continuing to play out before me, focused through pinpoint-sized pupils.
It was then that I came to the realization I had been degraded to the role of a mere spectator in a mad play, wherein the actors had been replaced by writhing masses of misshapen limbs and gnarled tendrils and the stage design was a backdrop of seared flesh married to broken bones and severed sinews in ways that elude any attempt at a more precise description.
I would have never deemed it possible, yet there I was, in that very moment bearing witness to the ascend of what can only be specified as the purest form of fright in my own mind, a terror so clear and overpowering that it is normally kept dwelling in a dormant state, far beyond conscious understanding.
There is no apt depiction in any known language for what was conveyed in these moments and I fear that if I try to articulate the horrors of imagination which were demonstrated to me by this pitiless pair of retinas, I might lose what little sanity is left in me.
Suffice it to say that the existence of something beyond the borders of even the darkest and most atrocious nightmares is best left undisturbed. Otherwise you might just make the most unpleasant acquaintance of what you never dared to think about. Of what you never dared to dream about. That nameless dread hiding in the darkest corners of your mind. And you should pray to all the heavens that it will never truly come to light.
What ultimately brought me back to reality and ceased the ghastly spell forcing me to stare into what I am by now convinced was the limitless abyss of a demonic mind, encased in something vaguely resembling a pair of human eyes, I cannot say. Of one thing I am sure, though: the things I have seen will not leave me for a lifetime.
Shuddering, I finally managed to tear my gaze away from the mirror. I must have been sitting there for hours.
I beg you. Avoid my eyes.
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I like this thread idea, it is a good resource I think.
Anyway, to sort of contribute, here is something I wrote for a prompt in one of my classes the other day. The prompt was supposed to be "My mother used to have...", but I was tired as all all fuck and couldn't concentrate. So instead I just wrote the most random thing in a while: + Show Spoiler + My Mother Used to Have.... My mother used to have antlers. It was a difficult procedure, to remove them, but it paid off. Now she simply has two stubs where they used to be; this would be a problem, however it makes her look like Hellboy, so most people can deal with it. The one issue we had with the removal process was… what were we supposed to do with the antlers? Antlers, for those of you who don’t know, really serve one purpose: namely being antlers. Looking big and smashing into other antlers in case of a territorial dispute (this is actually how we started renting this house we are living in now). So when the original owner of the antlers is taken out of the equation, one is left with two hard, stubby, slightly furry protrusions of bone. I feel what we did was fairly clever.
My mother is Russian, so bears tend to follow us around trying to attack us. Of course, being Russian, she grew up with this kind of thing, so she knows how to deal with them; a quick kick to the groin usually frightens the bear off. However, now that we really had nothing to do with the antlers, we decided to wrestle the bear, kill it, and super glue the antlers to it. We put up the bear-deer into our living room, where he resides over our TV, looking weird and unsettlingly aggressive. There he stayed for about six and half months, until we had a friend, Vlad, come over. When he spotted the bear head he proclaimed, “The missing link!” and tried to battle my mom in a dispute over who should be the owner. My mom pointed out that she killed the bear, and Vlad pointed out that, yes, Jurassic Park is unrealistic but the book is much better, a devastating counter-argument. My mother was left stunned at his pristine logic and unrelenting stream of completely coherent language. They decided to take the more commonly tread path of problem solving, and began to gnash their teeth and growl.
My mom was low to the ground, pacing back and forth like a walrus. Vlad skittered up the wall, screeching and whining in high pitched bursts of Russian. The tension built in the room, and I went to get myself a bowl of Cheerios, non-sweetened, of course. When I returned, I discovered my mother had fallen into a trap! Vlad transformed into spider and had sprayed webbing everywhere, and my mother had followed a small bald, skinny creature who coughed a lot, into the cave, thinking she would be led to a giant mountain of fire. Unfortunately for her, Vlad was waiting; he pounced, and had her in her pincers. There was only one thing I could do. I quickly began to gnaw on my spoon, in a desperate attempt to aide in the progression of this ‘story’. And then, suddenly, nothing continued to happen!
You can see I really didn't edit it at all, and I just wrote really whatever came to me. It is kind of reminiscent of Woody Allen's earlier work (book wise, I mean) in the sense that it is incredibly random. Some people thought it was funny, so I hope you like it. Personally now it looks kind of stupid to me, but who am I to judge! Besides the author, I mean.
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I think one of the best ways to get out there and into writing is doing NaNoWriMo, which is a month where tens of thousands of people get together, and just write. The goal is to write 50k words in a month. I participated for 3 years, and "won" twice, but that was what actually got me into some sort of creative writing
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Ugh.
Today was the day that I would finish my book's last chapter. When I typed it out and began word counting, I realized I only landed on 60k words.
It isn't impossible to salvage, I will simply have to weld another part onto the story. It is probably going to need another 20.000 words before I can put it to rest.
Kind of annoying because I was hoping I would be done with it today. Still, on average I wrote 2.000 words per day, so that isn't bad.
Part of me wants to let it rest and return later whilst I start on another book, but another part of me knows I have to finish it.
Some serious re-writing and balancing awaits. But already I am having some ideas on how to use the extra 20.000 words.
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On March 19 2012 19:41 zalz wrote: Ugh.
Today was the day that I would finish my book's last chapter. When I typed it out and began word counting, I realized I only landed on 60k words.
It isn't impossible to salvage, I will simply have to weld another part onto the story. It is probably going to need another 20.000 words before I can put it to rest.
Kind of annoying because I was hoping I would be done with it today. Still, on average I wrote 2.000 words per day, so that isn't bad.
Part of me wants to let it rest and return later whilst I start on another book, but another part of me knows I have to finish it.
Some serious re-writing and balancing awaits. But already I am having some ideas on how to use the extra 20.000 words.
Can I ask you what your book is about?
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On March 19 2012 19:41 zalz wrote: Ugh.
Today was the day that I would finish my book's last chapter. When I typed it out and began word counting, I realized I only landed on 60k words.
It isn't impossible to salvage, I will simply have to weld another part onto the story. It is probably going to need another 20.000 words before I can put it to rest.
Kind of annoying because I was hoping I would be done with it today. Still, on average I wrote 2.000 words per day, so that isn't bad.
Part of me wants to let it rest and return later whilst I start on another book, but another part of me knows I have to finish it.
Some serious re-writing and balancing awaits. But already I am having some ideas on how to use the extra 20.000 words.
Why is it a problem to have only 60k words?
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Thanks for mentioning WriteMonkey!
I downloaded it and I love it
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On March 20 2012 02:46 CyDe wrote:Show nested quote +On March 19 2012 19:41 zalz wrote: Ugh.
Today was the day that I would finish my book's last chapter. When I typed it out and began word counting, I realized I only landed on 60k words.
It isn't impossible to salvage, I will simply have to weld another part onto the story. It is probably going to need another 20.000 words before I can put it to rest.
Kind of annoying because I was hoping I would be done with it today. Still, on average I wrote 2.000 words per day, so that isn't bad.
Part of me wants to let it rest and return later whilst I start on another book, but another part of me knows I have to finish it.
Some serious re-writing and balancing awaits. But already I am having some ideas on how to use the extra 20.000 words. Can I ask you what your book is about?
The story starts at 2042, twenty years after a global nuclear war that destroyed society. After those twenty years it is about the time that there are some forms of rebuilding going on in North-America.
The setting is that there were a decent amount of people with super powers before the nuclear war, but because there really isn't much of a society left, they aren't in hiding anymore.
The focus of the story is placed on a few of these super powered individuals and their struggle in this new post-apocalyptic world.
I have a large pile of notes on stuff that I think are cool or interesting. Sometimes an idea, a setting, a character or a scene just pops in my mind and I write it down in a notebook.
This story was kind of born from that. It is a large pile of these ideas, molded into a story.
This is also the reason why falling short 20.000 words really isn't that big of a deal for this particular story. I have already been cutting storylines left and right to make the storyline into a cohesive whole. The more I think about it, the happier I become that I can alter the story to include some of the ideas that I had left.
The downside of this is that I was really looking forward to starting on a magical realism thriller, but that will probably have to be placed on hold for 2-4 weeks.
After all, the most important rule is to finish your stories. It is easy to get distracted or let things rest as "half finished."
Why is it a problem to have only 60k words?
Novels tend to fall in between 80k-120k.
So, as someone trying to write novels, it is important to aim somewhere in between those boundaries.
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Just an idea for this thread, or maybe for starting a brand new one. Have a rule where if you want to share your own work, you should also post a spoilered review of someone else's in the same post. That way we get some sort of balance between feedback and sharing.
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On March 22 2012 15:01 Scarecrow wrote: Just an idea for this thread, or maybe for starting a brand new one. Have a rule where if you want to share your own work, you should also post a spoilered review of someone else's in the same post. That way we get some sort of balance between feedback and sharing.
I feel like it may cause people to write bullshit critiques.
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Can someone explain to me the influence behind the nature of writing fictitious books as opposed to non-fictitious books?
I'm working on a book about heroin addiction, and the nature of it, and while I do enjoy writing non-fictitious books I have always wanted to dabble my hand in writing fictitious books.
I have been debating on writing a plot based on my own struggles with psychotic depression/schizophrenia although I can't really find any base for the plot.
Thanks for anyone who can give any insight and have fun writing my friends.
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On March 24 2012 20:13 MaddogStarCraft wrote: Can someone explain to me the influence behind the nature of writing fictitious books as opposed to non-fictitious books?
I'm working on a book about heroin addiction, and the nature of it, and while I do enjoy writing non-fictitious books I have always wanted to dabble my hand in writing fictitious books.
I have been debating on writing a plot based on my own struggles with psychotic depression/schizophrenia although I can't really find any base for the plot.
Thanks for anyone who can give any insight and have fun writing my friends.
generally non fiction doesnt focus on the "what if?" but instead focuses on the "what is?"
one of the easiest ways to come up with a good story is to take 1 concept or thing and 1 other completely diffferent and unrelated concept or thing and merge them into a "what if?" question. take related concepts or things from the first merge and work to merge those together into a second merged concept. and so on.
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the ending is a bit shit. and i don't really like the title.
Title: Lucid Perception
A perfect storm of events allowed me to remember once again, those terribly juvenile experiences of lesser dogs. It started with my debit card expiring. I phoned the bank and after numerous redirections, a hispanic lady named Louise told me I should have been issued a new card a week prior.
"It should have arrived by now," I said.
"I'll reissue it right away sir."
"Thank you Louise."
I had been buying pasta noodles, the macaroni kind packaged in those thin cardboard boxes, OJ and alfredo sauce - 10.96 bucks worth of food. But all I ended up with was the OJ seeing as I had four dollars in my wallet and I didn't want to leave completely empty handed. Behind me was a mom and her kid, their cart jammed full with fruits and pepperjack cheese and organic milk. The mom was slender, young looking, and her hair, blonde and wavy, and seeing her like that, it made me want to tell her, "You know I've got money in the bank. My card's just not working."
I didn't though, and it left me feeling like I was actually poor. "Fuck it," I decided and compounded the feeling that I was some lowly trash by drinking straight out of the carton, little droplets of yellow dripping down my chin. My phone picked up a wifi signal and I looked up Bank of America's number which is how I ended up talking to Louise. I had wandered to the deli section while talking to her and was admiring a delicious looking garlic and olive antipasto. I knew there was a B of A close by somewhere, maybe down a block or two so I decided to walk.
Sometimes the weather is too hot or too cold and it's too uncomfortable for contemplative thought to occur. On this day, the weather was good. Everything seemed in harmony - the balance of sun and shade and clouds. I found myself entering a reverie. The only thing still nagging me was the occasional inhale of car exhaust and that I couldn't stop drinking the orange juice. Simply having it there, present, immediate, was an irresistible invitation, though my bladder warned it was all going to waste.
There was a homeless man, beer-gut, beanie, pushing a shopping cart filled with ragged shit, a sleeping bag, blankets, some canvas bags. I didn't see any alcohol. "Good for you," I thought as I took another swig of my juice. I passed him, and felt a pulse of energy that arched my back and raised my chin. "Why'd I do that?" I guess it was habit. I used to run 5K's. I was not great, but I sure felt like a god every time I came up on a bend and passed some one who was huffing. Seeing their pain rejuvenated me and if I was lucky, these huffers would be spaced out in perfect intervals such that when I passed one, another would soon be within my sight.
There was not another homeless person for me to pass, but I did get passed by the mom and her kid riding in a sweet looking Audi. I saw them from the corner of my eye. The kid was sitting in the passenger seat. We made eye contact. He was pretty good looking like his mom, rosy skin, sparkly eyes, freckles, the kind of kid that's probably the source of two or three crushes. It stood to imply that the husband was gorgeous as well, and probably rich. I wondered if the dad had ever cheated on her. I mean, he must have been hot shit to land a hot wife. I felt a bit better imagining their hidden angst. He was probably a businessman or lawyer with a young intern or receptionist. Once certain variables align, the chain of events that unfold are bound to occur.
When I arrived at the bank, my 'Simply Orange' was nearing the halfway mark. I couldn't get the mom out of my mind. I saw her serving the husband organic cheese and salad made from spinach and italian dressing and exotic nuts and tangerines, the way rich people do, and probably later in the night, getting rewarded with a fill of his thick, take-it-to-the-bank, testosterone, and enjoying it. On the other hand, me, standing in line, waiting to cash out money to buy alfredo sauce and macaroni noodles. It struck me then, that as I pleasant as it had been to walk to the bank, I would have to walk back.
My day would've become complete shit if not for the supreme hotness of teller #4. It's possible what I was feeling was just residual lust for the mom. Regardless, I stared at her. I was at the tail end of a fourteen or fifteen person line - what else was I going to do. I got to thinking about this thing called the 3 second rule. My friend Cael had mentioned it once in college. He had said, "Nick, you've got to follow the 3 second rule. What that means is you've got to approach a girl you like in three seconds or less. Longer than that, and you'll just psyche yourself out. Trust me. It's golden." Well goddammit I couldn't just cut the entire line and start spitting game while she was talking to an arabic man. I had no control over the situation. So I rehearsed instead. This is what I wanted to say: Hi. I hope this isn't awkward, but I think you're beautiful and we should get to know each other. You don't know me, but I'm a pretty cool guy once you do. What's the worst that can happen? We can always just be friends too. It never hurts to have -
"Sir, I can help you here." It was teller #2, an old hag. My face turned red.
"Sir?"
"Ah, go ahead of me," I said to the guy behind.
"Nah it's okay."
"No really I insist, I need to call my girlfriend, you know, ask her how much money she needs me to take out."
He winked at me. "To tell you the truth, I've been waiting for a while to get that teller." He pointed at my teller.
"Sir! You're holding up the line," cried the teller, motioning me forward.
Jesus christ. I was walking forward when I noticed the person at the girl's counter had finished. Adrenaline rushed through me. "This is my chance," I thought, and abruptly changed course.
"Hello there," she chirped when I reached her. She was more beautiful up close. I didn't remember anything I'd practiced. I gave her a nod and placed my orange juice confidently on the counter. I was on an adrendaline high.
"I'd like to cash out some money."
"Oh-kay. How much?"
"One million dollars. I'm a rich person. Go on a date with me."
But that's not what I said. I said, "Ten dollars."
While she verified my driver's license, my brain whirled, coming up with plausible lines to say, then just as quickly shutting them down. I could not think of anything. How's your day? Great weather isn't it? God I would sound just like any other chump. I needed to say something dramatic. Mind blowing.
I didn't.
But as I took my ten dollars, our hands brushed and for the longest second, I felt a connection - a snap of electricity from her fingertips to mine, through my heart to my brain, and then from my eyes to hers. We smiled. She knew my name, even my address and phone number. It was all in the system.
"I'll see you later," I said. I would. I would see her later. After all, who goes to a bank to just withdraw ten dollars? I would be back. I'd take out twenty dollars next time and tell I didn't actually need the money, I just wanted to see her. She would be receptive to it this second time.
"Nick! Your orange juice," she pointed, as I walked away from the counter.
I gave her a wide grin "I know," I said and walked out into sun, the door swinging behind me. I trusted her to refrigerate it for me if she liked me as I liked her. I would grab it tomorrow.
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I often like to think about ideas when I'm doing boring, repetitive things such as walking to school. I always find naming characters extremely hard, because I myself have difficulty following a character with a silly name.
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I'm doing a short story for a creative writing contest. I'd like to know if posting it here and maybe getting some feedback on it would count as cheating or not.
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On March 25 2012 12:09 husniack wrote: ...I knew there was a B of A close by somewhere, maybe down a block or two so I decided to walk...
You mean 'their'
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On March 25 2012 13:42 Dark_Chill wrote: I'm doing a short story for a creative writing contest. I'd like to know if posting it here and maybe getting some feedback on it would count as cheating or not.
no
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On March 25 2012 13:42 Dark_Chill wrote: I'm doing a short story for a creative writing contest. I'd like to know if posting it here and maybe getting some feedback on it would count as cheating or not.
Check the rules of the contest for anything about peer reviewing. You should be good, though.
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On March 25 2012 14:17 giuocob wrote:Show nested quote +On March 25 2012 12:09 husniack wrote: ...I knew there was a B of A close by somewhere, maybe down a block or two so I decided to walk...
You mean 'their'
......
......
......
No, he's right.....
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On March 25 2012 16:31 killa_robot wrote:Show nested quote +On March 25 2012 14:17 giuocob wrote:On March 25 2012 12:09 husniack wrote: ...I knew there was a B of A close by somewhere, maybe down a block or two so I decided to walk...
You mean 'their' ...... ...... ...... No, he's right.....
There was a house by some where.
There was that bite of my pizza somewhere.
Their car was close by somewhere.
They're not fond of the use of somewhere.
Yeah, it is correct.
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It struck me then, that as I pleasant as it had been to walk to the bank, I would have to walk back.
Where did the "I" come from? o.O
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Okay, here it is + Show Spoiler +Purpose in Life
The beautiful night sky seemed out of place when put together with the city crowded by buildings. Darius could easily appreciate the black and blue above him, but he could see no wonder or beauty in the picture laid out before him. He sat on the roof of the large apartment building he called home. His girlfriend had already gone back inside, feeling chilly and bored by Darius' silence. He didn't care too much though; deep thinking was his way of unwinding, and the nice early March breeze was his tool to ease into that state. Darius found it to be absolutely essential to stop every night, to consider why he was going on and what he could do to forget that thought. He had a child who was in need of support was the most obvious thought, but that would always be pushed to the back of his mind. Sophie was already six years old and always seemed as if her mother could do everything he could do and more. He felt rather useless most times, and even Jane was becoming less and less in need of his company. He worked as a writer, or at least deluded himself into thinking he could still bear that title. His last book was years ago, and ideas weren't coming to him as they did in his youth. Ever since he began coming up to the roof, regardless of the temperature or weather, he had hoped he would see something which could show him what to do, how to make himself feel like he was part of a family and not a stranger hoping for constant financial support. He felt that if just one amazing idea could enter his head, all of his problems could be solved. It was then that his daughter opened the door on the opposite end of the roof. She stepped into the outside world, walking towards Darius while he watched with a nervous and puzzled look. When she finally got there, he said “what are you doing up here”, with a harsh voice. He hadn't meant for it to sound quite so mean, but he wasn't used to what was happening now and hadn't thought at all about what to say. Sophie's face seemed to take on a slightly sadder expression, but she still managed to get a few words out. “Mommy asked me to come up here. She said that lately you seemed sad and maybe I could help”. She paused for a few moments, wondering what to say next. “I'm not sure what she wanted me to do though”. He wondered what Jane had been thinking. He hated it when he had things forced upon him, and she knew that. More importantly, he wanted more silence and time to himself right now, and both Jane and Sophie weren’t helping right now. He needed an idea, and one wasn’t going to come out of a child. “Listen Sophie, it’s eight o’clock. It’s almost your bedtime, and the roof at night is no place for a six year old”. Sophie had a puzzled look on her face. “Daddy, I’m eight. Don’t you remember, my birthday was just last month”? Darius had indeed forgotten. Sophie had a huge party that day, and it was way too loud for Darius to take any interest in. He had gone out with his friends to the bar that day and came back when all of Sophie’s friends were already gone. At that point Jane told him that he had missed Sophie’s party completely, and that she wasn’t happy with him. She hadn’t spoken to him for a while after that. It wasn’t his fault, anyways. He had been far too preoccupied with thinking up ideas. He realized that Sophie was waiting for a response, and that he should probably say something. “Sorry”. He couldn’t make it sound sincere. He has busy, and she was interrupting him. Didn’t she want him to finally get back to being a real writer, and have an actual purpose in life? “Anyways, Sophie, it’s time for you to go to bed, isn’t it? You should head back, before it gets too cold”. He noticed that she wasn’t exactly well dressed for the weather, yet she stayed where she was, shivering but rooted in her position. It was then that Sophie caught him completely off guard. Instead of listening to his suggestion, she asked in a sad, serious voice, “Daddy, why don’t you ever talk to me?” Darius was hardly ready for anymore talk, let alone something as random as this. “What do you mean? We’re talking right now aren’t we? We talk all the time Sophie. I don’t know what you’re talking about”. Sophie seemed to ignore his reply and went on. “On my birthday, you weren’t there, and you didn’t even say happy birthday when you got back at night. Whenever I come back from school, you don’t ever ask me how my day was like my friends’ daddies do. You never come to me to talk or anything. You used to read me stories in bed, and some of them were yours. I really liked them. What did I do?” Sophie was in tears by the end of it. It was as if everything she had held inside for the longest time had begun to come out all in one moment. Darius was shocked. He hadn’t seen Sophie cry in a long time, and he couldn’t remember when was the last time he had had this much of an exchange with his daughter. He didn’t know how to make her stop crying. He realized that right after he realized that what everything she said was true. He hadn’t thought of going to Sophie that night, apologizing, and saying happy birthday. He hadn’t read her a story since he had written his last book. Sophie came into his arms while she was crying, and Darius’ hands held her close to him; he had no idea what else to do. “Listen Sophie… I, I was really busy… you… you know daddy’s a writer. If he can’t find a good idea, then he won’t be able to write anything”. He knew it wasn’t a good excuse, but what else could he say. Sophie’s head turned upwards, letting her tear-filled eyes meet with his. “Daddy, why can’t you just be like mommy? She has work too, but she talks to me, and cares about me. Why can’t you do that?” He wanted to say once again, that work was different for him, but he instead took a second to think back, to every moment he could think of. Jane would come home relatively late, tired from work, and say hello to him. Then she went to Sophie. Despite her long day and how tired she was, she still went to Sophie. How many times did I, even though I hadn’t been working, spend a bit of time with her? He understood, at that moment, what had been happening. He was feeling more and more useless as she grew older. Jane could do everything he could… because he hadn’t been doing anything. He suddenly felt something shaking against him. Sophie was shivering a lot now, and as he put his hand to her neck, she felt very cold. How had he not noticed it before. His daughter was more important than staying out here any longer. He had done enough thinking for the night. He scooped Sophie into his arms and walked towards the door. The short trip back to the apartment felt so strange to him. It wasn't accompanied with a sense of disappointment that he hadn't come up with an idea once again. His attention was focused solely on Sophie, who had seemingly cried herself to sleep. Her shivering was slowly subsiding, and he could feel her getting warmer. He opened the unlocked apartment door and got out of his shoes. Jane came to the door, and was surprised by the image greeting her. He moved his eyes, darting back between her and Sophie, specifically her shoes. Jane didn't seem to notice though, and now that he thought about it, the look of surprise seemed more like a look of panic. “Oh my god, Sophie!” she cried. She took their child out of his hands. “What was she doing out there in the cold!” yelled Jane. “She could be sick now! When did you take her up there?” Darius was confused. “Didn't you tell her to come up to me?” Jane seemed as if she was going to hit him. “Why the hell would I do that!” She turned away from the door and hurried off towards Sophie's room. Darius managed to notice one more thing before they disappeared from his vision. Sophie had been in her pyjamas. She only put them on when she was going right to bed... It was hard explaining to Jane what had happened, since he hadn't really believed it either. It was progress though; it was the longest conversation they had had in a while, and he had forgotten how much he liked hearing her voice. By the time he woke up in the morning, he realized he had forgotten a lot of things. He moved closer to Jane, putting his arm around her. She moved her head so that it rested on his chest. She smiled in her sleep. He greeted Sophie with a big hug when she finally woke up. She complained about it being to hard, but it was okay. After all, he thought that he needed to make it up to her. She felt a lot warmer than yesterday, and she looked perfectly fine. No sign of sickness at all. He raised her up on his shoulder and carried her into the kitchen. Jane was busy cooking eggs, but she turned and smiled when they came in. Darius put his daughter down and she ran over to give her mother a hug. The whole scene made him kinda happy: he hadn't truly seen it in a very long time. After Jane left with Sophie to get to school, Darius went back up to his room. He found his laptop in the same state as he had left it the night before. The word “I” was written in an open document. It was at least a start. He recalled the intense feelings from last night, and continued on. “I never really knew what I was going to do with my life”. He skipped a few lines, deciding to write the ending first, so he knew what he was working towards. “Being there for my daughter is something I hope I never forget again”.
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Just a suggestion to people giving advice in the future: I think for people that are posting stories, they aren't exactly looking for microscale grammar mistakes. More helpful would be a statement like, "your story doesn't make sense." "your ending doesn't make sense." Etc.
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Any suggestions for people moving from writing short stories to novel length pieces? I get to about long short story length into a novel, then lose the track and just stop working on it (that is to say, I dont exactly get very far )
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On March 26 2012 07:13 husniack wrote: Just a suggestion to people giving advice in the future: I think for people that are posting stories, they aren't exactly looking for microscale grammar mistakes. More helpful would be a statement like, "your story doesn't make sense." "your ending doesn't make sense." Etc. Especially when people try to correct grammar mistakes and are actually the ones in the wrong. Don't correct shit if you have no clue what you're saying. T_T
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Canada10904 Posts
On March 26 2012 07:20 drshdwpuppet wrote:Any suggestions for people moving from writing short stories to novel length pieces? I get to about long short story length into a novel, then lose the track and just stop working on it (that is to say, I dont exactly get very far )
Are you more of an outliner or a discovery writer (invent everything as you go)? Do you know where you're going in the story? I wonder when you are starting, do you have a novel length of ideas (although sometimes it can be the other way around where you're trying to cram too many ideas in and it's not focused enough.)
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On March 26 2012 07:25 Falling wrote:Show nested quote +On March 26 2012 07:20 drshdwpuppet wrote:Any suggestions for people moving from writing short stories to novel length pieces? I get to about long short story length into a novel, then lose the track and just stop working on it (that is to say, I dont exactly get very far ) Are you more of an outliner or a discovery writer (invent everything as you go)? Do you know where you're going in the story? I wonder when you are starting, do you have a novel length of ideas (although sometimes it can be the other way around where you're trying to cram too many ideas in and it's not focused enough.)
I more or less mix the styles, preferring to definitely have a list of thing I want to happen with a little connective material, but for the most part getting myself there organically. As someone who has never written a novel, I am not sure as to what constitutes "novel length of ideas".
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Canada10904 Posts
Well I'm just wondering if you've stalled out because you've gone through your entire story arc or whether it's a matter of discipline of just getting through the rough patches (my problem). Also, discovery writers tend to start and restart multiple times as they rewrite the same story multiple times. In that case, Writing Excuses advice for discovery writers is to not restart your story until you've gotten through a few chapters.
Edit. For myself, I'm a bit of a mix. I need a really basic outline (2.5 pages of point form notes), but if I had to sit down like some writers and detail 30 pages outlines, it would kill the story for me.
Sometimes a story ends too quickly because everything get's solved too quickly/ neatly. If that's the case, then maybe some more trouble needs to be thrown at your main characters. And not useless Macguffin missions, but actual troubles that hinder the main characters from their primary objectives.
To be honest, I have a hard time thinking in terms of short stories as all my 'short' story ideas always expand way past any reasonable definition of short.
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On March 26 2012 07:20 drshdwpuppet wrote:Any suggestions for people moving from writing short stories to novel length pieces? I get to about long short story length into a novel, then lose the track and just stop working on it (that is to say, I dont exactly get very far )
Make sure that your ideas can fit a novel-length first. It could just be that your subject is only meant for a short-mid length story and you may just be stretching it out. Introducing new elements (characters/settings/side stories...) can help there. More or less, if you get the feeling that you can't make a story any longer, it means that you yourself fell it as either gone on long enough or you've run out of ideas on where to take it. I recommend that you might want to either keep it as a short-mid story or come back to it later when you think you know what you want to do.
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Canada10904 Posts
^Yeah, that's good too. You don't want to artificially expand a short story with filler. Also, how short are we talking? Are you hoping for 250-350 page novel? Obviously, just a ballpark. I don't know anyone that aims for a specific page number. And what are you ending at right now? 10 pages? 50 pages?
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I would say that a 300 page (I count in words, I think that is around 90k words) is a good ballpark estimate, though I wasn't really going to limit myself. My problem is that I get about 2 chapters or so in and just lose where I want my characters to go next. I know what I want the end goal to be, but somehow I lose track of how to get there. Maybe more planning is needed?
The furthest I have gotten is around 100 pages.
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Canada10904 Posts
Hard to say without knowing the stories. But you might need a few more plot/ stepping points to get there. So if you know if you've done A, B, and C and you know you're getting to Z- even knowing H, M, R, and V will help direct where you are going. I tend to plot out where all the major crises/ event are. I might have some very specific scenes in my head, but only a point form note to remind me of it. But if there's too few stepping stones plotted out, I would get lost too.
Again, hard to know for sure, but it sounds like the general story arc needs a little more thought/ structure. What are your major rising points of action/ what is pushing the story forward?
Just curious, why did you abandon the 100 page one? Because it would be good to finish at least one novel length book just so you know what it's like.
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It appears my post got buried beneath the initial avalanche of responses. I'm going to post it again and hope someone can help me?
On March 18 2012 12:15 -Aura- wrote: Hey guys, so cool that a good thread about writing finally got started. I've always wanted to write since I was a little kid. I used to churn out countless pages of fantasy drivel (which is what I enjoyed at that point in my life, nothing wrong with fantasy, just very easy to be extremely cliche with it). I even participated in NaNoWriMo for two years (failed both times). Anyway, to the point of they story, not counting school essays and stuff, I haven't written seriously in almost three years. I want to get back into writing as a hobby. I don't know what I want to write about, I don't know what my goal is, I just want to get back to the point where writing is an enjoyable leisure activity. Where should I start? Are there any interesting books or aricles you read that inspired you to write, or gave you great ideas for plots or characters? Any videos you watched that made you lunge for the nearest keyboard? And is there any advice you can give me as to how to get back into my old favorite hobby?
To make my point more clear, I used to have thousands of plot ideas constantly swimming right under my conscious. Now I can't think of a single interesting topic to even consider writing about. that's why I am asking for help. Thanks.
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On March 26 2012 08:39 -Aura- wrote:It appears my post got buried beneath the initial avalanche of responses. I'm going to post it again and hope someone can help me? Show nested quote +On March 18 2012 12:15 -Aura- wrote: Hey guys, so cool that a good thread about writing finally got started. I've always wanted to write since I was a little kid. I used to churn out countless pages of fantasy drivel (which is what I enjoyed at that point in my life, nothing wrong with fantasy, just very easy to be extremely cliche with it). I even participated in NaNoWriMo for two years (failed both times). Anyway, to the point of they story, not counting school essays and stuff, I haven't written seriously in almost three years. I want to get back into writing as a hobby. I don't know what I want to write about, I don't know what my goal is, I just want to get back to the point where writing is an enjoyable leisure activity. Where should I start? Are there any interesting books or aricles you read that inspired you to write, or gave you great ideas for plots or characters? Any videos you watched that made you lunge for the nearest keyboard? And is there any advice you can give me as to how to get back into my old favorite hobby?
To make my point more clear, I used to have thousands of plot ideas constantly swimming right under my conscious. Now I can't think of a single interesting topic to even consider writing about. that's why I am asking for help. Thanks.
Read
User was warned for this post
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Canada10904 Posts
Make sure that advise conforms to TL standards. One word replies are not appreciated.
Having said that, there is something to be said about 'priming the pump.' That can be accomplished by reading, maybe other fiction- I don't get much inspiriation from other fiction books quite frankly. I've had much better success reading history. Alternatively, sometimes I get inspiriation from movies. Usually not the plot, but more specific visuals or the more atmospheric type movies. One particular scene might get me thinking on tangents. The trap is that this can just be a form of procrastination.
Go out and do stuff? Hike up mountains, travel, observing people's interactions at a pub? Who knows, ideas can come from all over the place. I was actually on fire with ideas when I briefly lived in another country. Something about being in other cultures, just really did it for me. Of course I wouldn't suggest travelling specifically to get story ideas, but rather for the adventure itself. The side benefit of more experiences could be what jump starts the creative process again.
Perhaps listening to writing podcasts? I strongly recommend http://www.writingexcuses.com/ I believe they have several idea generating exercises.. Sometimes a specific interest is the key. I was listening to a university lecture series on Faerie Stories by Corey Olsen and got new ideas from there. Rarely is it from the actual plot or characters themselves, but these little ideas.
If I'm ever continuing a work that I haven't worked on awhile, I find it's helpfu to back up and to a lot of reading on what I previously wrote or side notes before moving forward.
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On March 26 2012 08:39 -Aura- wrote:It appears my post got buried beneath the initial avalanche of responses. I'm going to post it again and hope someone can help me? Show nested quote +On March 18 2012 12:15 -Aura- wrote: Hey guys, so cool that a good thread about writing finally got started. I've always wanted to write since I was a little kid. I used to churn out countless pages of fantasy drivel (which is what I enjoyed at that point in my life, nothing wrong with fantasy, just very easy to be extremely cliche with it). I even participated in NaNoWriMo for two years (failed both times). Anyway, to the point of they story, not counting school essays and stuff, I haven't written seriously in almost three years. I want to get back into writing as a hobby. I don't know what I want to write about, I don't know what my goal is, I just want to get back to the point where writing is an enjoyable leisure activity. Where should I start? Are there any interesting books or aricles you read that inspired you to write, or gave you great ideas for plots or characters? Any videos you watched that made you lunge for the nearest keyboard? And is there any advice you can give me as to how to get back into my old favorite hobby?
To make my point more clear, I used to have thousands of plot ideas constantly swimming right under my conscious. Now I can't think of a single interesting topic to even consider writing about. that's why I am asking for help. Thanks.
Just backtrack yourself. What did you read/watch as a kid?
Honestly I get ideas from watching pretty much anything I'm interested in. So only thing I could say is watch things or read books that you think you'll enjoy. It's not like there's a single book or movie or tv show that will suddenly revert you back to how you were before.
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Apply the principles of Starcraft; submit yourself to the daily grind. If the words will not pour forth, then you must squeeze them out, whatever form they may take, be they shopping list or madrigal. Inspiration is not the mystical quality of a chosen few but the whore next door batting her eyelashes at the naive newcomer. You must fashion a stick, and using that stick you must go after that big ugly pile of words and take it home with you by force of beatings. Lock them up in your attic so that you may only hear them thrash about; lay them over the floor so that you may stumble upon them in your daily rut. Words are your servants, but writing is your master. One is conducive to the other, but there was only ever way to do your job, and that was to sit down and write. That's the deal, take it or leave it.
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Canada10904 Posts
You might want to consider going back to fantasy as well at least as a starting point. Having a few more years since the last time you wrote, you might be able to write a much more intelligent story that is able to breathe life into the old cliches. Or perhaps use it to branch out into other interests. Dark fantasy into horror (with Lovecraftian influences?). Fantasy into steam punk into alternate history. Perhaps straight historical fiction. If you enjoy the world building aspect, then you might want to keep that in some capacity.
Fantasy might not be what you would like to write anymore, but there was probably something in there that you enjoyed and you might be able to use that to launch into new directions.
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On March 26 2012 09:19 procyonlotor wrote: Apply the principles of Starcraft; submit yourself to the daily grind. If the words will not pour forth, then you must squeeze them out, whatever form they may take, be they shopping list or madrigal. Inspiration is not the mystical quality of a chosen few but the whore next door batting her eyelashes at the naive newcomer. You must fashion a stick, and using that stick you must go after that big ugly pile of words and take it home with you by force of beatings. Lock them up in your attic so that you may only hear them thrash about; lay them over the floor so that you may stumble upon them in your daily rut. Words are your servants, but writing is your master. One is conducive to the other, but there was only ever way to do your job, and that was to sit down and write. That's the deal, take it or leave it.
Very well written
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Thanks for the advice guys, I appreciate it.
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I actually thought of this before while thinking and reading about the starcraft scene for quite some time, and i finally put it into a little story, enjoy
Idk if i should continue this, im 15 and idk if i have the time and energy to put into making this better/continuing I WANT wait....NEED all advice, good or bad, TRUTHFULL soo yeah...TY :D
+ Show Spoiler +The only sounds, the only sole sounds that sweeps the crisp air of this place is the pounding and clicking of the dozens of keyboards in this underground training camp, actually that is the most politically correct way I could ever say about this place on the record, but this was in fact one of the most intense underground StarCraft slavery camps in Seoul. I walk down the rows of monitors, all glaring back at the virtually soulless controllers of the most faced paced movements I have ever seen.
As I look at one particular young boy, no older than 12, a drop of sweat trickles down his face, but he is too focused to not even take his hand off his keyboard, his instrument for control on this fictious world all on just one computer monitor out of the over one hundred in this musky, basement isolated from the real world, which to all trapped in here, is something that is just fantasy. “So, you want to buy?, make investment? A lot of skilled un-seen talent in this place.” Said Mr. Lao, as he puffed his cigar in the most intimidating fashion, I couldn’t tell if he was pressuring me to invest in his “Star-camp” as it is most commonly referred to, or try to break me, to reveal my actual identity and to crack me. I wasn’t as I seemed,
I infiltrated one of the most secret organizations in Korea. I posed as a financial investor from the states, but I was actually sent to korea to report on e-sports on the surface, gomtv, kespa, the actual Starcraft scene everyone knows, but I was enticed into the underworld of this secretive organization, 16-18 hours a day of straight practicing. Every kid’s skill in this place far surpasses any progamer making a professional career out of this, this game, which is what few, unknown people play for, and what their life is only for.
“Oh, Mr. Lao, such decisions can only be made in due time, but I do like your facility, a lot of potential talent for the StarCup next month I presume?”
I said to Mr. Lao, as I stared directly into his eyes as he snickered and a moment of panic hit his face as his confident facial gesture and breathing made him chocke on the smoke of his, by the smell of it, very expensive cigar. After he regained himself his overly intrusive eagerness for a deal to be made showed again as he spoke. “Awh, yes, we will be more than prepare for the StarCup, a lot of money on the line for everyone her- I mean, for me that is!”
Mr. Lao chuckled at this thought, that all of these street kids, either orphans, given to them, or bought by Mr. Lao do all of this practicing, spend all of their youthful time to make him money, which may trickle down to them with their daily food servings being consistent, if they win. “Take this guy for example Mr. Rockfield, his APM is 500 on average, you think Flash is good? He is twice as good as him.” Mr. Lao said as he pointed to the note above the monitor, showing statistics about his gameplay, age, name and race. “ We’re sending him to the StarCup, he’s only 16 but he’s been here since he was 9, I guess you could call him my secret weapon” Mr. Lao chuckled again, and I could see in his eyes that this kid, that he has taken advantage of that he’s been feeding every day for the last 7 years, and having him train day in and day out will give him the yearly StarCup win he’s been dreaming of.
edited at the expense of my time, for the readers enjoyment! :D (better formating is what im getting at) @Falling, ok i revised the format, hope you will read and give advice/response ENJOY!
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Canada10904 Posts
@ Fortis and really anyone else, what would be really helpful is if it's formatted somewhat. Forums don't do indents so well, but my eyes glaze over when I see a big wall of text.
Narrative "dialogue" "dialogue" Narrative Is much easier to read then: Narrative "dialogue" "dialogue" Narrative
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Is anyone currently attending/considering attending an MFA program?
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I wonder if there is enough interest on TL to generate an "idea of the week" style writing challenge. Maybe in a separate thread? I think having to try and write something from scratch with some form of regularity and small amounts of feedback and peer review (maybe not as in-depth as what's provided here) would help a lot of the less confident posters here.
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On March 26 2012 08:39 -Aura- wrote:It appears my post got buried beneath the initial avalanche of responses. I'm going to post it again and hope someone can help me? Show nested quote +On March 18 2012 12:15 -Aura- wrote: Hey guys, so cool that a good thread about writing finally got started. I've always wanted to write since I was a little kid. I used to churn out countless pages of fantasy drivel (which is what I enjoyed at that point in my life, nothing wrong with fantasy, just very easy to be extremely cliche with it). I even participated in NaNoWriMo for two years (failed both times). Anyway, to the point of they story, not counting school essays and stuff, I haven't written seriously in almost three years. I want to get back into writing as a hobby. I don't know what I want to write about, I don't know what my goal is, I just want to get back to the point where writing is an enjoyable leisure activity. Where should I start? Are there any interesting books or aricles you read that inspired you to write, or gave you great ideas for plots or characters? Any videos you watched that made you lunge for the nearest keyboard? And is there any advice you can give me as to how to get back into my old favorite hobby?
To make my point more clear, I used to have thousands of plot ideas constantly swimming right under my conscious. Now I can't think of a single interesting topic to even consider writing about. that's why I am asking for help. Thanks.
writing is a skill and the mind is very much a muscle/tool that you use in the process. Just like playing guitar is a skill and your fingers are the muscles or tools and the more you workout your fingers the stronger they get. If your sitting at your desk thinking about what to write than your wasting time not increasing your writing strength. you must develop the disciplin to always just write no matter what the problem or issue is.
also read all the books.
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Writing is most certainly a skill that can be practiced and improved.
I used to read a lot about how to write. That certainly helps, but in the end, you need to start writing to really get a feel for it.
Before I ever really undertook writing a big story, I felt that my biggest problem would be writing what I call the fluff. I knew the story arcs that I wanted to tell, but I didn't believe I could possibly write all the stuff in between which stretches stories to novel lengths. I feared that my writing would be far too direct.
The opposite proved to be true.
The inbetween stuff just comes flowing forth naturally. I can stretch stories to whatever length I want.
By writing novel-sized stories, I began to get a feel for my own style, discovering what works best for me and what doesn't.
Reading a lot of books is always a plus. It expands your vocabulary and shows you many different styles. I used to think that simple writing meant bad writing, until I read George Orwell.
Reading Orwell just blew my mind. The idea that someone could write in such a simple prose, but not lose any impact. He didn't polute his pages with a million metaphors or distractions about what shape the trees were, he told everything very directly, and his stories were all the stronger for it.
I made sure not to try and write like Orwell, but he certainly feels like an inspiration. The goal isn't to copy another persons style, but another persons style can certainly inspire you and help you find your own voice.
Writing these large stories has helped me discover what my own style is, and it helped me get over my initial attachement to ideas.
I used to think that a good idea was everything. I spend hours a day coming up with massive worlds, characters, events, magic systems, thriller setups, twists, and god knows what else.
But when I began to really write, I understood that conjuring up ideas was like a painter trying to come up with a beautiful picture in his head.
It doesn't matter if you can imagine the Mona Lisa. It only matters that if you can paint it.
The same goes for writing. It doesn't matter if you come up with Lord of the Rings, not unless you can also put it on paper.
Those ideas are important, but you really need to put the focus on practicing writing. Once you can write, you can do your ideas justice. In our heads the stories are always better.
If there was any advice, it would be to write short stories. Once you begin writing, you are going to develop at a ridiculous speed. After every sentence you feel like you understand more, and you will often look at your old work and laugh that you didn't know any better.
A short story lets you practice writing, but it doesn't bog you down in a single story. It lets you begin anew several times. Each time you start, you apply your newly gained knowledge, each time you improve.
After maybe 5-6 short stories, you can switch to trying a novel-sized story. As you write that, you will again realize that you are improving by leaps and bounds.
Finally, it might also help to write what is called flash fiction, stories that are about a 1000 words in length. You can try and focus them on subjects that you feel weak with.
For example, I often write fighting scenes because I feel that I am not very good at writing those.
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On March 26 2012 13:55 Klamity wrote: Is anyone currently attending/considering attending an MFA program?
In my opinion, the only benefit of studying creative writing at a tertiary level is to meet other writers. An MFA will not give you legitimation; a publisher or agent is not more likely to take your work more seriously if you have a qualification on your resume (though making a connection through a lecturer or an academic could plausibly get you an "in"), and if you write genre fiction, prepare to be looked down upon by the literary institution. There are easier/faster/less expensive ways of learning the mechanics of writing, there are people everywhere who are happy to swap writing critiques, and really the best thing you can do is just to develop your own writing habit.
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On March 26 2012 16:22 CellGel wrote: I wonder if there is enough interest on TL to generate an "idea of the week" style writing challenge. Maybe in a separate thread? I think having to try and write something from scratch with some form of regularity and small amounts of feedback and peer review (maybe not as in-depth as what's provided here) would help a lot of the less confident posters here.
Sounds like a pretty good idea. Have a sort of short story based around the same idea each week. Then peer review the next week might be good. I think devoting a week to making the story (submitting before end) and a week for improving would be enough time to really increase people's abilities, also providing interesting reads for people. A format would probably have to be adopted to make things easier to read and see, but with enough interest it could definitely be a cool thread. Even better would be to have a sort of two-week thread (have one two week, replace with a new one when those weeks are done). This would make things a lot simpler to do.
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I like that idea. I don't want the story challenge to take too much time from our regular writing, so I suggest we set a word goal-limit. How does 1000 words sound? It's small, but it has enough room to tell a story.
So here's the idea: -1000 Word limit, that or less. -At the start of week 1, an idea is presented for a short story to be written around. At the end of that week, you need to turn in your story. -Occasionally, a challenge goes for two weeks, where the second week is dedicated to editing and polishing week 1's story. After all, more than half or writing is rewriting.
My suggestions for the first story challenge: Write about a character who realizes, through some dramatic circumstances, that something important that they've held as true all their life is wrong. Write that realization.
What do you guys think?
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On March 27 2012 07:09 FoxyMayhem wrote: I like that idea. I don't want the story challenge to take too much time from our regular writing, so I suggest we set a word goal-limit. How does 1000 words sound? It's small, but it has enough room to tell a story.
So here's the idea: -1000 Word limit, that or less. -At the start of week 1, an idea is presented for a short story to be written around. At the end of that week, you need to turn in your story. -Occasionally, a challenge goes for two weeks, where the second week is dedicated to editing and polishing week 1's story. After all, more than half or writing is rewriting.
My suggestions for the first story challenge: Write about a character who realizes, through some dramatic circumstances, that something important that they've held as true all their life is wrong. Write that realization.
What do you guys think?
I think this is a great idea.
Maybe put in the OP as a seperate section explaining what it is and the "Theme of the Week", after that theme is done put it in a spoiler tag and put the next one underneath it?
Just a thought, I will start writing one for sure though!
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I already got on a tangent tonight and wrote mine! Man, that was fun. It's amazing how it feels like breathing in a deep breath these days. After writing, suddenly my emotions were all better.
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I'm almost finished with a novel I've been writing for a couple years and I would really like to get it published, does anyone have any advice? I've never published anything besides academic papers so I'm not exactly sure how to go about it.
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11 Posts
On March 28 2012 11:59 Cytokinesis wrote: I'm almost finished with a novel I've been writing for a couple years and I would really like to get it published, does anyone have any advice? I've never published anything besides academic papers so I'm not exactly sure how to go about it.
My advice would be to look at self-publishing, not at established publishers. Unless you are getting a million dollar advance, the case for self-publishing is compelling. Some established authors have already turned down large advances to keep their rights and self-publish – Barry Eisler turned down $500k. The downside is that some people still view self-publishing as vanity publishing. It isn’t.
Of course, you still need a great story, well-written and edited (no shortcuts there), but you can self-publish for free and the process is straightforward. No managers, agents, query letters or publishers.
I would suggest first looking at Amazon (the largest eBook retailer) and at Smashwords. Smashwords can give you distribution into the Apple store, B&N, kobo and lots of others. Be careful not to be drawn into one of the vanity publishers that charge you money to simply self-publish your book for you. Do a lot of googling and reading up – there is lots of information out there. https://kdp.amazon.com/self-publishing/help http://www.smashwords.com/about/how_to_publish_on_smashwords
If you want to see your book in print, you can do print-on-demand (POD) with CreateSpace (Amazon), Lulu and/ or Lightning Source (Ingram), amongst many others.
I have found that the toughest part of self-publishing is editing (not that I’m saying any of it is easy). It takes me longer to edit a book (with several ‘alpha-readers’ proofing it/ reading it) than it does to write it in the first place. This came as a surprise to me.
J A Konrath has written a great blog about the case for and against self-publishing. If you’ve spent two years writing a novel, then spending two or three days reading through his blog could be time well spent.
A newbie’s guide to publishing http://jakonrath.blogspot.com/
Good luck with it.
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On March 28 2012 18:50 TheQuarryman wrote:Show nested quote +On March 28 2012 11:59 Cytokinesis wrote: I'm almost finished with a novel I've been writing for a couple years and I would really like to get it published, does anyone have any advice? I've never published anything besides academic papers so I'm not exactly sure how to go about it. My advice would be to look at self-publishing, not at established publishers. Unless you are getting a million dollar advance, the case for self-publishing is compelling. Some established authors have already turned down large advances to keep their rights and self-publish – Barry Eisler turned down $500k. The downside is that some people still view self-publishing as vanity publishing. It isn’t. Of course, you still need a great story, well-written and edited (no shortcuts there), but you can self-publish for free and the process is straightforward. No managers, agents, query letters or publishers. I would suggest first looking at Amazon (the largest eBook retailer) and at Smashwords. Smashwords can give you distribution into the Apple store, B&N, kobo and lots of others. Be careful not to be drawn into one of the vanity publishers that charge you money to simply self-publish your book for you. Do a lot of googling and reading up – there is lots of information out there. https://kdp.amazon.com/self-publishing/helphttp://www.smashwords.com/about/how_to_publish_on_smashwordsIf you want to see your book in print, you can do print-on-demand (POD) with CreateSpace (Amazon), Lulu and/ or Lightning Source (Ingram), amongst many others. I have found that the toughest part of self-publishing is editing (not that I’m saying any of it is easy). It takes me longer to edit a book (with several ‘alpha-readers’ proofing it/ reading it) than it does to write it in the first place. This came as a surprise to me. J A Konrath has written a great blog about the case for and against self-publishing. If you’ve spent two years writing a novel, then spending two or three days reading through his blog could be time well spent. A newbie’s guide to publishing http://jakonrath.blogspot.com/Good luck with it.
I've worked in bookselling and in publishing, so I have my biases - but if you do decide to self-publish, these are a few things you should do: Hire a professional editor to do an edit of your work. Writing and editing are two different technical skills, and you can benefit greatly by having a trained and experienced structural editor look at the manuscript. And don't skimp on copyediting either. This will cost you money. Get a designer who knows what he/she is doing to do the cover - by which I mean, is familiar with market, genre, target audience, etc. There are an awful lot of designers out there who won't bother to read the book before they design a cover. Sometimes they can get away with it, but it's also a matter of pride, particularly the writer him/herself is commissioning the designer. Having a professional-looking product is important. This will also cost you money. Have a distribution plan. Amazon and eBooks make this easier, but depending on what kind of scale you're aiming for, you'll need some sort of structured distribution to get your books into the hands of customers who want them. This won't cost you money upfront, but it'll probably be some sort of percentage of the RRP. Think about marketing and publicity! There are thousands of self-published books going into the market every month, and it's becoming increasingly difficult to differentiate between a good product and a run-of-the-mill churned out manuscript. Think up new and innovative ways to promote yourself (yes, this means more than setting up a website/blog/Facebook page - this is standard now). This will probably cost you money ...
The advantage of going with a traditional publisher is that their job is to worry about the above, and that you don't have to pay upfront for any of it - obviously, you'll be paid in royalties instead, which will look like a lot less on the page (between 5 and 10% of the RRP is standard), but means you also don't have to mess around with the less glamorous aspects of book production and sales. Of course, going with a traditional publisher has its obstacles - difficult to get a contract, you have less say in the finished product, etc., but a lot of writers forget that publishers aren't out to sabotage books - they're not going to go out and create a product that they really think won't sell (though you may or may not be surprised at the number of people I know in book sales and marketing who never read some of the books they were selling that went on to make it big - including Twilight)l. Most of the time, they're on your side - and chances are, they know more about the biz than you do.
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On March 28 2012 22:30 khaydarin9 wrote:Show nested quote +On March 28 2012 18:50 TheQuarryman wrote:On March 28 2012 11:59 Cytokinesis wrote: I'm almost finished with a novel I've been writing for a couple years and I would really like to get it published, does anyone have any advice? I've never published anything besides academic papers so I'm not exactly sure how to go about it. My advice would be to look at self-publishing, not at established publishers. Unless you are getting a million dollar advance, the case for self-publishing is compelling. Some established authors have already turned down large advances to keep their rights and self-publish – Barry Eisler turned down $500k. The downside is that some people still view self-publishing as vanity publishing. It isn’t. Of course, you still need a great story, well-written and edited (no shortcuts there), but you can self-publish for free and the process is straightforward. No managers, agents, query letters or publishers. I would suggest first looking at Amazon (the largest eBook retailer) and at Smashwords. Smashwords can give you distribution into the Apple store, B&N, kobo and lots of others. Be careful not to be drawn into one of the vanity publishers that charge you money to simply self-publish your book for you. Do a lot of googling and reading up – there is lots of information out there. https://kdp.amazon.com/self-publishing/helphttp://www.smashwords.com/about/how_to_publish_on_smashwordsIf you want to see your book in print, you can do print-on-demand (POD) with CreateSpace (Amazon), Lulu and/ or Lightning Source (Ingram), amongst many others. I have found that the toughest part of self-publishing is editing (not that I’m saying any of it is easy). It takes me longer to edit a book (with several ‘alpha-readers’ proofing it/ reading it) than it does to write it in the first place. This came as a surprise to me. J A Konrath has written a great blog about the case for and against self-publishing. If you’ve spent two years writing a novel, then spending two or three days reading through his blog could be time well spent. A newbie’s guide to publishing http://jakonrath.blogspot.com/Good luck with it. I've worked in bookselling and in publishing, so I have my biases - but if you do decide to self-publish, these are a few things you should do: Hire a professional editor to do an edit of your work. Writing and editing are two different technical skills, and you can benefit greatly by having a trained and experienced structural editor look at the manuscript. And don't skimp on copyediting either. This will cost you money. Get a designer who knows what he/she is doing to do the cover - by which I mean, is familiar with market, genre, target audience, etc. There are an awful lot of designers out there who won't bother to read the book before they design a cover. Sometimes they can get away with it, but it's also a matter of pride, particularly the writer him/herself is commissioning the designer. Having a professional-looking product is important. This will also cost you money. Have a distribution plan. Amazon and eBooks make this easier, but depending on what kind of scale you're aiming for, you'll need some sort of structured distribution to get your books into the hands of customers who want them. This won't cost you money upfront, but it'll probably be some sort of percentage of the RRP. Think about marketing and publicity! There are thousands of self-published books going into the market every month, and it's becoming increasingly difficult to differentiate between a good product and a run-of-the-mill churned out manuscript. Think up new and innovative ways to promote yourself (yes, this means more than setting up a website/blog/Facebook page - this is standard now). This will probably cost you money ... The advantage of going with a traditional publisher is that their job is to worry about the above, and that you don't have to pay upfront for any of it - obviously, you'll be paid in royalties instead, which will look like a lot less on the page (between 5 and 10% of the RRP is standard), but means you also don't have to mess around with the less glamorous aspects of book production and sales. Of course, going with a traditional publisher has its obstacles - difficult to get a contract, you have less say in the finished product, etc., but a lot of writers forget that publishers aren't out to sabotage books - they're not going to go out and create a product that they really think won't sell (though you may or may not be surprised at the number of people I know in book sales and marketing who never read some of the books they were selling that went on to make it big - including Twilight)l. Most of the time, they're on your side - and chances are, they know more about the biz than you do.
Great advice. Thanks man.
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On March 27 2012 07:09 FoxyMayhem wrote: I like that idea. I don't want the story challenge to take too much time from our regular writing, so I suggest we set a word goal-limit. How does 1000 words sound? It's small, but it has enough room to tell a story.
So here's the idea: -1000 Word limit, that or less. -At the start of week 1, an idea is presented for a short story to be written around. At the end of that week, you need to turn in your story. -Occasionally, a challenge goes for two weeks, where the second week is dedicated to editing and polishing week 1's story. After all, more than half or writing is rewriting.
My suggestions for the first story challenge: Write about a character who realizes, through some dramatic circumstances, that something important that they've held as true all their life is wrong. Write that realization.
What do you guys think?
Cool idea. Probably best to form a group though and not only post the writing but then have a round of discussions/critiques. A nice incentive for writing is knowing you'll have an audience who reads it.
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On March 26 2012 22:52 khaydarin9 wrote:Show nested quote +On March 26 2012 13:55 Klamity wrote: Is anyone currently attending/considering attending an MFA program? In my opinion, the only benefit of studying creative writing at a tertiary level is to meet other writers. An MFA will not give you legitimation; a publisher or agent is not more likely to take your work more seriously if you have a qualification on your resume (though making a connection through a lecturer or an academic could plausibly get you an "in"), and if you write genre fiction, prepare to be looked down upon by the literary institution. There are easier/faster/less expensive ways of learning the mechanics of writing, there are people everywhere who are happy to swap writing critiques, and really the best thing you can do is just to develop your own writing habit.
I understand this completely, but I think there's an argument to be made for having a few years of writing covered for. I would never advocate paying your way through one, but in this day and age, there's a large amount of programs which fully fund their MFA candidates. Even genre fiction is starting to make headway. I know people at the Iowa Writer's Workshop - the preeminent program in the world - who do write genre fiction and there are a handful of programs which are certainly receptive of it (Colorado and San Diego State come to mind). It's definitely a matter of putting in the research for that, though.
So assuming you go for free (which, again, is all I'd advocate), that leaves "easier" and "faster." I would disagree with that - the likelihood of finding talented writers off of the street or by whatever other means is too sporadic. Even the top programs won't guarantee you a good reader, but the odds are much higher - these are people picked out from a large pool of candidates. For example, the Michener Center for Writers at the University of Texas - Austin selects 6 fiction applicants from 600-800 applicants each year (and they grant you a generous 27k stipend on top of that). Odds are you'll get a damn good batch of writers who will be invested in your growth and work for a set amount of time (3 years in this case).
I suppose speed depends on the individual, and if you can support yourself and write at the same time, then kudos! I do think there's a case to be made for removing yourself form the work world for a few years to focus entirely on writing (well, teaching too in most cases - but to be sure, there are programs which don't require teaching such as UT). Plus, you'll receive a degree while you're at it, and while that assuredly does not guarantee a teaching position or even an academic one, it does enhance your resume and then that door isn't entirely closed.
Anyway, I like fiction and write short stories here and there, but my interest is definitely in poetry. I just wanted to see if there were any fellow MFAers around here (I'll be attending a program in the fall for poetry).
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On March 29 2012 11:34 Klamity wrote:Show nested quote +On March 26 2012 22:52 khaydarin9 wrote:On March 26 2012 13:55 Klamity wrote: Is anyone currently attending/considering attending an MFA program? In my opinion, the only benefit of studying creative writing at a tertiary level is to meet other writers. An MFA will not give you legitimation; a publisher or agent is not more likely to take your work more seriously if you have a qualification on your resume (though making a connection through a lecturer or an academic could plausibly get you an "in"), and if you write genre fiction, prepare to be looked down upon by the literary institution. There are easier/faster/less expensive ways of learning the mechanics of writing, there are people everywhere who are happy to swap writing critiques, and really the best thing you can do is just to develop your own writing habit. I understand this completely, but I think there's an argument to be made for having a few years of writing covered for. I would never advocate paying your way through one, but in this day and age, there's a large amount of programs which fully fund their MFA candidates. Even genre fiction is starting to make headway. I know people at the Iowa Writer's Workshop - the preeminent program in the world - who do write genre fiction and there are a handful of programs which are certainly receptive of it (Colorado and San Diego State come to mind). It's definitely a matter of putting in the research for that, though. So assuming you go for free (which, again, is all I'd advocate), that leaves "easier" and "faster." I would disagree with that - the likelihood of finding talented writers off of the street or by whatever other means is too sporadic. Even the top programs won't guarantee you a good reader, but the odds are much higher - these are people picked out from a large pool of candidates. For example, the Michener Center for Writers at the University of Texas - Austin selects 6 fiction applicants from 600-800 applicants each year (and they grant you a generous 27k stipend on top of that). Odds are you'll get a damn good batch of writers who will be invested in your growth and work for a set amount of time (3 years in this case). I suppose speed depends on the individual, and if you can support yourself and write at the same time, then kudos! I do think there's a case to be made for removing yourself form the work world for a few years to focus entirely on writing (well, teaching too in most cases - but to be sure, there are programs which don't require teaching such as UT). Plus, you'll receive a degree while you're at it, and while that assuredly does not guarantee a teaching position or even an academic one, it does enhance your resume and then that door isn't entirely closed. Anyway, I like fiction and write short stories here and there, but my interest is definitely in poetry. I just wanted to see if there were any fellow MFAers around here (I'll be attending a program in the fall for poetry).
I understand the appeal of wanting to focus on writing, but I feel that the vast majority of writers are going to have to balance a day job and other commitments with their writing for most of their career anyway.
The difficulty with forming a critique group or a group of readers from a university course is that chances are there's going to be a wide disparity in reading tastes, critiquing styles and quality (yes, being a good writer doesn't necessarily mean you're a good critiquer or editor, so being accepted into an MFA isn't much of an indicator on this point) etc. If you assemble a critique group on your own, at least you'll be able to specify what you're looking for and what will be of use to you.
I know a bunch of people who studied creative writing at university and kind of didn't know what to do after they finished, so they just went on to do Honours, and are now doing their PhDs, with no real intention of going into academia - it was just an excuse to write/avoid getting a job, which is okay for them in the short-term, since it's relatively easy to get PhD scholarships in Australia, and they're all living at home ... but they still have no idea what they're going to do once that finishes, and unless they do write a novel that instantly hits the best-seller list ... it's going to involve some sort of day job.
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Thank god, I am finally done with my novel.
It is crazy how your emotions can be all over the place when you near the end of a large piece of work.
First slap in the face was when I fell a few thousand words short, which is kind of like running across the finish line of a marathon, only to be told you need to get another three miles. It might be nothing compared to what came before, but it feels just as bad because you didn't expect it.
The last few thousand words were a real slugfest where I had to force myself to type, regardless of how I felt about it. I had days where my mind was really just giving me the finger, a sharp contrast when compared to the days before where I would sometimes type out five-thousand word chapters, take a look, and conclude that it was brilliant and perfect. Now I had days where I spent hours looking at a blank word-file, only to type out a small 1000 word chapter and conclude that it was the worst thing ever produced.
But I taught myself to keep typing on. It is easy to say you have writers block, but the truth is that it just isn't always easy. Nothing is alway fun and always easy. Writing is a rewarding activity, but that doesn't mean it is like you're on XTC all the time.
So the closer I got to the end, the more tiresome it became.
And then I typed that final word. The feeling of completion that comes over you is hard to describe. When I left the coffeeshop and took the bus back home, I was smiling all the way.
Now, of course it isn't picture perfect yet. I am still only human, so now it is time to start editing. Rewrite those lines, fix those grammar mistakes, edit, edit, edit.
But it really is an amazing feeling. My near eighty-thousand word creation has entered the first stage of what can be called "finished."
No matter how hyped you can be about telling a story, after spending 80k words on it, it can feel like it is outstaying its welcome. Now, as I edit my way through it, I need to start deciding what I am going to focus my attention to next.
I have two stories, a magical-realism thriller and a magical-realism drama. Time will tell what I jump on next.
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I have started 7 stories in my life, 4 which have made it to the 40K words. Finally I have a book I'm going to end. I have no idea what that feels like, but I am so excited to get there.
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I'm just wondering what does someone like zalz do after finishing "the book". Does one find inspiration in completing own book even though no one is going to read it/it has 0 chance of being published? Or does he actually think it is going to be published and might be read? Or is this just a huge practice drill that leads to writing something real?
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On March 29 2012 12:22 khaydarin9 wrote:Show nested quote +On March 29 2012 11:34 Klamity wrote:On March 26 2012 22:52 khaydarin9 wrote:On March 26 2012 13:55 Klamity wrote: Is anyone currently attending/considering attending an MFA program? In my opinion, the only benefit of studying creative writing at a tertiary level is to meet other writers. An MFA will not give you legitimation; a publisher or agent is not more likely to take your work more seriously if you have a qualification on your resume (though making a connection through a lecturer or an academic could plausibly get you an "in"), and if you write genre fiction, prepare to be looked down upon by the literary institution. There are easier/faster/less expensive ways of learning the mechanics of writing, there are people everywhere who are happy to swap writing critiques, and really the best thing you can do is just to develop your own writing habit. I understand this completely, but I think there's an argument to be made for having a few years of writing covered for. I would never advocate paying your way through one, but in this day and age, there's a large amount of programs which fully fund their MFA candidates. Even genre fiction is starting to make headway. I know people at the Iowa Writer's Workshop - the preeminent program in the world - who do write genre fiction and there are a handful of programs which are certainly receptive of it (Colorado and San Diego State come to mind). It's definitely a matter of putting in the research for that, though. So assuming you go for free (which, again, is all I'd advocate), that leaves "easier" and "faster." I would disagree with that - the likelihood of finding talented writers off of the street or by whatever other means is too sporadic. Even the top programs won't guarantee you a good reader, but the odds are much higher - these are people picked out from a large pool of candidates. For example, the Michener Center for Writers at the University of Texas - Austin selects 6 fiction applicants from 600-800 applicants each year (and they grant you a generous 27k stipend on top of that). Odds are you'll get a damn good batch of writers who will be invested in your growth and work for a set amount of time (3 years in this case). I suppose speed depends on the individual, and if you can support yourself and write at the same time, then kudos! I do think there's a case to be made for removing yourself form the work world for a few years to focus entirely on writing (well, teaching too in most cases - but to be sure, there are programs which don't require teaching such as UT). Plus, you'll receive a degree while you're at it, and while that assuredly does not guarantee a teaching position or even an academic one, it does enhance your resume and then that door isn't entirely closed. Anyway, I like fiction and write short stories here and there, but my interest is definitely in poetry. I just wanted to see if there were any fellow MFAers around here (I'll be attending a program in the fall for poetry). I understand the appeal of wanting to focus on writing, but I feel that the vast majority of writers are going to have to balance a day job and other commitments with their writing for most of their career anyway. The difficulty with forming a critique group or a group of readers from a university course is that chances are there's going to be a wide disparity in reading tastes, critiquing styles and quality (yes, being a good writer doesn't necessarily mean you're a good critiquer or editor, so being accepted into an MFA isn't much of an indicator on this point) etc. If you assemble a critique group on your own, at least you'll be able to specify what you're looking for and what will be of use to you. I know a bunch of people who studied creative writing at university and kind of didn't know what to do after they finished, so they just went on to do Honours, and are now doing their PhDs, with no real intention of going into academia - it was just an excuse to write/avoid getting a job, which is okay for them in the short-term, since it's relatively easy to get PhD scholarships in Australia, and they're all living at home ... but they still have no idea what they're going to do once that finishes, and unless they do write a novel that instantly hits the best-seller list ... it's going to involve some sort of day job.
Yeah, I totally agree that many people use it as an excuse to put off a career. That's not so bad though, I think - if they have to start eventually, then why not take a few years to focus on your writing before jumping into it, you know?
As for forming a critique group - that's definitely true - but then it's up to you to personally contact some of those people outside of workshop, the ones who provide feedback which you do find useful. I think an MFA program just focuses the talent pool a bit more. You're obviously not guaranteed to find good eyes there, but I think more often than not, you will - especially at top programs.
I'm definitely hoping to figure out some sort of plan in the next few years, but I never expected to make a living off of writing, anyway. Poetry is more or less dead outside of academia, so I just want to use the experience to figure out if I like academia or not. It'll also give me time to work on my fiction, should I choose to do that.
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We're putting the writing group idea on hold in favor of the writing challenge, for the time being. For the first one, the due date is Saturday. Write away! (Challenge topic in OP)
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On April 04 2012 16:22 FoxyMayhem wrote: We're putting the writing group idea on hold in favor of the writing challenge, for the time being. For the first one, the due date is Saturday. Write away! (Challenge topic in OP)
Do we post it here or send it to someone?
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Prolly missed the Saturday deadline... but I love this idea.
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It's only Thursday, you have several more days!
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On April 06 2012 04:53 FoxyMayhem wrote: It's only Thursday, you have several more days!
Oh... right. Thought it was Friday for some reason. I'll do my best then :D
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it was something having to do with night right?
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It's kind of weird that every time an idea comes to mind I always see things pop up that closely relate to my interests, happens all the time [spoiler]joking around with a friend we thought the best Halloween costume would be the man of a thousand dicks. The very next day I woke up, hopped on facebook and the third picture down was someone I knew in a costume of a lot of dicks, same concept though lol[/spoiler=weird example]
Anyways I was wondering if anyone here has interest in graphic novels and is good at brainstorming, I've been working a lot and don't have as much time to play sc2 so I've been brainstorming a concept for a graphic novel.
I'm on an external pc atm so I will upload the basic idea a bit later, but the question is: Is anyone interested in maybe helping me brainstorm the loose ends of the storyline and help create bio's/bestiaries?
I'm aiming to have a decent sized novel to be turned into a graphic cartoon, almost in the style of afro samurai
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On April 06 2012 05:06 Broodie wrote: It's kind of weird that every time an idea comes to mind I always see things pop up that closely relate to my interests, happens all the time [spoiler]joking around with a friend we thought the best Halloween costume would be the man of a thousand dicks. The very next day I woke up, hopped on facebook and the third picture down was someone I knew in a costume of a lot of dicks, same concept though lol[/spoiler=weird example]
Anyways I was wondering if anyone here has interest in graphic novels and is good at brainstorming, I've been working a lot and don't have as much time to play sc2 so I've been brainstorming a concept for a graphic novel.
I'm on an external pc atm so I will upload the basic idea a bit later, but the question is: Is anyone interested in maybe helping me brainstorm the loose ends of the storyline and help create bio's/bestiaries?
I'm aiming to have a decent sized novel to be turned into a graphic cartoon, almost in the style of afro samurai
sure pm me your skype thingie
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On April 06 2012 04:58 gumshoe wrote: it was something having to do with night right?
Ooh, THAT's the topic he meant? I remember that one.
I thought it was the realization one from the bottom of OP. Well, time for some revisions.
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I wouldn't take Brandon Sanderson too serious.
His books aren't horrible, but his prose certainly is.
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On April 06 2012 05:13 [UoN]Sentinel wrote:Show nested quote +On April 06 2012 04:58 gumshoe wrote: it was something having to do with night right? Ooh, THAT's the topic he meant? I remember that one. I thought it was the realization one from the bottom of OP. Well, time for some revisions.
I dont actually know, it might be.
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Night = the short story.
The flash fiction (1000 or less) is in the OP:
Write about a character who realizes, through some dramatic circumstances, that something important that they've held as true all their life is wrong. Write that realization.
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Apparently TL has one of everything. Figures.
I have my one story which I tried to write down. I don´t now if it came up already, but isn´t writing on paper sometimes more convenient? There is all that mumbo jumbo about google docs and dropbox and so on, but I personally have no portable means of internet and I am sure as hell not trying to write on my cell phone. On the other hand not being on a computer frees me up mentally. (I´ve been playing games and wasting my times on computers since I was 8 or something, might be because of that) Paper has all the advantages(and disadvantages) of being tangible, I would have expected that at least some writers still use it for part of the process. More importantly, oftentimes I have ideas for where I could go with the story, while I´m sitting in a train or traveling in general. I love paper apparently.
Now for something slightly different: In few words, what is your opinion on making a certain story work versus writing the story which writes itself easily? My impression is that many people do the latter, while I am doing the former. I am probably influenced again by the only biography of a writer I read(by accident. It looked like the book was about running)
My current plan is to solidify the setting and arrange all the events in the course of the story before trying to write an entire chapter again. The problem was that my fantasy setting kept changing in ways that made earlier drafts completely inaccurate. Also the content of chapters and words in chapter are a concern for me. I feel guilty when chapters are short. But I could probably fill couple hundred pages without touching anything which will be important later on, too. Just writing away introduced more problems for me a short time later.
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Canada10904 Posts
On April 06 2012 05:14 zalz wrote:I wouldn't take Brandon Sanderson too serious. His books aren't horrible, but his prose certainly is. I haven't actually read any of Sanderson's work. However, who would you say has good prose and preferably someone that talks or writes a little bit about it.
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On April 06 2012 06:32 Falling wrote:Show nested quote +On April 06 2012 05:14 zalz wrote:I wouldn't take Brandon Sanderson too serious. His books aren't horrible, but his prose certainly is. I haven't actually read any of Sanderson's work. However, who would you say has good prose and preferably someone that talks or writes a little bit about it.
So far the highest on my list (which is not particularly large) is Michael Moorock, followed by Ursula K. Leguin. If memory serves, they should be more palatable than Sanderson & co.
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I love Sanderson's plotting and magic systems, and he's been steadily improving his pros, really cool.
I'd say a recent author with great pros is Patrick Rothfuss. Just read the opening of his novel, The Name Of The Wind, and you'll feel what I mean.
Yes, the writing challenge is about the "I've been wrong all my life" realization. What night thing were you guys talking about?
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On April 06 2012 06:32 Falling wrote:Show nested quote +On April 06 2012 05:14 zalz wrote:I wouldn't take Brandon Sanderson too serious. His books aren't horrible, but his prose certainly is. I haven't actually read any of Sanderson's work. However, who would you say has good prose and preferably someone that talks or writes a little bit about it.
I would say that Stephen King's "On Writing" is more or less the end all be all in terms of writing marketable books.
I would recommend you only read "On Writing" and perhaps one more book that deals with a specific area of writing that you feel could use help (like character writing or plot development).
After that you just gotta write, write, write. It is easy to get lost in watching a tons of lectures and reading tons of books about writing, but after a while it just becomes a way of putting it off.
If we are going to compare it to playing the piano (as Brandon did) then it would be like reading a thousand books about playing piano without ever touching one.
(This only refers to books that deal with writing. Reading normal books is always a good idea.)
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11 Posts
On April 06 2012 06:15 Mataza wrote: ... Now for something slightly different: In few words, what is your opinion on making a certain story work versus writing the story which writes itself easily? My impression is that many people do the latter, while I am doing the former. I am probably influenced again by the only biography of a writer I read(by accident. It looked like the book was about running)
My current plan is to solidify the setting and arrange all the events in the course of the story before trying to write an entire chapter again. The problem was that my fantasy setting kept changing in ways that made earlier drafts completely inaccurate. Also the content of chapters and words in chapter are a concern for me. I feel guilty when chapters are short. But I could probably fill couple hundred pages without touching anything which will be important later on, too. Just writing away introduced more problems for me a short time later. I think the single most difficult question is what to write.
Don’t feel guilty when chapters are short. Write a gripping story with fascinating characters and let the chapter length look after itself. If you’ve said what you want to say, move on. Or, put another way, don’t pad.
I would, however, strongly recommend that you have an outline of your story before you write it. I like your plan to arrange the key events of the story before you set off again. One benefit of this is that you can consider pacing at a high level. Not everyone likes outlining. It’s not easy.
I wouldn’t write two hundred pages without touching anything important to that book. It sounds like a different book. The danger is that you will either bore your reader before they reach your ‘real story’, or get really interested in your opening story and therefore disappointed when it moves elsewhere after 200 pages.
There are no rules. Whatever works for you, works.
To your point on the ease of writing (‘the story which writes itself easily’), I'm not sure there are many stories like this. Once you get into it, most writing is hard (the devil is in the detail, etc).
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On April 06 2012 15:04 FoxyMayhem wrote: I love Sanderson's plotting and magic systems, and he's been steadily improving his pros, really cool.
I'd say a recent author with great pros is Patrick Rothfuss. Just read the opening of his novel, The Name Of The Wind, and you'll feel what I mean.
Yes, the writing challenge is about the "I've been wrong all my life" realization. What night thing were you guys talking about?
Shit. Yeah, I'm not making this deadline then.
There was another topic called "Short Story Writing Contest" or something like that, where you had to write 2000-10000 word short story that could be anything as long as it involved night in some way.
We thought you were talking about that contest.
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I was thinking next week would be re-submissions of the edited and refined versions of this week's short stories. Go ahead and write it, and if you don't make this deadline, we'll put you in the next.
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Prose is subjective. What some find awesome, others find shit. It doesn't make sense to call one writer's prose better than another. I've won awards for my writing, yet, it doesn't make my opinion any more valid than the next guy's. There's no right or wrong in writing. That's what makes it great. That's also why I think guide books on how to write are retarded.
Best thing to do is just plunk away on the keyboard until you find what works for you. Then keep sending it out until someone else agrees with you. That's all there is to it.
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On April 07 2012 08:50 StorkHwaiting wrote: Prose is subjective. What some find awesome, others find shit. It doesn't make sense to call one writer's prose better than another. I've won awards for my writing, yet, it doesn't make my opinion any more valid than the next guy's. There's no right or wrong in writing. That's what makes it great. That's also why I think guide books on how to write are retarded.
Best thing to do is just plunk away on the keyboard until you find what works for you. Then keep sending it out until someone else agrees with you. That's all there is to it.
This is like saying that in the movie industry, things like lighting, sound editing and direction, are all entirely subjective.
The notion that there is no inherent difference between something like 'The Dark Knight' and a random student film is one that might be a little hard to sell.
Or that there is no objective difference between Mozart and child smashing his fists on a piano.
Or that the Mona Lisa can't be called better or worse than a child's crayon drawing.
There is objective value in art, and so is there in writing, of which prose is but one of many aspects.
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On April 07 2012 16:04 zalz wrote:Show nested quote +On April 07 2012 08:50 StorkHwaiting wrote: Prose is subjective. What some find awesome, others find shit. It doesn't make sense to call one writer's prose better than another. I've won awards for my writing, yet, it doesn't make my opinion any more valid than the next guy's. There's no right or wrong in writing. That's what makes it great. That's also why I think guide books on how to write are retarded.
Best thing to do is just plunk away on the keyboard until you find what works for you. Then keep sending it out until someone else agrees with you. That's all there is to it. This is like saying that in the movie industry, things like lighting, sound editing and direction, are all entirely subjective. The notion that there is no inherent difference between something like 'The Dark Knight' and a random student film is one that might be a little hard to sell. Or that there is no objective difference between Mozart and child smashing his fists on a piano. Or that the Mona Lisa can't be called better or worse than a child's crayon drawing. There is objective value in art, and so is there in writing, of which prose is but one of many aspects.
I disagree. I think claiming anything is objective when it comes to language, and especially fiction writing, is difficult. There are some works out there that on a technical level are extremely experimental or purposely written in poor quality prose for storytelling purposes, yet they work beautifully for the story they are trying to tell. In fiction, the story is the master, and prose merely a vehicle that moves at its whim.
It's not that there is no inherent difference between The Dark Knight and a random student filming, but rather that both forms can be of equal artistic merit. I don't believe there is an established archetype of what constitutes good technical writing in fiction. Rather, the artistic value of something is dependent on how well it conveys the story it is trying to tell. That's why I have a lot of problems with people saying something like one writer's prose is better than another's.
Blair Witch Project, a film made by random students filming, performed vastly better than a number of its contemporaries that were filmed by established professionals with much better technical skills in film. Yet, is it possible to actually dissect Blair Witch and prove what made it do so well and garner such a positive reception? I'm not so sure.
This is why, in general, I find the objective judging of art to be rather foolhardy. Art, by its very nature, is subjective.
Also, I find your comparisons to be misleading.
A child smashing his fists on a piano might not necessarily be a form of self-expression. It could just be a kid releasing physical energy. A child's crayon drawing could be a child practicing its motor skills, rather than an attempt at art. Therefore, to compare Mozart or the Mona Lisa to activities that might not even be attempts at self-expression is misguided in my opinion.
Whereas, comparing the Mona Lisa to The Starry Night would be a more accurate example of what I'm talking about. Can you say which is the greater masterpiece?
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Art can be objectively judged under a strict set of criteria (aka, goals, how well does the prose accomplish goal X), which is an essential part of the rewriting process, but it doesn't tell you if it's better art, just if it's better at accomplishing goal X.
As for Starry Night vs Mona Lisa, I appreciate Starry Night much more, ha ha ha.
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11 Posts
Hmm. Quality. Hmm. Difficult.
It is hard to define the quality of art as anything other than subjective reception. We then get into crowd arguments – five people think my art is better, five million people think your art is better. Neither is right or wrong, but your crowd is looking quite a bit bigger than mine...
There might not be an objective measure of quality, but we can often recognise craft and great craftsmanship – be it with painting, the piano, or whatever. It is hard to make a $1M movie look like a $200M movie. Of course, public mood is fickle and if you catch the zeitgeist then you can hit the top with anything. Same for books.
If a book sells a hundred, a thousand, or a million copies, does that give you a measure of the quality of the book? We can’t talk about quality easily, but it is possible to talk about popularity. If fifty thousand people are willing to spend money on your book, and only two hundred will buy mine, your book is more popular (in that narrow sense) than my book. This is an ever changing variable, we hope, but it is a comparator at any moment in time. I’m not saying that it’s a valid comparator. That depends on our purpose. I will say it’s a valid comparator if your goal is to make a living by selling books.
There is a level of quality you have to accomplish, across various areas, to satisfy your audience (as well as expectations about story, and genre, of course). Different audiences have wildly different expectations in this regard (e.g. young adult vs literary fiction). Some people get irritated by what other people are satisfied by – ‘I can’t believe they like/ tolerate that crap, look at the [fill in the blank for story, characters, whatever], it’s shit’.
If you looking to make a living as a writer, you need to account for your audience at some level. If you didn’t, then you wouldn’t need,or want, to publish your books. You would simply store them in your safe.
There are no rules. There are lots of guidelines (about working process and end product). Mainstream products tend to follow more of the guidelines (about plot, character, genre, etc). Books/ media that explain these guidelines with the goal of improving craftmanship (be they about story concept, plot, use of adverbs, or whatever) can be useful (surely?) – depends on where you are as a writer.
If anyone exists who would give your book five stars (or whatever subjective metric you pick), then it is a five star book - to the people that would give it five stars. This is why people talk about how a book (or a writer, sometimes) needs to ‘find their audience’. These are the people who will love your book. Ideally, you want those people to read your book, and no one else.
How the hell do you find them?
Hmm. Difficult.
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On March 31 2012 02:21 ecstatica wrote: I'm just wondering what does someone like zalz do after finishing "the book". Does one find inspiration in completing own book even though no one is going to read it/it has 0 chance of being published? Or does he actually think it is going to be published and might be read? Or is this just a huge practice drill that leads to writing something real?
Few options I think.
1. Treat it like the accomplishment of climbing mount everest. Climbing the mountain and reaching the top doesn't funnel you into a writer till death.
2. Try and submit and die and reborn.
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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.
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On April 07 2012 16:41 StorkHwaiting wrote:Show nested quote +On April 07 2012 16:04 zalz wrote:On April 07 2012 08:50 StorkHwaiting wrote: Prose is subjective. What some find awesome, others find shit. It doesn't make sense to call one writer's prose better than another. I've won awards for my writing, yet, it doesn't make my opinion any more valid than the next guy's. There's no right or wrong in writing. That's what makes it great. That's also why I think guide books on how to write are retarded.
Best thing to do is just plunk away on the keyboard until you find what works for you. Then keep sending it out until someone else agrees with you. That's all there is to it. This is like saying that in the movie industry, things like lighting, sound editing and direction, are all entirely subjective. The notion that there is no inherent difference between something like 'The Dark Knight' and a random student film is one that might be a little hard to sell. Or that there is no objective difference between Mozart and child smashing his fists on a piano. Or that the Mona Lisa can't be called better or worse than a child's crayon drawing. There is objective value in art, and so is there in writing, of which prose is but one of many aspects. I disagree. I think claiming anything is objective when it comes to language, and especially fiction writing, is difficult. There are some works out there that on a technical level are extremely experimental or purposely written in poor quality prose for storytelling purposes, yet they work beautifully for the story they are trying to tell. In fiction, the story is the master, and prose merely a vehicle that moves at its whim. It's not that there is no inherent difference between The Dark Knight and a random student filming, but rather that both forms can be of equal artistic merit. I don't believe there is an established archetype of what constitutes good technical writing in fiction. Rather, the artistic value of something is dependent on how well it conveys the story it is trying to tell. That's why I have a lot of problems with people saying something like one writer's prose is better than another's. Blair Witch Project, a film made by random students filming, performed vastly better than a number of its contemporaries that were filmed by established professionals with much better technical skills in film. Yet, is it possible to actually dissect Blair Witch and prove what made it do so well and garner such a positive reception? I'm not so sure. This is why, in general, I find the objective judging of art to be rather foolhardy. Art, by its very nature, is subjective. Also, I find your comparisons to be misleading. A child smashing his fists on a piano might not necessarily be a form of self-expression. It could just be a kid releasing physical energy. A child's crayon drawing could be a child practicing its motor skills, rather than an attempt at art. Therefore, to compare Mozart or the Mona Lisa to activities that might not even be attempts at self-expression is misguided in my opinion. Whereas, comparing the Mona Lisa to The Starry Night would be a more accurate example of what I'm talking about. Can you say which is the greater masterpiece?
There's a difference between experimentation and ignorance. The Blair Witch Project, for instance, was a very deliberate exercise in recreating certain filmic tropes from non-fiction genres (documentary and home video) to bring realism to a subject of otherwise dubious plausibility. The whole shaky-cam/light flare trend in science fiction television and film (Battlestar Galactica, Firefly, the most recent Star Trek movie) is another instance of this. People can usually get away with mucking around with the technical conventions of the genre if they're doing it on purpose (because they already understand the rules), and if it brings something to the story. It can be less forgivable when someone does it because they don't know any better. It's difficult to point to mainstream example of poor filmmaking because the scale on which feature films are made is big, and so much money is involved, that there tends to be a lot of quality assurance going on.
Technique is not the be-all and end-all of the writing craft, but as with most things, you would do well to spend time learning the rules and gaining insight into why they exist, before you go out and start breaking them.
EDIT: 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.
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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?
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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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11 Posts
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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Foxy, could you update the first page to display the new challenge?
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Done. Thanks for reminding me.
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After only 10.000 words I already ran into a wall with my new attempt at a novel sized story.
I took a step back and I began to really wonder why it was that I was having so many problems, so soon. Turns out I was just way too enthusiastic.
I just rushed into a new story, but I quickly discovered I hadn't given it nearly enough thought, making the whole thing feel incredibly aimless and what few characters had made it onto the page suffered from the same blandness that I was hoping to avoid.
I think I will put this one on hold and begin to properly sketch a new story. I need to spend more time on the central characters, deepen their personalities.
Right now I suffer too much from making the plot more important than the characters in them. I often catch myself calling them by their roles (protagonist, antagonist, etc) rather than their names. I also barely spend any time on their appearance.
It isn't dead in the water, but I doubt I will be returning to my current story any time soon.
Wipe the slate clean and begin truly working on a brand new story, and take some extra time out for the characters.
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On April 12 2012 21:33 zalz wrote: After only 10.000 words I already ran into a wall with my new attempt at a novel sized story.
I took a step back and I began to really wonder why it was that I was having so many problems, so soon. Turns out I was just way too enthusiastic.
I just rushed into a new story, but I quickly discovered I hadn't given it nearly enough thought, making the whole thing feel incredibly aimless and what few characters had made it onto the page suffered from the same blandness that I was hoping to avoid.
I think I will put this one on hold and begin to properly sketch a new story. I need to spend more time on the central characters, deepen their personalities.
Right now I suffer too much from making the plot more important than the characters in them. I often catch myself calling them by their roles (protagonist, antagonist, etc) rather than their names. I also barely spend any time on their appearance.
It isn't dead in the water, but I doubt I will be returning to my current story any time soon.
Wipe the slate clean and begin truly working on a brand new story, and take some extra time out for the characters.
You seem to be writing a lot, do you publish? Can we buy your books anywhere?
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On April 12 2012 21:35 CyDe wrote:Show nested quote +On April 12 2012 21:33 zalz wrote: After only 10.000 words I already ran into a wall with my new attempt at a novel sized story.
I took a step back and I began to really wonder why it was that I was having so many problems, so soon. Turns out I was just way too enthusiastic.
I just rushed into a new story, but I quickly discovered I hadn't given it nearly enough thought, making the whole thing feel incredibly aimless and what few characters had made it onto the page suffered from the same blandness that I was hoping to avoid.
I think I will put this one on hold and begin to properly sketch a new story. I need to spend more time on the central characters, deepen their personalities.
Right now I suffer too much from making the plot more important than the characters in them. I often catch myself calling them by their roles (protagonist, antagonist, etc) rather than their names. I also barely spend any time on their appearance.
It isn't dead in the water, but I doubt I will be returning to my current story any time soon.
Wipe the slate clean and begin truly working on a brand new story, and take some extra time out for the characters. You seem to be writing a lot, do you publish? Can we buy your books anywhere?
Sadly, the answer to both is no.
Currently I write as much as I can without chopping into school/work/social time. On average that is about 2-3k per day. For me it was mostly removing the 'magic' of writing. Admitting that you have to write, no matter how you feel about the writing.
Now usually, that means writing is a lot of fun, but you just force yourselves to write through the pieces that feel like a drag, but in this case, everything I wrote just felt like a drag, and after 10.000 words of pure struggle, the question begins to dawn, am I just having a bad couple of days, or is this just atrocious?
And I came to the conclusion that the later was more likely. A lot of stuff can sound pretty good in your head but end up horrible on paper. The opposite can also be the case.
Now, as for being published/being able to buy books. My dream is most certainly to be able to make a living off writing, but right now I still feel like I am figuring out too many things about my own writing.
You will always keep getting better at stuff if you keep practicing, but I still feel like my own style is shifting and changing too much to be ready to try and get stuff published or sell stuff over the internet.
This might sound like an excuse to put off the point at which I will have to submit my work to critical eyes, and perhaps it is that in part, but I always careful of pitfalls like that and have strict lines at which I consider it time to start moving forward.
Like my last novel that I finished a few weeks ago. From the get go, I was intending to write it as practice. I showed it to a few people, but it was never written for anything more than practice.
The one I am writing now is what I consider my last attempt at practicing, after this I think it is do-or-die, and I just have to start really trying to write something that could get published, or something I could make money off.
So yeah, I write a lot, but so far it is just practice. It might sound futile to some. Why write when you don't aim to publish something?
The truth is that I could write even if I was the only person to ever read it. Writing is something that I can enjoy for its own sake. Would I love to make enough money to live off writing? Sure, but right now I am still practicing till I feel I am ready for a serious attempt, a moment I feel is getting closer every day.
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The first time, I've written a climaxed one of my stories. Feeling really good about it. Part way through I certainly wasn't, but I reminded myself what the writing excuses team said: "His endings were terrible, the second inning was terrible, his third inning was terrible, but by the fourth we made it great. And that was what was so needed, he needed to go and write does that endings to get where he ended up." That really encouraged me.
I've never much written seemed out of order before, so writing toward something is a new experience. And I'll have to make a bunch of edits to make it fit in right, but right now I'm just enjoying the novelty of it all! ^_^
Yeah, if I do 10K a week I'm doing well. Maybe that will change, but maybe not.
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11 Posts
Hey Zalz
Great to hear your passion. 2-3k a day is prolific.
How do you feel about the novels you wrote? Could you work them up into something that you could self-publish? If you did, you could offer them for free if you wanted, and/ or under a pen name, to get them out there and see if you get a reaction.
For what it’s worth, I wouldn’t worry about trying to find/ settle on a style or a voice before you publish. Your voice may change for years. If you publish under a pen name, you can change name for books in a different voice/ style/ genre/ whatever. Lots of authors do this.
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On April 13 2012 21:43 TheQuarryman wrote: Hey Zalz
Great to hear your passion. 2-3k a day is prolific.
How do you feel about the novels you wrote? Could you work them up into something that you could self-publish? If you did, you could offer them for free if you wanted, and/ or under a pen name, to get them out there and see if you get a reaction.
For what it’s worth, I wouldn’t worry about trying to find/ settle on a style or a voice before you publish. Your voice may change for years. If you publish under a pen name, you can change name for books in a different voice/ style/ genre/ whatever. Lots of authors do this.
I am feeling pretty positive about them. The biggest thing that I am focussing on atm is fixing what I call a lack of personality for my characters.
It isn't that my characters don't have growth arcs or backstories, but they just feel a little bland most of the time. I feel that if I can focus on making them feel more like real people, I will have solved the biggest problem that I have atm.
Publishing under a pen name could be a pretty good idea, I will have to give that some serious consideration.
And like you said, people always evolve as writers, constantly changing their styles. It is important for me to remember that I can't use that as an excuse to always keep writing stuff and never show it.
My last book was written without an intent to show it to anyone, but this time I intent to throw it out to the web and some people in RL that I think can give some solid feedback.
But thanks for the pen name idea, that migh be a good and safe way to take that next step forward. I think I'll try and do something of the sort with my current novel.
Still in the planning phase though, probably gonna start this weekend.
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To all aspiring writers, First of, I would suggest you find the style that you want to emulate. One that best suits your story. It's all about understanding your characters. All the best stories are character driven. Plot is super important, but it's inevitably just the vehicle for your characters to tell their own stories.
If you really want to get into writing as a hobby or even as a profession down the line, you really need to read a lot. From there you can see how your favorite authors unravel most of the juicy parts of their story through character revelations, or unraveling plot points through circumstances that put your characters in situations where they need to figure a way out.
Another very important thing that needs to always be in your mind when writing is the mechanic of "Show, don't tell." This is very very important, because if it seems like you're just info-dumping (rambling on about facts that you want your reader to know, by telling them in exposition), the reader won't enjoy it nearly as much as they would if you actually showed those facts through your characters and/or their adventures. Of course, info-dumping isn't always bad, especially when used sparsely. So you be the judge. The best way to tell is if you/a friend reads your work and gets too much facts too soon into the story, and most of it isn't really relevant to the ongoing plot arc, you've told too much.
The more you write, the easier it will be for you to gauge your level of writing. From there you'll start to see where your weak points are and learn to strengthen them. Practice is always the best teacher, just as reading is always the best lesson.
My two cents, take from it what you will.
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On April 13 2012 22:15 `dunedain wrote:To all aspiring writers, First of, I would suggest you find the style that you want to emulate. One that best suits your story. It's all about understanding your characters. All the best stories are character driven. Plot is super important, but it's inevitably just the vehicle for your characters to tell their own stories. If you really want to get into writing as a hobby or even as a profession down the line, you really need to read a lot. From there you can see how your favorite authors unravel most of the juicy parts of their story through character revelations, or unraveling plot points through circumstances that put your characters in situations where they need to figure a way out. Another very important thing that needs to always be in your mind when writing is the mechanic of "Show, don't tell." This is very very important, because if it seems like you're just info-dumping (rambling on about facts that you want your reader to know, by telling them in exposition), the reader won't enjoy it nearly as much as they would if you actually showed those facts through your characters and/or their adventures. Of course, info-dumping isn't always bad, especially when used sparsely. So you be the judge. The best way to tell is if you/a friend reads your work and gets too much facts too soon into the story, and most of it isn't really relevant to the ongoing plot arc, you've told too much. The more you write, the easier it will be for you to gauge your level of writing. From there you'll start to see where your weak points are and learn to strengthen them. Practice is always the best teacher, just as reading is always the best lesson. My two cents, take from it what you will.
I think we should listen to this guy, I mean he's been around for a looooooong time.
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------Edited out--------
Misunderstanding..
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---------Edited out---------
Misunderstanding.. : (
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Though the thread is now mostly about the litte contest, I would still like to invite anyone who wants to bother to look at my short story that I wrote for a course in Creative Writing last semester:
Close Call (plain html/css page; I hope it is a bit more readable that way compared to pasting it into the post.)
It's been through a few revisions, but I do not necessarily deem it done.
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On April 14 2012 01:03 `dunedain wrote: Oh, btw Gumshoe, you spelled the name "Neil" wrong in your NASA story. It's Neil, not Niel. Niel would be pronounced as Ny-el, not Kneel. One of a bunch of mistakes that no one pointed out, since people here are generally nice.
See, even though you are somewhat of a douche, I'll still help you out bro. No worries. Writers unite!
Why am I a douch ) :
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On April 14 2012 01:03 `dunedain wrote: Oh, btw Gumshoe, you spelled the name "Neil" wrong in your NASA story. It's Neil, not Niel. Niel would be pronounced as Ny-el, not Kneel. One of a bunch of mistakes that no one pointed out, since people here are generally nice.
See, even though you are somewhat of a douche, I'll still help you out bro. No worries. Writers unite!
I was referring to your name as dunedain ) :
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as in you live 100 years more than me.
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I'm actually going to pm you about this, this mis understanding cannot be allowed to fester.
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Oh, sorry man. I guess I misread what you wrote. Seeing how we're on the internet and everything, things can get misunderstood.
I thought you were bashing the ideas that I gave in my first post, and discounting them by saying, "I mean he's been around for a looooooong time." <-- I thought by this you meant participating in the thread.
I think I just misread your tone. It didn't occur to me that you were speaking about my name, lol. That's what happens when I smoke for the first time in a few weeks. Yet again, my apologies. Will be edited out.
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11 Posts
Good to see all is well again in the TL writers room! :o)
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Canada10904 Posts
Another very important thing that needs to always be in your mind when writing is the mechanic of "Show, don't tell." This is very very important, because if it seems like you're just info-dumping (rambling on about facts that you want your reader to know, by telling them in exposition), the reader won't enjoy it nearly as much as they would if you actually showed those facts through your characters and/or their adventures. The one thing about Show, Don't Tell is it can be over applied. It is very important, but one thing I found is it is very easy to go into movie mode where you have to show absolutely everything. The problem I ran into was more and more PoV storylines which made the overall story feel very scattered. Especially once I started adding in one-off PoV scenes because I needed to show rather than drop the information subtely through an existing PoV.
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On April 14 2012 05:25 Falling wrote:Show nested quote +Another very important thing that needs to always be in your mind when writing is the mechanic of "Show, don't tell." This is very very important, because if it seems like you're just info-dumping (rambling on about facts that you want your reader to know, by telling them in exposition), the reader won't enjoy it nearly as much as they would if you actually showed those facts through your characters and/or their adventures. The one thing about Show, Don't Tell is it can be over applied. It is very important, but one thing I found is it is very easy to go into movie mode where you have to show absolutely everything. The problem I ran into was more and more PoV storylines which made the overall story feel very scattered. Especially once I started adding in one-off PoV scenes because I needed to show rather than drop the information subtely through an existing PoV.
This is very true. I feel the way to get around this, at least what I do, is I only write what's relevant to the story at the time. Yes, I'll add a few sprinkles of details in, but nothing too obtuse or unnecessary. It also helps that I'm writing in Third Person Limited, so most of the information my reader gets comes directly from my main character, rather than the setting around him.
All of this is very important, but the simplest way I understand to get your story across is to make it seem like the reader is receiving the same stimuli that your character is. So it's all just very basic. For example: I'll let the town crier shout out the news, just as my MC is passing by, he'll hear it and the information will be passed. No need to go into the view of the town crier. Or I'll write about a smell, but only if I feel like it has something to do with the situation at hand. If it doesn't, then why bother with the words.
I think it's all about what's relevant to the story at every given moment. Since the story is always moving at a "NOW" pace, it's always necessary to keep your reader informed with just enough that they keep reading, to find out more.
What I see difficult with multiple PoV storylines, like you mentioned, is that they do get scattered and it's very hard to keep everything in track. Eventually, one ends up with a whole mess of words with a story buried underneath it. Although some writers do use the multiple PoV style, it's very hard to pull off naturally. Those who do it well though can tell quite the tale.
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"Show, don't tell" is probably one of the most misunderstood and overused writing dictums. It's not necessarily about infodumping, per se, or about POV, it's about doing the reader's work for them. On a really basic level: "I can't believe you told him that," she said, angrily <---- is telling. Her brow furrowed. "I can't believe you told him that." <---- is showing.
EDIT: It may be worth noting that everybody infodumps - the key is to do it in the least intrusive, most elegant way possible (or, if you're Scott Lynch, just throw it out there with enough style and charisma and you could get away with it, though a lot of people complained about that narrative-tour-guide technique, so your mileage may vary).
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Not sure if this is the place for this, but... A poem: By myself
Grenade
We lay in silent watchfulness along that gun pocked hill a momentary pause in time at last the war was still
And while we waited on that ground all wreathed in cannon smoke: our muscles tense, our hearts were full but not a word we spoke
Then sudden forth in hero charge came strong the bitter foe They found that we had dug in deep; they could not make us go
In minutes we had routed them but as they turned around the last of them looked back at us and in his pocket found
a little fruit encased in steel the taste of which is death grenade in hand he pulled the pin we all drew one last breath
We watched in silent agony as it flew through the air I looked about at sky and clouds and thought them strangely fair
I spent a while in memory of these men by my side and thought that with no other men would I have rather died
Each man thought then of those he knew and each took one last glance then sudden came the springing thought: to give them one last chance!
I shot a last departing prayer to Him that lives above and then I dove on that grenade to give myself in love
And just before I felt the blast, that strange, all cutting knife I looked into the eyes of those to whom I gave my life
In each the promise to himself a better life to lead my dying thought in blinding light: their thanks is all I need
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Brilliant poem, Mr. John___Galt. Two thumbs up!
This passage was my favorite.
Each man thought then of those he knew and each took one last glance then sudden came the springing thought: to give them one last chance!
Also when I was reading your poem, I couldn't help but feel that same feeling when I was reading the Red Badge of Courage for the first time way back in 4th grade, thanks for bringing back that memory.
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11 Posts
On April 14 2012 05:25 Falling wrote:+ Show Spoiler +Another very important thing that needs to always be in your mind when writing is the mechanic of "Show, don't tell." This is very very important, because if it seems like you're just info-dumping (rambling on about facts that you want your reader to know, by telling them in exposition), the reader won't enjoy it nearly as much as they would if you actually showed those facts through your characters and/or their adventures. The one thing about Show, Don't Tell is it can be over applied. It is very important, but one thing I found is it is very easy to go into movie mode where you have to show absolutely everything. The problem I ran into was more and more PoV storylines which made the overall story feel very scattered. Especially once I started adding in one-off PoV scenes because I needed to show rather than drop the information subtely through an existing PoV. I think this is a brilliant point and I love the term ‘movie mode’.
I find that, in the type of situation you are describing, structure is incredibly important. You need have a well thought out structure, to keep sufficient focus on a manageable number of limited points of view. If you don’t have a solid structure in place and know your ending, your story can turn into a snakes wedding or fizzle out to unrelated nothing.
Movie mode stories can generate tremendous excitement and momentum if you have sufficient characters and story beats to keep the reader interested in each sequence as you shift point of view, and particularly if these sequences flow together/ interact in interesting ways, especially as the story culminates.
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+ Show Spoiler +Liquid'Ret X EGDemuslim short by:Shiina Mafuyu Disclaimer: Fanfictions are Fictional
A response to this http://www.teamliquid.net/forum/viewmessage.php?topic_id=313004The restless night began in the Team Liquid house when Demuslim came over to have practice games with Ret. A game of TvZ between these to is nothing less than an art itself. The passion put into the game were inhuman, as if the game had a life of its own. The units were as if they were a part of their perspective gamer's body itself. It was a wonderful sight to behold. The game started out slow, but it wasn't completely devoid of action, both player poked at each other quite often almost as a lion would before slaying its prey. Soon enough Ret was at the door steps of Demuslim's third. Staring down the barrels of the siege tanks. Big and strong they were, a Terran's marine tank army, it was fearsome and dominating. But something like that cannot hold Ret back, Ret's hand quickened as his units surged foward. them armies clashed as their breathing quickened. Sweat dripping off their foreheads as they wrestled with each other for control. Demuslim moved his hands quickly and proficiently to split his marines away from the banelings. Just as Ret has taught him before, Demuslim thinks about the time that Ret held his hand on the mouse as he walked through on the way to do a Marine split, his face reddened as his movement became slightly flustered. Ret seeing this opening had his banelings surge forward in the might of a tidal wave and cleared out Demuslim's forces as well as his third. Even wise Ret's hold tightening Demuslim held, unyieldingly he held his natural with all his might. But the pressure of Ret's play was immense. He was playing as if he was being pushed down by a monstrous beast. Ret's attack soon came crashing down on Demuslim's iron defense with the might of a great Spear thrust. But Demuslim held, his iron wall was not to be broken. But soon after another attack came, and then another, Each attack came with increasing intensity. The breathing of the player intensified even more as they focused even harder. Finally a great lance of Zerg unit come charging down. Demuslim, unable to hold this final wave, is pushed down by Ret's immense pressure. The zerg forces pierced through Demuslim's Iron Curtain of Tanks and Walls and Marines and surged forward like Hot burning Lava erupting from an ancient volcano, annihilating everything in their path. Exhausted Demsulim falls back on to his chair with the gg, trying to catch his breath. and then he sees at the bottom of his screen LiquidRet: well played And so in the practice room sits DeMusliM, the British progamer sighed as he stared in to the defeat score screen. "Why couldn't I win?" DeMusliM thought to himself. "Finally it was my chance to show Ret how good I am." He wanted to prove himself in front of Ret. He wanted Ret to praise him for doing well, but that's not what happened at all, he couldn't concentrate all because of that split second when Ret's face came in to his mind which led him to losing so badly, at this thought he clenched his fist tightly in frustration. Then he felt a gentle touch on his shoulder. "That was a good game" DeMusliM turned around and there was Ret behind him. "Sorry that you had to see me lose like that" DeMusliM said as he flushed red he looked down, Demuslim felt terrible, he wanted to show Ret what he could do. That he was someone who was worth mentoring, but instead he didn't show much at all. DeMusliM was utterly disappointed in himself, he thought of all the things he could've done to prevent the loss but what's done is done, the game was over, DeMusliM wanted to run away from his loss, run away to the ladder that he stood triumphant on top of, He wanted to play a game and show Ret that he is really worthy of being his apprentice. DeMusliM inched his mouse towards the Find Match button to continue his practice, but Ret put his hand on top of DeMusliM's mouse and stopped him. the strange gesture of intimacy made DeMusliM's heart skip a beat, It wasn't anything unusual, but Ret's charisma is something that catches DeMusliM off guard every time. "Not at all, you win some you lose some. Let's go over the game together." Ret said to him as he leaned forward towards the screen and clicked to view replay button. His face is so close! DeMuslim thought to himself. For reasons that he didn't know, his heart also started beating faster. Even though Ret started to analyze the replay for him. DeMusliM's attention was fully occupied by other distractions. Ret, whose face was just inches away from Demuslim's was fully focused on the game replay meanwhile, Demuslim was distracted just by how close Ret was to him at that moment he zoned out just about everything Ret was saying the only thing meaningful to him was seeing Ret's charismatic face analyzing the replay and his serious complexion filled with seriousness that exceed the normal emotions that were expressed by a teacher and a passionate kindness unable to found anywhere else in the world. Ret's attention was fully focused on the replay, but Demuslim couldn't see anything but Ret. Minutes passed by or maybe hours, DeMusliM can't really tell, since the meaning of time itself was already lost. "....and here you could have taken another expansion." Ret paused for a bit, and reached for a water bottle on the desk to quench his thirst. DeMusliM watched as Ret downed the bottle in one go. He looked away and thought, That was an indirect kiss! Even though Ret didn't appear bothered by it, DeMusliM's temperature heated up as his thoughts ran wild and then suddenly he was interrupted. "DeMusliM, are you paying attention?" Ret asked him, DeMusliM was suddenly woken up from his slightly fantastic daydream. Only to find Ret's face right infront of him only inches away. Ret looked deeply into Demuslims eyes, only to see DeMuslim avert his eyes down with a reddened face. "...yes.."DeMusliM answered in a low voice. Ret continued to analyze the game, and DeMusliM looked at his face, how he wish he could play just like Ret, a fearless warrior in the face of Korean progamers. Ret was the star of hope for the foreign scene, DeMusliM thought back to the time when he and Ret first crossed blades in a tournament, that was just a bit too long ago to remember. Even though he was defeated convincingly and had almost lost faith in his abilities, it was then that Ret extended his hand to DeMuslim. "Come with me, let me show you, the path of which I walk." Ever since then DeMusliM has held deep admiration to Ret, but never had he had these awkward feelings. The feeling he had was just too mysterious to describe. It was also a feeling DeMusliM did not understand, and gave him confusion over the situation. "...So in this case you would split you marines like this." Ret explained as he wrapped his hand around that of DeMusliM's on the mouse and slowly moved the mouse in the motion that one would do a marine split. The gentle movement of the mouse with Ret's hand over his, reminded DeMusliM it was not the first time that Ret has taught him like this, but the pure intamcy of Ret's advances made him feverish. DeMuslIM was flushed red and kept his face down. Ret looked at DeMuslim and realized that he was distracted, looking at him and have a almost drunken red tint to his face. "DeMusliM come on pay attention." Ret said as he moved his left arm around DeMusliM's shoulder to fixate Demuslim's attention on himself. But that touch of intimacy was already too much for DeMusliM who has been on the edge the entire time. DeMusliM jerked back unable to take the heat anymore "It's ok isn't it? I'll just win the next game!" The computer chair with Demuslim on it rolled away as he pushed himself away from Ret, Ret paused as DeMuslim's computer chair stalled in to a halt. And then there was silence, but just as fast as it was started, it was soon broken. Ret walked towards him and pulled him up from chair turning DeMusliM and then holds him from behind. "What are you doing?" DeMusliM flustered "That made me a bit excited just now." Ret whispers into his ear. "Hey ... stop..." DeMusliM said as he tried to wiggle his way out of Ret's grip but it was impossible. By now, DeMusliM was feeling quite feverish and Ret's strong hold on him just will not break. leaning in towards his prey, Ret blew gently into DeMusliM's ear, and in an instant DeMusliM's legs lost strength. DeMuslim soon finds himself collapsed on to the floor. Helpless in the face of the aggressive Zerg Progamer's advances, DeMusliM's futile resistance soon falters as he becomes overwhelmed by Ret's strength pinning him down to the floor. Thus DeMusliM and Ret's fantastic and exciting night together began.
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It took a while to find a definition for reconciliation, and what I found was that it literally meant "to meet again". So here's my story, clocking in at 920 words. + Show Spoiler + Damien awoke in a dark room with a terrible head-ache. He felt a cold hard floor against his face, and lifting it a bit off the ground proved to be incredibly strenuous. What the hell happened to me? Where am I? He didn't have the answers to these questions, but lying down definitely wouldn't help him get them anytime soon.
He tried to get up, but something stopped him. It took him a while to realize that his legs had been tied up at the ankles. Wherever he was, he realized, someone had trapped him here. He still had use of his arms, and felt around for any idea of where he was in the mystery room. As a needle of pain struck him in his head, he raised his hand over to it to find out what was wrong. There was indeed a relatively large bump on the back of his, and his hair seemed to be hard and crusty. Blood had been there for a long time, and had dried.
He didn't know how much time had passed until he heard a steady pattern coming from behind him. Footsteps. Someone was coming. He couldn't turn around so he didn't know what the person who opened the door looked like. “Well, look who's finally awake” came in the voice of a woman. Suddenly the light went on, and he had to close his eyes to shield himself from what he had originally wished for. The woman continued walking until she stood in front of him and then knelt down. He had no idea who she was, but something about her dark brown unkempt hair and bright green eyes seemed familiar. Before he could figure it out though, a kick to his stomach took the wind out of him. Despite how she looked, she was surprisingly strong.
“What, you don't remember me? You don't remember me, begging not to go through with it to your team?” The pain Damien was experiencing didn't help him think about what she was talking about. Who was this woman, and why did her image seem to reside somewhere in the back of his memories? She was not pleased by the lack of an answer. “Damien Allen, you're just like Michael. Neither of you remembered the toys you tossed away when you were about to get caught”. Damien had stopped listening after hearing the name Michael. How did this woman know Michael, or Damien himself for that matter? It dawned on him suddenly. He remembered those innocent green eyes staring back at him from the other side of a thick glass wall. Right before he and his team began the experiment.
“Seems like you finally found those memories you had locked away huh? Let me show you what you did on that day. You never saw the end result before you had to leave it all, did you? Consider this a gift before you die”.
Hair began to grow everywhere, and the beautiful green eyes he had seen began changing to a blood red. Teeth changed to sharp fangs and her whole body grew to an incredible size. The new being which stood in front of him seemed to ooze an aura of fear. The claws which had replaced her nails were pressed up to his face. He felt as if he were about to faint. This was the result of his team's effort all those years... and it was now ready to tear him apart.
Damien somehow managed to get words out of his throat. “You have this power and yet you wish to kill me? If it weren't for us, you'd still be right in that orphanage. All of you would have been. You should be thanking me! We gave you strength, something no one else-” He felt a claw go into his arm and the only sound he could make was a desperate cry. The lack of any water had made his throat dry.
The woman turned beast looked at him with savage eyes. “You took us when we were children, against our will. You turned us into freaks and threw us away when you were about to get caught”. She put a claw at his neck, telling him that it was going to end soon. “This power you speak of doesn't exist; it is merely a curse. This is controlled by our emotions. Anger and fear bring this on, and you should know what that means. Damien, we cannot live normal lives, like we had wanted to. That shouldn't matter at all to you anyways. It's over now”.
The woman slashed at Damien's throat, leaving him gasping. Blood leaked out quickly, and he could feel himself fading away. He could barely feel the pain as slipped into unconsciousness. The woman began reverting back to human form and went back towards the door. As she was about to leave the room, she looked back for an instant. “By the way, Damien. My name is Alyssa. I believe you should know the names of those who's lives you ruined, even if you'll have no use of them”.
Alyssa finally left the room, getting ready for a nice relaxing bath. The others were going to take care of the last two of the ones who had turned into these creatures, and she wanted a bit of rest before people began wondering what had happened to the old man with a past he thought he had destroyed.
Edit: I am okay with getting criticism
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Hey Dark_Chill
+ Show Spoiler +Your story invoked images of Dolores Claiborne and Hansel and Gretel for me, good job in the details.
I also enjoyed how everything flowed together and was easy to read through.
Keep up the good, work, I'm currently halfway through with my story and will contribute to this weeks writing prompt after I get a good night of sleep.
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Okay, I wasn't able to participate in the first writing prompt. Started something about Christmas, but inevitably scrapped it. Been doing some other things. A lot of good points have been brought up about "Show, don't tell" and info-dumping. Although, I don't really have the time to flesh out a coherent post about the topic. For now I just wanted to clarify that I didn't mean to say that Info dumping is bad or always do "Show, don't Tell", what I meant to say was that I think it fogs the story when it's done excessively, just pure exposition. But I do definitely believe that you can "Show, not tell" during dialogue <---that's probably the best time. Especially when it's a whole lengthy conversation with a lot of details that you want to portray.
And with that, here's my writing prompt for this week. Didn't really have the time to edit or mess around with it, just finished writing it. Gonna be heading out, let me know what you think. Mild language also. So be wary.
+ Show Spoiler + TL Writing Prompt 2 It's been a day since the boat capsized. I don't know where I'm going, or if I'm ever going to see another human life again. But all is not lost. I have with me what's left of the food rations and the liquor cabinet. I saved what I could of my manuscript; it's in the briefcase, but still in need of some finishing touches. The GPS beacon should be working, oh please dear God let it be working. We'll see tomorrow. The sea is beautiful at night.
Day 2 started with me doing what I already planned to be "the daily ritual", making sure the briefcase was sealed in the waterproof bag. Can't lose that baby. I don't know how I would feel to make it out of this alive but lose her in the process. Well, let's pray I stay sane enough to remember the daily ritual. These oatmeal bars are really good, but not that filling. I am running low on water, but the pages in my manuscript remain untouched. I would've thought that now would be the perfect time to write something. It is awfully hot though. Yea, I blame it on the sun. I'll start writing when I'm not getting blasted by heatwaves. Besides, I have all night. I'm running low on battery life. I just found out that my gadgets won't be entertaining me much longer. Fucking stupid of me not to save the solar charger. That should've been the first thing I reached for. Although in the choice of life vs. charger, I think I chose correctly. Yea, pretty sure life>charger. Definitely made the right choice. Night is here. Thank God for this rechargeable flashlight, but it is a pain in the ass to keep winding it up. In terms of looking at it full spectrum. I've never seen this many stars in my life. Three bottles of water left. Remembered to keep everything safely stored away in the waterproof pack.
It's day three and I feel that writing this down is the only thing keeping me sane right now. I was up since daybreak, ever since that fucking sun shone it ugly head. It's relentless. It's driving me mad, I don't think the liquor helped either. Today was the first and last day I touch that shit. Made me go through one whole bottle of water. Liquor+Water= Urination. Then I remembered this thing I saw on TV once, where some guy was trapped and he was so dehydrated, he drank his own piss to survive. This made me empty out all the liquor bottles. Just in case I needed storage space. By sunset I realized that I rationed out all the substinence wrong. I was greedy and gluttonous. Up until the point where I was down to my last one. It was an oatmeal bar, and I really did save it for last. No way was I going to have a raisin one as my last one. I broke it into fourths. I promised myself one, but succumed to eating two. Left with half a bar. Night brings it's terrors as well. The sea is unruly. I don't know what it wants, but it was having it's way. What's worse is that it started at the shittiest time, just as I was going over my work. I had receded to working on some of the finishing touches, but alas, I had to keep it away. No way was that getting wet. Not one chance. Although the wet look does give some cool effect.
Day 4 and I don't think I'll ever be saved. The beacon doesn't seem to be working, judging from the lack of rescue and I don't know how much longer I have. The sun refused to show it's face today. Probably as punishment for me cursing at it yesterday, even though I apologized profusely. My mind is going. I ran out of water, and running on my survival supply of you know what. The taste is horrid, the worse part is I don't know whether to take sips or gulps to replenish. I try not to think about it. Everytime, that shit goes straight to the spine. Like a bolt of lightning shocking my entire nervous system.
This could be it. The raft is going out of control, wave after wave is hitting us and I don't know how much more it could take. I kept everything up, even my finished manuscript. (Bob, if you read this, make sure to edit the hell out of it. I may have had too many yellow cocktails.)
Time to say my goodbyes.
To Michelle, All I needed was some time, I know you didn't mean to smother me. That made me angry. I didn't run away from you, I wanted to run away from myself, the person I was becoming. Too much money corrupted the soul, and in turn I put a price on everything. I thought this trip would free me from that. I wanted to return to the roots. To who I was when we first met. Me, the young, ambitious author trying to sell his work, and you the pretty lady I met in the printing shop. That's all I've been thinking about for the last few days. How lucky I was that my jet printer ran out of ink. It's funny how life works. You should go out and get love. Find someone for yourself, be happy. And please don't cry. Remember that I'll always be there with you.
Bobby, I am standing behind you right now. Just playing. It was always fun to bust your balls like that though. lol. Although, I have to say, you are an excellent editor. One of the best in the world. But you're an even better friend. *Awwww...* Cue the audience reaction. Remember that time when we drove to the book signing and had to pass that broken ass bridge? You bet that the car couldn't make the jump. Well, what happened? Yea, you still owe me some money. No worries though, if I remember correctly, we used your card. They must've been shocked to see it clanking down the road when the valet returned it. We were long gone by then. Or how about the time you released the skunk into the bookstore when they wouldn't live up to their end, and it cleared out the whole place. I remember hearing that the place never smelled the same again. Enjoy the book. You'll know who you are in there.
To all my family, It's been awhile. So close yet so far away. What I really want to say to you should be arriving there any day now, with my lawyer. I love you all.
So I write this to you, my family and friends. If I don't make it, you should know all is well with my soul. Off we go to see the big guns.
It's been awhile since I've seen the folks. It should be nice.
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11 Posts
I agree with you dunedain, that too much exposition kills momentum and small chunks usually work best. Show is better than tell (Khaydarin gave a good, succinct example of show vs tell). The show vs tell principle applies at many different levels in a story.
That said, I think there are times when the verbiage on the page vs the point’s story function make it serve the story better just to bang it out there. I think Falling is right, it’s a trade off. There are plenty of great stories that use blatant exposition.
“A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away...”
The key to great exposition is to make the reader want it. If the reader feels mystery, and your exposition answers a question that they want answered, you’re succeeding (the Matrix is packed with artfully done exposition that the viewer wants).
There are also tortured attempts at show that have a lot more tell in them than they ought to. Or put another way, just because it’s in dialogue, dost not show make it (though you can often get away with more in dialogue than in narrative). How glaring it is depends on the context... “Eugh.” “What?” “I would have thought that my own brother would know how I like my shark.” Bob turned from the mutilated tail of the shark, his apron streaming with blood. Tom leaned forward, gagging as he spat to empty his mouth. Beads of saliva hung from his lips. A pool of blood and raw shark pieces collected beneath him. Bob raised his butcher’s knife and pointed at Tom. “You’re kidding me. You’re my brother?” Tom looked at Bob. His expression was unreadable. Bob waited for his brother’s words. Tom vomited. A furious stream of foul smelling liquid, laden with shark chunks, spread across the floor. Bob looked down at his brother. Tom sagged on all fours beneath him. He had a brother. This changed everything. Bob turned to the Reader. He lifted his arms wide, blood dripping from his great knife. “Did you get that, Reader? Tom is my brother!”
Everybody does this, at some level. If the reader doesn’t notice, you win.
Alternatively, you could always take the Austin Powers route, and have a character called ‘exposition’!
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Just finished my story at the 999 word mark, hope someone enjoys!
+ Show Spoiler + A faint signal of noise rattles into Yusuke's left ear, as this time the intrusion lasts a discomforting five seconds. The soft humming alerts Yusuke that THEY are tuning in, listening and streaming into the privacy of his consciousness through their alien frequency.
This sort of strange occurrence happens routinely to Yusuke Ohata as he believes he is a victim of a worldwide global conspiracy. They have forced him into living an isolated hikikomori lifestyle, doomed to be forever trapped alone with his thoughts inside his apartment.
Yusuke's life at the moment is stagnant as it remains at a standstill. He has waisted so much time chasing down all his fears that he now finds himself as a unemployed paranoid thirty year old man that is still living off his parent's monthly allowance for his expenses.
Yusuke currently has no plans on how to get out of his predicament but instead diverts his attention by surfing the internet all day. Its the safest place for a hikikomori like him to escape the cruel reality of facing the unforgiving real world.
The internet and all its anonymity provides a safehaven for this recluse as he spends his days scouring through the vast web for any pertinent information regarding his affliction. Yusuke's goal is simple, he wants to attempt to find that last piece of the puzzle that will help him reconcile his past in order to move forward with his life.
What evil forces in the universe are responsible for conspiring against him while placing him in this everlasting melancholy state? Why does he always feel scorned ridiculed and looked down upon by other people? Where is his desire to make friends, answer his cell phone, or care enough to continue living in this world gone to? Who is Yusuke Ohata, and what is he becoming?
He finds all the answers he has been looking for in the conspiracy section of his favorite site, youtube.com. Apparently during prehistoric times some smart dinosaurs found a way to evolve into shapeshifting lizard men that are currently residing in the fourth dimension of our world. An obscure place that of course is invisible to the human eye and our fives senses.
These reptilians exercise their systematic control over the human race by making mankind follow their evil agenda through any means possible. Television is used as a tool for oppression as it spreads mass fear through the propaganda machine by keeping mankind dull and misinformed.
Everything Yusuke's mind found suspect before is now starting to give credence to the omnipresent conspiracy. He is the victim and now there's someone to point the finger of blame upon for all his problems, shortcomings and failures.
They are the reason that he became a failure of a human being. The uncomfortable nervous shake in his stuttering voice, the ill thoughts that constantly invade his mind, and the general lack of confidence in himself from fear are all their fault.
Are these conspiracy videos, facts or factoids?, Real or fake? The answer doesn't really matter to Yusuke because the videos provide a sense of comfort and security from knowing the answers that he sorely needs.
Yusuke subscribes to all theories, no matter how outlandish, because everything in this world happens for a reason, life after all is one giant conspiracy. The key is to somehow find happiness within the chaos that surrounds us all.
A plan begins to formulate in Yusuke's mind on how to combat the world's oppression. He isn't going to lay dormant and succumb to the conspiracy any longer. He is going to start living his life the way he intends to live it, without fear of consequence from any external outside forces. Although he still can't go outside, the revolution will be broadcast on twitch tv from his room.
He starts up a game of his favorite pass time, Starcraft II, and begins his crusade to be the best, as this is not just any game to him. It's a battle between the good human race (Terran), the bad reptilian race (Zerg), and the ugly over powered (Protoss) race.
The loading screen appears as the matchup between Hata_Yu (Terran) against BrettLarve (Zerg) on Cloud Kingdom begins.
Hata_Yu begins his infamous zerg killing build by starting to wall off his expo, feigning a fast expansion. He trains two marines and sends them off to the normal spot for overlord hunting but finds nothing.
He turns to plan B as he builds a bunker behind the mineral line of his opponents expansion just out of site of the evolving hatchery.
However the Overmind telepathically senses something wrong and sends his second scouting Overlord to the scvs location. Hata_Yu decides to to send the two marines back to the wall giving up map control as four lings force a cancelled bunker and one dead scv.
Yusuke finds himself in a familiar place, turtled up in the confines of his base, giving up map control but he isn't fearful at all, because he has a plan and a specific timing window to exploit.
Hata_Yu's troops lay silent in the shadows, a rag tag bunch of marauders, hellions, two marines, and five repairing scvs as they wait for their stim packs and concussive shells to finish.
A force of two hellions lead the way as they reclaim the towers, alerting BrettLarve to cut drone production and get ready for a little harassment.
The hellions scout out two spine crawlers, four roaches and a queen caught in the act of creep tumor defecation.
The main army begins its death march up Brett's ramp as Yusuke stims and runs his troop forward into battle when suddenly a green window pops up and a timer slowly counts down besides Hata_Yu's name.
At the same time four loud knocks are heard in front of Yusuke's apartment door. His heart beats faster as the seconds count down, Yusuke begins to cry as he hides underneath his desk laying defeated reconciled to his fate.
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Yo `dunedain
+ Show Spoiler + I read it three times, it was interesting reading your characters thought process, as things got grim. He seemed to get more honest about himself and accepted his fate with no regrets. So I raise a yellow cocktail in his name, may he r.i.p. and cheers to you!
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On April 17 2012 04:39 TheQuarryman wrote: I agree with you dunedain, that too much exposition kills momentum and small chunks usually work best. Show is better than tell (Khaydarin gave a good, succinct example of show vs tell). The show vs tell principle applies at many different levels in a story.
That said, I think there are times when the verbiage on the page vs the point’s story function make it serve the story better just to bang it out there. I think Falling is right, it’s a trade off. There are plenty of great stories that use blatant exposition.
“A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away...”
The key to great exposition is to make the reader want it. If the reader feels mystery, and your exposition answers a question that they want answered, you’re succeeding (the Matrix is packed with artfully done exposition that the viewer wants).
There are also tortured attempts at show that have a lot more tell in them than they ought to. Or put another way, just because it’s in dialogue, dost not show make it (though you can often get away with more in dialogue than in narrative). How glaring it is depends on the context... “Eugh.” “What?” “I would have thought that my own brother would know how I like my shark.” Bob turned from the mutilated tail of the shark, his apron streaming with blood. Tom leaned forward, gagging as he spat to empty his mouth. Beads of saliva hung from his lips. A pool of blood and raw shark pieces collected beneath him. Bob raised his butcher’s knife and pointed at Tom. “You’re kidding me. You’re my brother?” Tom looked at Bob. His expression was unreadable. Bob waited for his brother’s words. Tom vomited. A furious stream of foul smelling liquid, laden with shark chunks, spread across the floor. Bob looked down at his brother. Tom sagged on all fours beneath him. He had a brother. This changed everything. Bob turned to the Reader. He lifted his arms wide, blood dripping from his great knife. “Did you get that, Reader? Tom is my brother!”
Everybody does this, at some level. If the reader doesn’t notice, you win.
Alternatively, you could always take the Austin Powers route, and have a character called ‘exposition’!
I think I also said that the "show don't tell" dictum was not really about exposition ...
I always wondered if the character Esposito on Castle was a reference to the fact that the show - and most shows in its genre - are mostly comprised of character exposition-ing to each other.
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Hey! `dunedain! I liked you story, it had some cute and clever moments, particularly the one about not wanting raisins in your last meal. If I were to give you a pointer I would say to look out for having too many of the same word too close together. Having two of the word "choice" in adjacent sentences was what leaped out at me the most.
I thought I'd bounce an idea off of you guys while I was at it, I write mostly poetry but I am trying to start on an adventure story. Have you guys got any good techniques for writing characters that are outside of your gender? I am a man trying to write a female lead and I haven't really taken a stab at it before. The male character was supposed to be the lead but I didn't like him as much and he is working his way into a support role. What has been your experience?
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11 Posts
For me:
exposition – conveying of information show vs tell – establishing story elements by behavior vs narration
The two often interact.
I struggle with shows like that (I like ‘exposition-ing to each other’). I thought the wire did a great job of conveying lots of story by showing (not always, but generally).
The more sensitive my ‘exposition detector’ is on any given day, the more it intrudes on my enjoyment of... well, anything with exposition in it. I wish I could switch it off sometimes.
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On April 17 2012 18:25 TheQuarryman wrote: For me:
exposition – conveying of information show vs tell – establishing story elements by behavior vs narration
The two often interact.
I struggle with shows like that (I like ‘exposition-ing to each other’). I thought the wire did a great job of conveying lots of story by showing (not always, but generally).
The more sensitive my ‘exposition detector’ is on any given day, the more it intrudes on my enjoyment of... well, anything with exposition in it. I wish I could switch it off sometimes.
"Show don't tell" is about style. Exposition is about plot. They are thematically similar, in that they are about how you "reveal" or describe something, but they are different devices. Exposition is really the one you're talking about when you reference film and television media.
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11 Posts
On April 17 2012 18:36 khaydarin9 wrote:+ Show Spoiler +On April 17 2012 18:25 TheQuarryman wrote: For me:
exposition – conveying of information show vs tell – establishing story elements by behavior vs narration
The two often interact.
I struggle with shows like that (I like ‘exposition-ing to each other’). I thought the wire did a great job of conveying lots of story by showing (not always, but generally).
The more sensitive my ‘exposition detector’ is on any given day, the more it intrudes on my enjoyment of... well, anything with exposition in it. I wish I could switch it off sometimes. "Show don't tell" is about style. Exposition is about plot. They are thematically similar, in that they are about how you "reveal" or describe something, but they are different devices. Exposition is really the one you're talking about when you reference film and television media. Interesting. I don’t define exposition as about plot. That is too narrow a definition for me. I'm not saying your definition is wrong, I just find it helpful to think of it more broadly.
Exposition can be about setting or historical events (world building). Exposition can be about character (character attributes, history, etc). Information can be conveyed about numerous things. Tolkien has rafts of exposition. Lots of it does not relate to plot.
When Clancy drops in three pages about how a nuclear sub works, or Child relates the performance characteristics of a handgun, this is exposition to me – it is conveying information, and it is nothing to do with plot. Exposition has a stylistic component as well, of course, like these two examples - the authors choose to divert into explanations of how things work at certain points in their stories, where others wouldn't. The plots of these stories would not change one iota if this exposition was omitted.
Show vs tell is a choice a writer makes, wittingly or unwittingly. It has significant stylistic consequences (it has a big impact on the character of the work). It is generally better to show, but there are occasions where it may serve your story better to simply tell.
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On April 17 2012 16:45 mister.bubbles wrote: Hey! `dunedain! I liked you story, it had some cute and clever moments, particularly the one about not wanting raisins in your last meal. If I were to give you a pointer I would say to look out for having too many of the same word too close together. Having two of the word "choice" in adjacent sentences was what leaped out at me the most.
I thought I'd bounce an idea off of you guys while I was at it, I write mostly poetry but I am trying to start on an adventure story. Have you guys got any good techniques for writing characters that are outside of your gender? I am a man trying to write a female lead and I haven't really taken a stab at it before. The male character was supposed to be the lead but I didn't like him as much and he is working his way into a support role. What has been your experience?
My best advice would be to think of a girl who's personality you actually know and like, then use that while making small changes to make it more what you want. When you have something you're writing about that you know a bit about, things can become much easier
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I tend to avoid writing about people I know. I find that it becomes much harder to twist those characters and alter them.
It just becomes really hard to change the appearance of a character or his motivations when in the back of your mind, you feel that they are based off a person you know.
Heck, I don't even use names of people I know very well, I already feel that it makes it a pain to visualize the character as fictional.
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I actually have to agree w/ Chill. I've always found that by starting at any person you know for either gender and working from there, you can slowly form two separate beings, namely the person you started with and the character you have now.
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On April 17 2012 19:57 TheQuarryman wrote:Show nested quote +On April 17 2012 18:36 khaydarin9 wrote:+ Show Spoiler +On April 17 2012 18:25 TheQuarryman wrote: For me:
exposition – conveying of information show vs tell – establishing story elements by behavior vs narration
The two often interact.
I struggle with shows like that (I like ‘exposition-ing to each other’). I thought the wire did a great job of conveying lots of story by showing (not always, but generally).
The more sensitive my ‘exposition detector’ is on any given day, the more it intrudes on my enjoyment of... well, anything with exposition in it. I wish I could switch it off sometimes. "Show don't tell" is about style. Exposition is about plot. They are thematically similar, in that they are about how you "reveal" or describe something, but they are different devices. Exposition is really the one you're talking about when you reference film and television media. Interesting. I don’t define exposition as about plot. That is too narrow a definition for me. I'm not saying your definition is wrong, I just find it helpful to think of it more broadly. Exposition can be about setting or historical events (world building). Exposition can be about character (character attributes, history, etc). Information can be conveyed about numerous things. Tolkien has rafts of exposition. Lots of it does not relate to plot. When Clancy drops in three pages about how a nuclear sub works, or Child relates the performance characteristics of a handgun, this is exposition to me – it is conveying information, and it is nothing to do with plot. Exposition has a stylistic component as well, of course, like these two examples - the authors choose to divert into explanations of how things work at certain points in their stories, where others wouldn't. The plots of these stories would not change one iota if this exposition was omitted. Show vs tell is a choice a writer makes, wittingly or unwittingly. It has significant stylistic consequences (it has a big impact on the character of the work). It is generally better to show, but there are occasions where it may serve your story better to simply tell.
Just be aware that in an editorial context, "show, don't tell" means something very specific.
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On April 18 2012 02:24 [UoN]Sentinel wrote: I actually have to agree w/ Chill. I've always found that by starting at any person you know for either gender and working from there, you can slowly form two separate beings, namely the person you started with and the character you have now.
I like the idea, I guess I could read some lift people from history too now that I think about it.
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Ok, didn't have time to write for the last challenge. But I did this one. Tell me what you think.
Please, please, please, be as critical as possible and feel free to point out anything you didn't like/thought I could do better. I want to improve, and that is impossible if anything is held back. Point out even the tiniest of errors please. ^^
Reconcilliation
+ Show Spoiler +The guard froze, his fingers numb against the cold control panel. The unmistakable red dot stared at him through the dimness, a malevolent eye peering grimly forward. Nathan stood there for almost a minute, glued to the panel in shock as he realized how the unlikelihood of the situation. That a birthing should happen with him on duty, and with this prisoner! It was preposterous. There were two hundred other guards, and five times as many prisoners.
Tearing his eyes from the unblinking gaze of the monitor, the Nathan looked through his helmet at the man sleeping in the cell before him, lying prostrate in the mechanical arms of an incubator. The wires and pipes protruding from the prisoner’s limbs were too much to bear, and he was forced to look away from the man, that source of so much heartache and regret. Was there a way to help him? Nathan knew there wasn’t, and yet his mind raced feverishly through multiple schemes, each more outlandish then the next. With an audible sigh of resignation he reached down and hit one of the large buttons on the monitor.
Sirens filled the air, and the lights flashed on in every room up and down the corridor. The man ensconced in the machinery came to life with a groan, blinking blearily at the harsh light of the lamp above him. When the prisoner saw the guard before him, he let out a primal cry of fear, and began to flail violently against the bands that held him tight to the incubator.
“No!” he screamed, “No, you Imperial bastards, let me go!”
The tramp of iron boots filled the air, and a squadron of armed soldiers appeared at the door, led by a man in a white lab coat. This was the Warden, and his appearance caused the prisoner’s shrieks to intensify, his movements growing more and more frenetic. As the soldiers passed the various other cells, inmates shrank back as far as the restraints would allow, their eyes wide in terror. Just as the cries of the prisoner reached an unintelligible pitch, the squadron reached his cell, the red dot now blinking like a mark of guilt. Nathan’s fingers drummed a nervous staccato beat on the side of his leg.
The Warden flipped a lever, and immediately the cries ceased as a needle on a mechanical arm punctured the prisoner’s forearm. His whole body stiff as a plank of wood, the quieted prisoner strained inaudibly. The Warden and the soldiers watched his attempts in silence, and the prisoner accepted defeat. His initial terror gave way to anger, and he glared at the men before him. Nathan swallowed nervously, a bead of sweat trickling down his spine despite the morning chill.
“Prisoner 372, Daniel Blakely. By order of the Imperial Triumvirate, you were sentenced to death.” The Warden’s voice was low and there was no emotion on his face. “However, if you choose to accept the gift of the Maelyr, you will be given a stay of execution and be allowed to serve our glorious Empire. If you decline, you will die, and the Maelyr will be born anyway. Do you accept?”
The Warden pressed another lever, and a second needle was injected into Blakely. He gasped in air as if he had been drowning. Raising his head to stare at the Warden, the indecision was clear in his eyes. Nathan felt a glimmer of hope. Could Daniel have changed? He had always been stubborn, but prison can change a man. A decision dawned, and Daniel’s eyes narrowed to slits. Nathan’s heart plummeted.
“Fuck you!” Daniel screamed through gritted teeth. “Fuck you and fuck your Empire and everyone in it!”
The Warden turned to the control panel emotionlessly, and pressed a button. Nathan began to quiver, his hands trembling uncontrollably.
“Birthing sequence initiated,” said a disembodied female voice, and the incubator attached to Daniel’s back began to glow and rumble. Nathan felt very hot under the helmet, but he couldn’t take it off. Not now. He watched Daniel gritting his teeth, eyes staring angrily at the Warden. Suddenly, that angry gaze shifted to him, and it was all Nathan could do to keep standing. Those eyes burned into him, and he began to regret his choices.
Daniel was wrenched backwards into the incubator, causing him to clench his jaw in pain. The tubes sticking from his arm popped out, leaking their contents on the floor. The smell of burning flesh filled the room, and Daniel’s back arched in agony. Nathan could take no more, and, yanking his helmet off, he stumbled towards his brother. Daniel’s eyes widened in amazed recognition, and then fury, as his brother lurched forward.
With a thunk, the incubator’s glow faded, and Daniel screamed. Nathan knew it was too late, that the Maelyr was already inside his brother, and he fell to his knees before the bars. Daniel’s arms tore from the restraints and battered his chest uncontrollably, blood running from his eyes. A silent plea formed on his lips as the Maelyr began to devour his internal organs.
There was only one way. Somehow, there was a pistol in Nathan’s hands, pointed at his brother. Three shots rang out before the soldiers knocked him to the ground. Two points of red stood out on Daniel’s tattered shirt, and a sickly green fluid oozed out.
“You killed it you asshole!” roared the Warden, his face purpling with rage. He pulled a rifle from one of the soldiers and pointed it at Nathan’s head.
“No,” he breathed. “I won’t shoot you. You’re getting an incubator. A life for a life.”
Nathan lay numbly on the ground as his hands were shackled behind him. On the far wall, his brother’s eyes were closed. But above them was a single red dot where the third bullet had impacted. The dot gleamed brightly, a malevolent eye peering out at the henchman of the Empire. And with that Nathan knew he had found redemption.
-1000 words
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Hey -Aura-
Congrats on finishing your work, it reminded me of a space opera, and you're very good at presenting imagery for your world to the reader.
I also liked the symbolism of the malevolent eye that you began and ended your story with.
+ Show Spoiler + I went back and ended up reading your story for a total of four times.
I'm not sure why but I tend to read too fast on my first go, because maybe I thought I wouldn't be too into a story with a sci fi theme or maybe because I'm an impatient person...
So the first time I read it, I wasn't interested until I got to the point when the prisoners react to the Wardens appearance..
But than when i reread it, this time more slowly, I got to appreciate your work more, and had a genuine, holy shit moment when the guard Nathan took off his helmet and revealed himself to his brother.
I only found two tiny errors “Prisoner 372, Daniel Blakely. By order of the Imperial Triumvirate, you were sentenced you to death.
Thetubes sticking from his arm popped out, leaking their contents on the floor.
Other than that, bravo sir, good job, thanks for sharing, I'm not in a position to be critical of ones work, so hopefully you can get that constructive criticism that you wanted.
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On April 18 2012 17:07 spangled wrote:Hey -Aura- Congrats on finishing your work, it reminded me of a space opera, and you're very good at presenting imagery for your world to the reader. I also liked the symbolism of the malevolent eye that you began and ended your story with. + Show Spoiler + I went back and ended up reading your story for a total of four times.
I'm not sure why but I tend to read too fast on my first go, because maybe I thought I wouldn't be too into a story with a sci fi theme or maybe because I'm an impatient person...
So the first time I read it, I wasn't interested until I got to the point when the prisoners react to the Wardens appearance..
But than when i reread it, this time more slowly, I got to appreciate your work more, and had a genuine, holy shit moment when the guard Nathan took off his helmet and revealed himself to his brother.
I only found two tiny errors “Prisoner 372, Daniel Blakely. By order of the Imperial Triumvirate, you were sentenced you to death.
Thetubes sticking from his arm popped out, leaking their contents on the floor.
Other than that, bravo sir, good job, thanks for sharing, I'm not in a position to be critical of ones work, so hopefully you can get that constructive criticism that you wanted.
Yeah sometimes I also tend to skim when I read things on a computer. It's somewhat annoying actually, especially when I'm trying to figure out something complicated and my eyes just want to race down the page. I'm going to fix those typos right now. Thanks for your input, and for reading. ^^
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I guess shameless self-promotion of my blog here, sort of.
This is the pro-prologue to a large piece I conceived for Nanowrimo several years ago. In my blog, I posted an older version in one post, and a little bit about what I'm working on. I just copypasta'd from MSWord, so hopefully not too many problems. I'll be periodically posting new chapters/sections and bits of writing there too.
If anyone can give me PM or comment on my blog that would be great. I think my grammar is generally okay, but I get pretty paranoid about leaving a gaping plot hole, or forgetting to mention something I should ( I know stuff, but sometimes I forget that I haven't written it yet). So if anything doesn't make sense, please tell me.
Also, I guess comments about the story in general would be cool. Like, is it not TOO overdone? Does it flow well? How are my descriptive thingies?
I'm trying to write a fight scene right now. That'll be done by the weekend hopefully.
The older version: http://www.teamliquid.net/blogs/viewblog.php?id=327885
Ideas Ideas Ideas: http://www.teamliquid.net/blogs/viewblog.php?id=327885
Latest version: (6700 words) (yes, the chapter/ section titles are kind of corny/lame. i'll fix them maybe.) + Show Spoiler +The Civil War of Valana
The Return of the King 1 It is sunset. A man stands, looking out of an arched window over a vast city. He is a tall man of noble face and build, though now he is drawn and haggard from great weariness and sorrow, even greater than those expected of his many years. This is Zeshara, twenty-sixth Regent of Valana. For many years he ruled wisely and well and the Kingdom of Valana prospered: the lands were at peace, and men lived to die in their homes, surrounded by their families and loved ones. During this era of plenty, the Emperor returned. It was not the last Emperor, for the Regency had lasted for well-nigh four hundred years, but it was a man of royal blood. The Regent scratched at the rough stubble on his cheek, recalling the fateful day.
“A dusty traveler appeared at the gates of the Redemption Palace. At his touch, they opened—those mighty gates that had suffered no man to pass since Cathaz last-Emperor closed them before he rode into battle against the Masgans and perished, opened for this mysterious stranger. The Triari, the three palace guards and commanders of the Disi, found him perched upon the dusty throne that had been empty for so long. And so, they had accepted him as Emperor: no mortal or immortal could open the gates and sit in the Mandate of Heaven but by virtue of his lineage. Zeshara had, hesitantly, abdicated and let this strange man rule. And for many years, he deemed things well. For several decades, time ran its course and the Kingdom prospered. The Regency had taken good care of the Kingdom, and under the returned Emperor, it rose to even greater and bolder heights. Valana, long the dominant power in Alias, waxed in its second noontide strength. Her armies waged war in foreign lands, carrying back the princes of distant kings; her ships sailed upon distant lands, carrying back the wealth of exotic isles; her ambassadors traveled far and wide, until near all of Alias bowed before her might. The silver and gold standard waved in the courts of a thousand lands. Emperor Tazmar took a wife in the sixth year of his rule, a fair lady of old nobility with some drops of royal blood in her veins. Soon thereafter she bore twins: a girl-child and a boy-child, and there was great rejoicing. Both grew quickly, becoming tall and strong and handsome and were much beloved by the people of the Empire. They were but another joy and pride of the flourishing Kingdom. But, at the dawn of their twenty-second birthday, madness took the mind of the aging Emperor, and the Kingdom plunged into chaos. Sentries patrolled the city of Saphiris, the ancient seat of power of the Kingdom. As the stars bowed away to the rising sun, massive silhouettes were spotted fast approaching. The Colossi, the immortal, giant, servants of the Emperors, had been summoned to kill the young prince and princess. And, so the burning of the Western Citadel began. Saphiris, City of Kings, the greatest city wrought by man, capitol of Valana, was under attack for the first time in thousands of years. The Colossi, blind to all but the commands of their master, rammed full force into the adamant walls that countless armies had fallen before. In its long history, many had laid siege to it; a single one had conquered the walls to never leave. However, the ancient strength of the Colossi was enough to accomplish what uncountable mortal soldiers had failed to do: they breached the wall. The Colossi swatted away the human guards that strove in vain to drive them away. They stampeded through the Western Citadel, leaving fire and destruction in their wake until they reached the very walls of the Redemption Palace. Their one goal was to find the Prince and Princess, and to kill them. It was only when the discovery of the Prince’s absence was made did the Colossi retreat. The Princess had gone back to her mother the Queen’s people in the northwest parts of the Empire. The Prince, through some premonition or foresight, had fled the city days before. The only members of the royal family that remained were the Emperor and his Queen, and the only to emerge from the palace was the Emperor himself. The Queen, it was said, had died in the attack. It was whispered that Tazmar had slain her himself. Tazmar was wroth when he learned that the Prince had escaped to Rundora, a city on Delvis Isle in the center of the great lake Centrak, to rally his supporters and seemingly usurp his father. He sent forth a great armada and numerous Colossi to kill the Prince and raze the city to the ground.”
2 It is now that the Emperor’s army arrives at Rundora. From his tower high above the city, Zeshara watches as the horizon seemingly thickens, and a massive fleet approaches the island. He looks sadly out onto the lake. In the fading light of a summer eve, the lake has turned red. He turns as the door creaks. A soldier in the attire of a captain strides in and flicks a salute. He whispers, “They are coming. The Emperor will show us no mercy.” Roused from his reverie, Zeshara slowly turns his head and states, “Marshal our forces.” The officer leaves. Zeshara glances back over at the approaching invasion force, then turns and leaves the room, squashing the nausea of despair. He had not imagined that the Emperor would send forth so many men. He traverses various courts, finally finding the Prince in his guarded chambers in the tallest tower. The Prince stands before a large painting. It portrayed the royal family, not in its usual formal state setting, but as a family. A smiling father and mother sit on one end of a picnic watching an unruly son and daughter pulling at each other at the other end. The Prince, hearing Zeshara, turned. Zeshara thinks he sees something in the Prince’s eye, but cannot be sure. “They are coming, sire.” * * * Several days later, a tide of steel marches toward the City walls from all sides. The Emperor’s armada stops a scant kilometer from the outermost walls of the city, the thousand crimson banners of its thousand companies snapping in the wind. There issues no herald offering terms of surrender, only a hail of arrows that darken the setting sun and rising moon. Hundreds upon hundreds of siege engines fire, sending their destructive spheres into the city. This barrage is blocked; as the projectiles approach the city, they hit an arcane barrier that shimmers into view as it is hit. A group of wizened men in dark robes move forward, surrounded by a phalanx of the King’s own guard, the Disi. They raise their arms and begin chanting in cracked, harsh voices. After several moments, a massive pentacle appears before them, crackling with arcane energies. It flashes, and a titanic blast of magic hits the shield. The entire ward glows as a massive silver bubble, then shatters. From within, a bolt of argent and azure lightning strikes the army. But this is no arcane force, but the Saphron Paladins: guardians of Valana, and the greatest warriors in Alias. Their ferocious onslaught destroys the Disi phalanx, and the King’s mages are quickly slain. As the King’s armies begin to surround the paladins, they withdraw. The High General of the armies grits his teeth in anger, and curses the paladins. In the tower above the main gate, Prince Ellis sighs to Zeshara. “We cannot win this battle.” “My Prince, your father truly wishes to kill you. He will sink this entire island if it means your death. We are your shield, and we shall defend you until we are riven.” “Or I drop you,” replies Ellis with a slight smile. “We will not let you do so, my prince,” Zeshara replies fondly. He wonders when they had all grown so solemn. The prince had been a lighthearted lad, and while he himself had always been a bit stiff (the Regency had not been without its rigors)… but this? “Our cause is righteous, is it not? Why do I feel as a man condemned?” he wonders privately. * * * The opposing army marshals itself at the behest of its thousands of officers. Soldiers under massive shields, both metal and arcane, move to the walls and raise ladders and siege towers, which fall ruinously. Arrows fly thick, and magic almost as, for the magery of the Kingdom is strong in that day. The common soldiery of the kingdom clash; much of the best blood of Valana will spill today. Siege towers and ladders burst into the flame, and men fall to their deaths. Upon the wall, islands of besiegers fight desperately to establish a foothold. Massive floating platforms loaded with soldiers and piloted by mages ferry to the top of the walls, but rarely make it as defending mages break them, spilling their cargoes hundreds of feet down. Many who witnessed the Colossi attack have joined the Prince along with the Saphron Paladinate. The opposing side are the other divisions of the army, called from remote garrisons and the borders. These men fight their friends, their brothers. Most of them know not why they strive thusly; but for that their lords told them to do so. Many are sick at heart; no man does not harbor a doubt. They are sick at heart, knowing that every time they kill, a small part of them also dies. The spirit of Valana is near broken. Those who survive will be haunted forever by the memory of that blood-red day. Even after the sun set, the armies continue to strive. The magery of the Kingdom is potent in this day, and the field is lit with multicolored lights, seemingly fireworks let loose into the sky. From high above, the battlefield could have been a festival instead of a bloodletting. Each flash means the end of more good men. The valiance or skill of the defenders, the Prince’s Men, as they came to be called, was greater than that of the King’s Men, and slowly but surely, they beat back their besiegers. Soon, the gates are opened, and a sea of Prince’s men rushes to sortie. Like an old bull, the grey and red army of the Emperor slowly and reluctantly gives ground. They are slowly pushed back over the island and through the rolling green hills and back to their ships. The meadow will be green and hilly no longer; it will forever after be a packed red-earth plain, stained by the rust of sword, helm and blood. The Grand General of the army was fearful: penalty for failure would surely mean, at best, his execution. He railed against his commanders for perceived failures. “We are losing this battle. We have ten times and more their force, yet they continue to push us back. The beach cannot withstand the tide! How can this be!” “The sea is mighty, may destroy a sandcastle, but the beach and island will remain.” Grand General Falscon whirled, facing the General in charge of the western flank. “You fool! How could you not break through their line? You had fourteen thousand men at your disposal to their three thousand! Three thousand! In the name of the Decemberess how...?” Falscon proceeds to belabor his subordinates. They shift uneasily under his diatribes. He only pauses when a messenger with a bloody side and notched sword enters and pants in a broken voice, “They have broken through... the paladins have crushed the western flank and broken the shield wall... we cannot hold them... they… will be here. Soon.” With that, the messenger totters and falls, first to his knees, and then the ground. None of the commanders make any move to help him. No healer is called. One of the Generals remark cooly, “Damn the paladins.” 3 A half hour later, the first of the Paladins break through the defenses surrounding the command post. The path they wrought was the first crack in a mighty dam; harbinger of the torrent that would soon burst through. Two paladins, a longblade and his friend the spearblade make it to the tent. They duly surveyed the recently vacated tent. “It seems that they were here and have only recently left.” His partner, the spearblade gave a noncommital grunt. “If we’d been a little faster, we could have ended the battle right then.” Another grunt. The two stood in the tent awhile longer. The longblade sighs and walks out. The spearblade stands awhile longer, pitying the dead messenger left in the tent. Then, he also leaves, returning to the battlefield. * * * Though on the western flank the paladins had been successful, the eastern front is presenting considerably more difficulty. It is a mass of struggling bodies. The burnished silver of the Prince’s men struggle against the red and gold of the Palace Disi, the elite troops of the Emperor. Single men fight duels, while in other areas entire companies in formation clash. Only with great cost are the enemy pushed back. Nevertheless, the valiance of the defenders shines through once again as several battalions of fresh paladins are sent forth, and the Disi are gradually forced to fall back, sustaining heavy losses, though perhaps not as heavy as that they wreak upon the defenders turned attackers. Only as their allies around them retreat and are replaced with the Prince’s men do they withdraw, in fear of being flanked and surrounded. At dawn’s first glint, the battle finally begins to slow. Both sides have sustained heavy losses; the defenders have paid dearly for their gains. One in ten of the Prince’s Men are dead, but for each one, perhaps three of the King’s Men lie on the battlefield. By the time the disk of the sun had peeked above the horizon, the armies begin to disengage. Both are weary and many are worse: numb and bloodshocked. The King’s men retreat to lick their wounds, and the defenders fall back to regroup, for their lines had become spread thin in order to continue with their offensive. The Prince exits Rundora alone. Zeshara has given him a message: the battle has weakened the King’s Men beyond expectation, and now the Prince may take his chance and flee as planned. There is a ship on the far side of the island from where the King’s fleet lies. While the rest of the Prince’s ships ambush the King’s fleet, he will sail away to a northern port and hide, rallying his supporters until he can face the King. Or not. He knows, as does Zeshara, that it is merely buying time with blood: the King will find him. And there is no chance of his victory then. Emperor Tazmar, his father, wields the Mandate of Heaven and the might of all Halla. Ellis rides through the plains littered with the wreckage of war. Corpses of the slain lay in macabre lines, as if they had been deposited ashore by some crimson tide. Broken arrowshafts pointed out of the bloodstained and crushed blades of grass. All sorts of weapons and engines of war lie discarded on the ground. Spurring his horse, Ellis continues forward through the field of death. He follows a path, almost trampled out of existence, to the cove where his ship awaits. His stallion climbs a hill, and he sees the new battlefield. The eastern coast of the isle was shielded by a fleet of ships. A considerably decreased army sat in front of the fleet. Farther away on two hills stood another army. Even after its victory, this army was still many times smaller than the other. The Prince sadly watched the plain. No, he will not flee, becoming oathbreaker, coward, traitor, to all these men. Here, the fate of his kingdom will be decided. He turns his horse towards where his men are encamped. 4 Ellis rides into camp slowly. The men who have fought for him stare at him with their eyes, twin pools of despair in white faces. “Tell us”, the eyes beg, “tell us why we fight and kill our brothers.” He wheels his horse around in what he approximated was the center of the camp and stops. He gives forth to them, at first hesitantly, then with growing passion and conviction. “Hear me people of Valana. My father, the Emperor Tazmar has forsaken mankind. But, we shall not do as he has. He wishes for our end; so be it. He may wish it but he shall not have it! Today we fight. We fight for our families, our friends, our country... our future!” He lifts his head to look into the eyes of his knights one by one. A flicker stirs here and there, and his words are water to men dying of thirst. More softly, he resumes. “I see in your eyes the sorrow of what you have done. But you may sleep well, knowing you did the right thing. I too am sorrowful. And fearful. I fear for what may happen. I see it in your eyes also. But we must be brave.” He unsheathes his sword and salutes. In the gathering light of the approaching dawn, it is a sliver of white lightning, its wielder a noble silhouette against the rising sun. “Onward!” Silence holds for but a moment, but a slow mumble grows in volume and strength. The massed army lets forth an approving roar and surges forward like a river of steel. Commanders begin to shout after a numb silence, and the army marshals itself like a sleepy man who has had cold water dumped on his face. More quickly than any force should be able to, it is ready for battle. Falscon stumbles out of his tent, woken by the thunder of the charging army. He rubs sleep-encrusted eyes and began to yell at someone, but stops when he saw what was happening. In spite of his many shortcomings, Falscon was no fool. He was belligerent and haughty. He was moody and oftentimes cruel. But, he had some certain innate quality that had borne him to his current position as High General. In this moment of crisis, it bared itself. In a calm, steely voice he begin yelling orders and answering queries of near-panicked officers. He talks to one shocked general. “I said to prepare the lines. Of skirmish.” Falscon intoned levelly. “Do it, or we shall be overrun. They will show us no mercy, for we have shown them none.” “Of course...” “Go.” The armies of the Emperor slowly move into rough formations. Sleep-ridden officers astride weary horses scream hoarse instructions to their commands. Slowly, they arrange themselves into rough defending positions behind the palisades and earthworks they have built. But as each group has seemingly prepared itself, it is swept away by the incoming army. An earsplitting crescendo rises as the opposing sides collide. As the bloody jewel of the sun rises into the sky, it reveals knots of struggling warriors, waves of steel and flesh crashing and tearing against one another. As the King’s Men marshaled themselves, they are swept away by the inexorable tide of the Prince’s men. As the sun rises to its noonday height, the grey and red of the Emperor’s men slowly recedes. Soon, they were forced back almost to their ships, fighting knee deep into the water. The Prince rides among his men, shouting encouragement between blows. Trained as a Saphron paladin and of royal blood, he was a mighty warrior in his own right. “Forward! Forward! Drive them back to their ships!” His men heed his words and fight even harder, spurred to greater and greater deeds of valor. Seeing how far they have been forced, the King’s Men grow fearful, and begin to break off. Quickly, the retreat became a rout. Soldiers stream back to their ships, stepping upon each other in their rush to the ships. Many are drowned. The spirit of the invincible armada is broken. Bolts of fire and lightning tear into the retreating armada as the Prince’s ships attack. The retreat turns into the gateway to hell. Aboard the flagship of the erstwhile invading fleet, Falscon paces like a caged tiger. He says nothing, watching the ruin of the battle with a blank expression. Aides and lieutenants beg him for orders. His gaze passed over them blankly. Suddenly, a massive rent appears in his breastplate, and he crumples. After a few gasps, he expires in a crimson pool. “This fool has failed me. Get him out of my sight; from now on, I do my own work. I bloody my own hands.” It is the Emperor, come to finish the tasks his minions had failed at.
Fate Decrees This Will Occur 1 While his defeated soldiers floundered and crawled to the safety of their ships, the Emperor summoned the Colossi to do his bidding. The Colossi are the eternal servants of the Emperor. No one (save perhaps for he) knows from whence they came. They are immortal, unless their forms are wounded nigh to oblivion by some great hero. It is rumored they are primeval chaos, sealed into earthly forms. Yet even their earthly shells betray their power: they are titanic, great as the mountains and older than them. Some take the form of strange beasts, like and unlike gigantic versions of animals. Others are great creatures standing on two feet. Many so-called wise men have studied the Colossi. One returned, claiming the Colossi were actually beasts created from the bound souls of the millions that had fallen into the abyss of death since time immemorial. The ones that had attacked Saphiris had been but toys. These new Colossi were far greater, mountains given form and movement. The Colossi now heeded the commands of the man known as Tazmar. Slowly, they emerged from the deeps of the lake where they had waited. They rose, shedding sheets of water as they did. The ships of the King’s Men were thrown into disarray by their appearance, many foundering; thousands were thrown into the water to be crushed or drowned. Slowly, they ascended onto the island on the western side. From the eastern side where the Emperor’s ships lay burning, Ellis could see the moving mountains that were the Colossi. “So it has come to this,” murmured the Prince. He had forced the Emperor’s hand. A flash of shadows. It was Tazmar. “Yes my son, now I shall kill you. But first, I shall let you live awhile. Witness as my power crushes this island and its proud city into dust. Watch and despair, or flee— flee and leave those who fought for you to die. Watch from afar as they curse you with their dying breath. And only then shall I...” Ellis made a sudden convulsive movement; a flash later, his sword was covered in blood. Tazmar had dodged fast enough to avoid being disemboweled, but Ellis had landed a deep wound in his side. He took an involuntary step then steadied. He raised his hand from his side in an ironic salute; it was stained with blood. “Until then.” And with those words, he vanished. Ellis was left holding the blood-stained sword in the same position as before. He looked down to see that his hands were shaking. He took a deep breath and mounted his horse. He galloped back to the citadel as fast as he could. His army followed its distraught leader back fast as it could. None had seen the Emperor, but all saw the looming shadows of their impending doom. The Colossi moved as one, ponderously striding up the incline. They moved with single intent and purpose: to destroy the city before them. As they reached the plateau upon which the city stood, they stopped. They let out an eerie howl that chilled the defenders. 2 Slowly the Colossi climbed onto the granite plateau. They were peppered with hails of arrows and shot from the city’s siege engines, which seemed puny weapons to be fighting such mighty beasts. A biped Colossi bent over and tore off a piece of granite from the edge of the hill. He threw it in a long arc and the massive projectile struck the heart of the city. Arrows stopped from a moment and the Colossi charged. Moving with incredible speed, they reached the walls. Mighty appendages struck the walls, rending massive cracks and shaking the ramparts, though the Colossi could have simply stepped over them. Dozens died each time one struck, crushed by collapsing masonry or falls from the walls Brave warriors jumped onto their bodies and carefully scaled to the beasts’ heads. They would stab their enemies’ eyes or foreheads. Many died in their attempts, but the beasts fell one by one, bleeding strange mist-like ichors. Nevertheless, but for the odd loss, the Colossi drove deeper into the city. Each wall they met they hammered into dust, those who resisted were swatted aside like flies. Soon, all that remained of them were pounding against the walls of the Citadel. However, the citadel walls were very different from the outer walls of the city. They had been carved from the bones of the earth, and even the Colossi could not break them; they were old as time immemorial and most likely would last till time immemorial once again. As the Colossi destroyed the city, the remnants of the human armies of the Emperor made their way off the ships and toward the broken city, knowing of their enemy’s newfound vulnerability. Few of the Prince’s men were left to defend the ravaged city, but for the stragglers who had not made it back to the citadel. A desperate guerilla battle ensued, and even the heroism of the small ragtag rearguard could not hold up to the bloodthirsty and revenge-maddened soldiers of the Emperor. They were forced to retreat deeper into the city, relinquishing block after block to the sack of the King’s men. It was another atrocity that would be remembered. Farther within, the Colossi knocked on the citadel walls. Within the Citadel, warriors rushed back and forth, dodging from one arrow slit to another, madly shooting and hoping to bring down the colossi. They carried shot to the siege engines, halfway bowed behind the ramparts. Slowly, they were succeeding. Colossus by Colossus, they were falling. From atop a high tower at the heart of the citadel, the Prince stood, watching as the Colossi made their way into the city. He wished that he was out there with his men, but Zeshara had insisted... “My lord, you cannot leave. If you are slain, the men will lose heart and all we have done will be for naught.” Ellis had to agree. He was the key to the entire war. One hand slowly danced toward his sword, the other to the door. All he had to do was climb down the stairs and exit the tower. A quick dash across a couple walkways and he would be at the leading edge. And he would marshal his men and lead them to victory. And the whole cursed war would be over. “I think not.” He gave an involuntary shudder. Somehow someone had entered the room. It was Tazmar. 3 “Humph. Those soldiers I sent were useless. As were your guards.” “Father, you look well,” said Ellis evenly, without turning. Tazmar seemed paler than he had at their last meeting. Dark shadows framed his eyes, and his clothing hung loosely on his body. “I did not appreciate your gesture. One would almost think you didn’t love your father anymore.” Tazmar emphasized the word love just slightly. But, it brought back years of memory for his son. Resolve wavered, then completely collapsed. An early memory of a kind, bearded man over him as he lay in a cradle... the same man with a small boy over his shoulder... the man yet again laughing heartily with a tousle-headed boy while wrestling. Finally, an image of an older man sitting in a throne speaking kindly to a clear-eyed young man. The young men were the Prince. He struggled to suppress all his memories of his father. He turned away, and ended up facing the painting of the family. “No... he is a different man now.” Ellis looked up at the face of the man he called his father. It was now more lined and weary, yet it was the same man. He lowered his raised blade slightly, but then his father straightened and the spell was broken. His grip on the sword steadied. The prince fired a single fireball. It missed his father and hit the painting. It was quickly consumed by the greedy flames. A nimbus of dark energy encircles his father, a golden one the Prince. The energies radiating from the Emperor are noticeably more potent, the aura around him greater and more terrible. They charge at one another and lock blades. Tazmar disengages and whirls around, firing a blast of silver energy from his palm. It strikes the wall behind where Ellis had been standing and implodes, burning bright as the sun and then disappearing, leaving a rim of charred and melted stone. The Prince flashes back into the visible spectrum behind his father and prepares to strike. He hesitates then thrusts, only to be met with empty air. Tazmar flickers away, moving so fast he leaves several afterimages. The aura of dark energy surrounding Tazmar condenses into a pair of flickering lightwings. They beat once and he rises into the air. He waves a hand, and a hail of dark needles from the wings speed toward the floor. A pulse of golden light issues from the Prince’s aura, and the dark shards dissipate. A dull thump and a bulb of dark energy appears in the center of the room and implodes. The vacuum sucks most of the room’s contents into it. A noticeable cracking is heard as the columns struggled to deal with this added pressure. With a final groan, they give and the top of the tower collapses. Ellis has survived, though a long scratch now runs across one cheek. He flickers again and is next to his father, a blade pressed against his neck. His resolve grows steadily, his confidence diminishing in proportion. “This ends now.” And he swings to kill. But once again there is nothing. “My dear, you must learn that such tricks will not work against me. I taught you all you know. Everything you are comes from me. Your power, authority, name. All mine.” “I am my own man.” Tazmar gave a short laugh. “A man? Must I discipline my son?” Tazmar hangs in the air, gently bobbing up and down twenty feet away. The Prince dashes toward him through the air, leaving a golden trail in his wake. The two finally begin fighting in earnest. Even as he battles, the Prince is besieged by doubt. He is fighting his own father, the man who taught him all... how can he truly hope to prevail? A swing of a blade. A parry and then a twist. The blade dance back into play and arcs at the last moment to block a thrust. One blade slides down the length of another and thrusts and meets empty air. It is swung around directly and meets the other blade. The blades seem to move with minds of their own. The Emperor swings with a dozen blades, and the prince returns with his own dozen. The blades seem fluid, bending and twisting around each other, an area of flashing steel between violet and golden figures. Slowly but surely, it seems that the Emperor is gaining the upper hand. His blade flashes faster, his spells seem more potent. A pair of mis-aimed blasts have destroyed half of the tower. Another more well-aimed one destroys one of the Prince’s wings, sending him tumbling into an ungraceful crash landing atop another tower. As Ellis rolls back into standing position, a massive gauntlet strikes him, sending him through the rooftop and the two floors below. His defensive spell, cast at the last moment, has saved him from being crushed. He crashes amidst a pile of furniture. Tazmar dives down through the hole like a hawk, sword in one hand, the other holding a nimbus of crackling energy. The Prince gets up and fires a blast at the Emperor. He runs towards a wall and fires a blast, jumping through the hole he has created. He free-falls for some moments, then his lightwings reform and he swoops upwards. Tazmar is waiting. Their swords clash in a fountain of sparks, which seem to fight as well. Ellis uses the sword as an axis, and launches his entire body upwards. The maneuver sends Tazmar spinning. Perhaps it is Ellis’s chance. Or not. Tazmar launches a wide arc of energy from his palm. Ellis avoids it by a hairsbreadth. Suddenly, he is caught by an invisible force. A clawed hand materializes around him, followed by the balrog it is part of. Ellis grabs his dagger from its sheath and stabs the hand, yanking down. The balrog roars in pain, and loosens its grip. Ellis slips out and fires a scythe of energy that rips the balrog in half. Tazmar is instantly upon him once more, and the Prince dodges the blow, though his lightwings do not. He falls once more.
It begins to rain. The falling Prince opens his mouth. Strangely, the raindrops are falling faster than he is. They are warm and salty, as if they are the tears of the sky. Thunder crackles ominously. The Prince realizes as he falls. He has little hope of killing his father, but perhaps he can weaken him enough to guarantee the survival of some of his allies. He will summon up all his remaining power, and use it in one final strike. If not… well, he has fought for his men as they have fought for him: to the last. With an effort and resolve, the Prince conjures lightwings once more. The two combatants alight upon a lonely tower, yet untouched by the fighting. They stand at opposite ends, then charge at one another, now glinting with all the power they can summon. This would be the exchange that would decide the battle, the war, and consequently, the future. As they meet, the nimbuses of energy surrounding each person collide and sizzle and strive against one another. From far away, it seemed a pair of wings, one a sizzling purple and the other a dazzlingly white gold flashed out. They seemed to flap in a death-agony, and flicker out of existence. “So it ends.” The top of the tower is dark. A figure is bent over the other and they seem to be locked in an embrace. The darkness lifts with a gust of wind. One person is standing. The other is at his knees, grasping the hilt of a shattered blade. Ellis knows what happened. As they had charged, his father had lowered his blade and released his magical defenses. Tazmar struggles to his feet, then walks to his son. He puts a hand on Ellis’s shoulder. The other holds the hilt of his broken sword. A shudder passes through him, and then he steadies. He slowly walks to the edge of the ruined tower. Silhouetted against the setting sun, he is no longer the power-mad tyrant, but the mighty warrior, the wise king, the loving father. “This is how is must be. I have played the part fate has set for me… but have I played it well enough? Is this sacrifice enough? I have tried… I shall pass and take with me the Mandate of Heaven. The line of kings shall pass as I pass...” With that, Tazmar was silent. He stood for awhile longer then crumpled and fell to his knees at the edge of the tower. Through a bloody mouth he spoke. “Your father loves you, Ellis. Farewell and I salute you.” His eyes slowly closed for the last time. As life left his body, a single tear pooled onto a cheek. Ellis watched as it flipped through the air and hit the ground below. Ellis falls to his knees, forgetting all that had occurred. Like a meteor, Tazmar’s body fell to the ground below. Zeshara orders a search for it, but no one is able to find it. The Emperor has disappeared as he had come twenty-nine years ago.
4 After the death of the Emperor, the battle turned in the favor the beleaguered defenders. The colossi, left masterless, stopped fighting and slowly left as in a daze. They departed to the remote and inhospitable or inaccessible reaches of the world until a new master called. Seeing their great foes leave, the defenders found new heart and drove the invaders out of the ruined city and off the ravaged isle. As the last of the soldiers limped aboard the fleeing ships, a bloodied Zeshara breathed a sigh of relief. The battle had been very close. Atop the darkened tower, Ellis dropped his broken sword. He left it where it lay, and slowly descended the stairway. The battle was over. Though the battle was won, the war would not truly end for many centuries. Those of the late Emperor’s forces who had managed to escape fled to the southeastern parts of the Kingdom and easily captured it and established a new kingdom, ruled by two of the old Emperor’s Triari. These two kingdoms would forever be at war, until the day a new Emperor could unite them. The old Kingdom of Valana was greatly weakened, for much of the best and brightest of her men had fallen in that battle. Many days later, a pale, exhausted and bandaged Prince was seen entering Saphiris. He was able to open the gates of the Redemption Palace and was so hailed as Emperor. But, he was not able to sit in the Mandate of Heaven, a secret known to few. He ruled the weakened kingdom as well as he could and the deep wounds of war slowly began to heal. But, it would be many years until Valana regained the power she had before the Kin-Strife. But, the prince’s, now emperor’s, own wounds were never truly healed and he died a mere ten years after his rule began. Zeshara, by now an old man, became regent once more. And so after the return of a king and his death at the hands of his son, the Kingdom was again without an Emperor. The Regency was restored, and the old regent tried his hardest to hold his kingdom together and return it to the way it was in his youth. With a sigh, Zeshara looks away from the sunset. He walks to his bed and lies down, closing his old eyes for the last time. His burden is lifted, and he goes to his well-deserved final sleep, taking with him Ellis’s last words. “Zeshara… I did not kill my father.” The Regency held for many years and the Regents preserved Valana for as long and well as they could. But the waves of time slowly eroded the Kingdom until it was a mere shadow of its former self, no longer men of the High House, but merely men with a memory of higher things. Finally, the line of Regents ended. All that was left to safeguard the kingdom was the Saphron paladinate, which had so far outlasted time. But even they would fall in time, for time is a cruel master.
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I haven't been as active here as I would have liked, but I do try and take time to read through the posts.
On April 17 2012 16:03 spangled wrote:Yo `dunedain + Show Spoiler + I read it three times, it was interesting reading your characters thought process, as things got grim. He seemed to get more honest about himself and accepted his fate with no regrets. So I raise a yellow cocktail in his name, may he r.i.p. and cheers to you!
Salud!
I read your story as well. Will send you a PM with some thoughts and clarifications.
On April 17 2012 16:45 mister.bubbles wrote: Hey! `dunedain! I liked you story, it had some cute and clever moments, particularly the one about not wanting raisins in your last meal. If I were to give you a pointer I would say to look out for having too many of the same word too close together. Having two of the word "choice" in adjacent sentences was what leaped out at me the most.
I thought I'd bounce an idea off of you guys while I was at it, I write mostly poetry but I am trying to start on an adventure story. Have you guys got any good techniques for writing characters that are outside of your gender? I am a man trying to write a female lead and I haven't really taken a stab at it before. The male character was supposed to be the lead but I didn't like him as much and he is working his way into a support role. What has been your experience? Indeed, that tends to be one of my weaknesses when burst writing. I lazily get into the habit of being very light on my editing. Usually though, when writing my novel, I make sure to keep thesaurus.reference.com always open.
In response to your question about writing a character of the opposite gender, there are a couple ways I like to do it. But before I explain, let me preface it by saying that I believe all the characters that we create are a part of ourselves. They are us, in different forms. Sometimes even to the extremes. With that being said, the way I like to write female characters is by using my understanding of them. I am an observer at heart, and I've come across a lot of women throughout my life. From family members to friends, I've come to know them and who they are. Indeed it may be hard to write deep thoughts that one goes through, especially if you're not of the same sex and don't have similar experiences, but it is entirely possible. Just do it to the best of your abilities.
As for using real people that you know. I've tinkered around with situations like that before but realized that it becomes increasingly difficult as the storyline (and more importantly, the character) evolves and wants to divert itself from the person your basing the character on. If that makes any sense. After awhile they take on a life of their own. Although that's not to say that I don't liberally 'borrow' strong traits from the women around me. They can have a powerful presence within the character, but don't necessarily need to be the character, per se. Seeing the character as a facet of yourself, even though they are of the opposite gender, can also be quite beneficial.
If none of these tactics help, and you still don't know what your main character is like/don't know how to write her. You can write it so it seems that even your heroine is unsure of who she really is, and this leads her down a road of self-discovery.
Mess around with it, do what you feel to be natural. Keep writing!
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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.
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On April 22 2012 09:02 Dark_Chill wrote: Also, dunedain, don't worry about having your character who is based off of someone sort become less and less like that person. That's just what it is. A base. Where you take it after that is completely up to you and most likely won't hurt the character in any way.
Actually, this is exactly what I am going for. I try not to make them too similar to the real people I know, instead I just use some of their traits as a base, just like you mentioned.
To me, these base traits are enough of a model to help breathe some life into the character, inevitably allowing them to come alive and dictate their story to me. For that is all I really am, just a storyteller at heart. Regaling in the marvelous stories that my characters whisper out to me, telling it for their benefit, not mine. For their stories need to be heard.
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This is an exerpt from a novel I'm working on. Here's a little background, so you can unerstand where it picks up.
It is about an 18 year boy who is at his longtime girlfriends house. He leaves to walk home, gets about half way there, and hears a bunch of gunshots. He runs back, raids his girlfriend's father's gun-safe in the barn, and engages the killer. He shoots him, but the guy gets away. This scene picks up with him inspecting his dead girifriend. Her parents have also been killed.
My biggest inspirations were In Cold Blood and No Country For Old Men. I love the concept of warriors, especially when they engage in epic, one on one duels.
It is mainly about: love, death, God, grief, psychopaths and serial-murderers.
Enjoy! (hopefully) Let me know what you like/don't like; what sentences seem awkward. I know my punctuation isn't perfect. I try not to let it deter me from trying to form compound sentences. Thanks guys!
+ Show Spoiler +Bobby sat motionless on the floor clutching the shotgun, the four unspent shells still haunting his thoughts. He hadn't moved, had been sitting in the exact same position for almost thirty minutes; sitting in the blood of his one true love, feeling it slowly work through his thick blue jeans. To him it finally felt real, and he was thankful for that. Yes, she is gone. Can you feel it soaking in? He almost welcomed it, in some strange way was reassured by it, felt comfortable in it, for Evelyn’s warm embrace had always been his favorite place to hide.
His mind wandered now, as if robbed of its sight, of every sense that gave it some bearing in this world. Was this a dream, a nightmare? Could he wake from it?
But he knew that he could not, knew just what this was—a waking nightmare—the real life kind; the kind that breaks people, really breaks them, as fully as the human spirit can be broken.
Really, all of this was immaterial. All that mattered now was his lifeless, future bride. For he couldn't bear to look at her, hadn't even glanced in that direction since she first caught his eye. Compared to this, fighting Winston had been simple, a total non-issue; he could have killed him just as easily now as then, without empathy—in spite of it, in fact. Killing him wasn't one of many choices; it was the only good and moral answer.
Slowly Bobby's mind wandered to God, not that they had ever been very close, though he had believed, for most of his life, that they had shared a mutual respect for one another.
But where had God been on this night? Had he slept in? He hadn't saved Evelyn, hadn't steadied Bobby's aim, hadn’t protected Elizabeth and Robert, and hadn’t even tried. Bobby wanted an accounting, an explanation—no, a reaping—that he knew would never come. Could this God not extend him such a courtesy? Or perhaps worse still, did he think it unnecessary? Or was he incapable? All of these explanations seemed inadequate to Bobby. For the first time in his life he thought, I want no part of this God.
Ironically, it was this very same thought, this notion of utter detachment from the human race, that had created the very monster Bobby now so vehemently rebuked; for Winton Walcott’s very psyche had been forged from equal parts nihilism and existentialism—a potent blend that had grown and fused and morphed him into an exceptionally power-hungry, egomaniacal murder machine.
Bobby tilted his head slowly to one side and tried to coax his eyes in Evelyn's direction. It would be the hardest moment Bobby had ever experienced, and these moments seemed to be coming like a torrential downpour now, one after another after another; the run here, the gun fight, they had all been easy and painless compared to this.
He would remember this moment always, play it back in his head in super-slow motion during those particularly lonely nights, his first true accounting of the injustices that make up this twisted world. He stood up slowly, leaned the shotgun against the wall, then retrieved the pistol from his waist band and placed in on Evelyn's bed. He slumped down onto Evelyn’s bed, totally defeated—physically, emotionally. He concentrated on his breathing, gasped nervously, thought of his lungs blowing up like a balloon and then deflating again, wishing so badly he could say the same for Evelyn’s. "You have got to do this," he said, barely audible; such a quiet whisper to no one in particular.
He stood up, made his way to the bathroom, retrieved a bottle of rubbing alcohol, a first aid kit and several towels, and then made his way back down the hall, coming to rest on Evelyn's floor just a few feet away from her delicate silhouette. She was illuminated now only by moonlight and a thick, gleaming, sanguine sheen.
After several moments he swallowed hard, fought back the whaling tears in his eyes, and began to inch closer to her in the tiniest increments possible. Eventually he brought his eyes to rest on her beautiful, if slightly off color, face for the first time. Suddenly his stomach turned, lurched, for what had only been mental images, up to this point, were presented now in great detail, and right before his very eyes, painted out in the vibrant colors of reality: It was Evelyn, splayed out like some lab specimen, those vacant but still beautiful eyes staring blankly back at him; her body had fallen in such an unnatural, contorted way; worse still, her mouth, that delicate little thing that offered up only the most tender kisses, and only to Bobby, was cut so deep and so profusely—so mind-numbingly painful that slash must have been—it bisected her cheek from the corner of her mouth to her ear. No, he hadn't noticed that before—or the one to match it, across the other side.
These new revelations materialized as white hot pangs of physical pain he had only in the past hour discovered could be brought on by thought and image alone. He was at once struck by how much these manifestations felt so much like the real thing. He thought of the time he had broken his arm, really broken it, more severely than he ever thought he would.
That was nice. Compared to this, that was the best day of my life.
Finally, after edging so slowly for so long, Bobby was positioned in such a way that he could lift Evelyn’s head delicately into his lap, and he did. He was shocked at once by how heavy it seemed, how lifeless. It was a strange feeling, to say the very least, to tug at a human body that gave no real resistance—an even stranger one when the body belonged to someone you had loved with everything, every part of yourself.
In a sense, you place your body on a sacrificial table the moment you start loving anyone; you are hedging your bets in favor of that persons continued survival and the mutual benefits that come along with it; in fact, you are wagering your very sanity against it, sure that the risk of their untimely death is small in comparison to the lifetime of happiness the relationship is certain to bring you. And while most people win these bets, or at least win them in a way, not everyone is so lucky; for Bobby had climbed atop that very same table, rolled the dice, and they had come up snake-eyes. And so it was decided in an instant that his heart would be ripped still beating from his chest. He had played the odds and lost, and in a way, didn’t even know what he was wagering to begin with. It might as well have been his very soul.
He got his first good look at her now, stared longingly into her piercing brown eyes; eyes he had on so many occasioned admired passionately, envied even. But here there was no envy, no passion; there was only loss, a gaping hole ripped right through him and in an instant, only he had no real wounds to show for it.
Suddenly, he understood how someone could cut their own throat, put a gun to their head even, could want so badly to shrug off this mortal blanket and get on with it. Innocence was lost just as quickly as the car keys. Here was someone that had experience not a twinge of depression his whole life coming to terms with suicide in a span of no more than forty-five minutes; understanding it for the very first time, and in an instant, because of Winston Walcott.
They do it because they so badly crave a wound on the outside to match the one within.
[next chapter]
What would you have me do my love? Do I have your permission to hunt this monster down? I know you would so prefer me to turn the other cheek. But you have passed on, and my accountability to you is now only a figment of my imagination. I cannot know your wants any longer. Would you permit me to let him make off with your life, with your parents’ lives, even? Or would you prefer me to plot his grave just next to yours?
To be honest with you, love, I want to gut him like the so many deer I’ve slaughtered. How I would so enjoy that. I want to carve him up—not to eat the meat, but to desecrate it in a way. I would do it slow and steady, as best I could. Yes, I would show him more consideration than he showed you; I would squeeze the blood right out of that monster like a dirty fucking soap sponge. I think I could collect a lot more pain from him than he ever did from you. I’d string him up by his heels and slowly bleed him dry. I would hurt him in the best way you can hurt a person.
But what would you think of me then? Would you condone or condemn me? I can say now I am only confused, unsure of which direction to take. Do I burry you, burry my heart right here in the ground, and get on with it? I feel like I cannot. I feel like there is only the chase now. My only defense is that I no longer have your compass to guide me, no longer have a whole-heart beating in my chest; I am inadequate, incomplete, and I fear it will turn me rotten inside. I’m so sorry, my love, but I think now there is only the chase.
Suddenly, a peace washed over Bobby, a peace that both seared and encouraged him. For he now so singularly longed to steal a human life, understood at once the addiction, saw how it replaced the sadness with anticipation. Over the coming months this vengeance would be shoveled into his hollow heart like coal into a furnace, it would grow and swallow everything; he would break away from this tragedy in the best way he knew how, by smelting his emotions down and refining them like diamonds.
In truth, these feelings were as hollow as his heart, for he knew killing Winston in the worst way possible would in no way bring Evelyn back—the equation could be balanced but never solved.
His thoughts were suddenly consumed by this precious child that lay inert at his feet, this fallen angel, heaped now like some lifeless animal, a victim of random happenstance, probability and nothing more.
Perhaps this wouldn’t have been so striking had Evelyn not always seemed so alive to Bobby, had exuded what he imagined to be an almost intangible happiness. Evelyn was so genuine, so nurturing, so concerned and empathetic. But here there was only a ghastly, hollow shell, a cocoon in which Evelyn had once lived—but no longer.
He knelt down, reached slowly toward her face, then pulled away violently, recoiled as if stuck by some invisible electric fence. The lines in his face grew taught and well defined. Slowly he worked up his nerve again, began to reach further this time, until the tips of his fingers caressed her cold skin. Panic stricken, he reached the other hand toward her instinctively, pulled her close as if he might never again, then ran his hands over her beautiful face, caressed each groove and dimple he had grown to know so well.
Where are you my love? Are you in there? I don’t believe in my heart that you are. Then where? Where has he taken you? If you had asked me this morning, I would have said to heaven. But this heaven just watched a mad man butcher you alive. Do you suggest I side with it? If I am blamed for my inaction, so too is this heaven. And so, if you are not here my love, where are you? Could you send me something, anything, to help me through this? If God has been stolen away tonight, so too has the promise of your prolonged existence, and this idea sows rotten seeds inside my heart.
If God will not rid this world of a multiple-murderer, I will do it myself. There is nothing left to do but end him, really end him, to watch his eyes roll back the way he watched yours. I want to feel his warm blood rushing between my fingers; I want to feel it again later when it is hard and acrylic like paint; I want to see the fear in his eyes when I run him through; I want to watch him squirm the way he watched you squirm, with total indifference.
But Bobby was jostled from this dialogue as it began to spiral toward psychopathy—and it rattled him to his very core. If Bobby was capable of such things, such evil things, who else might be turned towards such brutality? And what would Evelyn think of it? He kept trying to remind himself of that. Evelyn wouldn’t stand for him acting this way for a second, and here he was, saying it directly to her, as if she might approve of it in a way.
He shook his head, grit his teeth. Answers to questions like these do not come over night—sometimes not over months or even years. These are the hard hitting questions, the ones you hope you never have to answer. It is easy to hate the death penalty from the sidelines, but the rules look so much different from the game; for Bobby had seen that monster standing over her, had stared him right in the eyes, had tried to throw the switch himself.
Finally Bobby stood, picked Evelyn up, clutched her tight against his chest like a newborn baby, and began to walk towards the stairs. Eventually, he noticed the final thing Winston Walcott had stolen on this night. She was lighter, he was more sure of that now than ever; less for scientific reasons—though they surely existed—and more because he had picked her up perhaps more than any of other human being he had ever known. She was lighter and, thanks to Biology, he knew by exactly how much.
About eight pints, eight pounds; He bled my baby dry like a squealing little piggy.
It was a favor Bobby Ruck vowed, at that very moment, to return to Winston Walcott in full and kind.
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This is a (surrealist) cliffhanger I wrote:
+ Show Spoiler + She turned around to see the cloud pouring from the chamber. The smoke filled her father’s Hall and obscured the way out. Out of smoke emerged the sharp and sudden heat of flame and the shadow that bore it. It crawled from the chamber and stood to equal height with the man holding up the sky. Wherever smoke fell it extinguished the Hall’s fountainous joy with a dying hiss of putrescence. The shadow loomed over her with arms and legs spread out to all corners of the Hall. Though material, the beast was grown from translucent flesh, a multitudinous hybrid of consumed organs and chambers amassed from the prey of humanity. From its firey heart flowed black blood, infusing its spidering limbs through a web of black arteries. The breadth of its jaw opened, revealing rows of teeth around the brink of the abyss. In the beast’s twilit eyes shone a perfect hatred and an infernal hunger. She closed her eyes and screamed.
Feedback requested: Is it suspenseful or ridiculous? Does it read descriptively or cliche?
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On April 23 2012 03:37 mmp wrote:This is a (surrealist) cliffhanger I wrote: + Show Spoiler + She turned around to see the cloud pouring from the chamber. The smoke filled her father’s Hall and obscured the way out. Out of smoke emerged the sharp and sudden heat of flame and the shadow that bore it. It crawled from the chamber and stood to equal height with the man holding up the sky. Wherever smoke fell it extinguished the Hall’s fountainous joy with a dying hiss of putrescence. The shadow loomed over her with arms and legs spread out to all corners of the Hall. Though material, the beast was grown from translucent flesh, a multitudinous hybrid of consumed organs and chambers amassed from the prey of humanity. From its firey heart flowed black blood, infusing its spidering limbs through a web of black arteries. The breadth of its jaw opened, revealing rows of teeth around the brink of the abyss. In the beast’s twilit eyes shone a perfect hatred and an infernal hunger. She closed her eyes and screamed.
Feedback requested: Is it suspenseful or ridiculous? Does it read descriptively or cliche?
I think it's done pretty well, knowing how hard it is to make non-visual media scary. I'd take out the fiery heart part though, that does seem to be a bit over, but other than that, I think it's good. The last part might be better if she tried to back away and screamed, or sunk to her knees and screamed. Or even was too horrified to scream at all. "She tried to scream, but her voice eluded her. Her very breath had been lost in fear."
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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.
I’m late. I need to be at work for seven-thirty, no earlier, no later. As I slip out of my robe and come full circle to the shower head, I see it… We written on the wall in the shower stall; clear as day but clouded through the condensation. I look at another one of my many clocks, perched atop of the counter beside my sink, then look back and it’s gone. Am I going crazy?
“Seven O’Clock… Damn it” I mumble. My beard, usually trimmed neatly, must be left alone, no time to shave. I grab a simple tie—black—and a simple white dress shirt—white—so I would be out quickly, four more steps until I pass my clock, almost out the door, and almost back home to repeat the process for the rest of my life.
“Anderson, you have a message on your private terminal, it is requested you take it immediately, I have instructed the caller you may not be able to take the call because you have left for work, but you may be inclined to have forgotten your key’s if you wish to take the call.” The voice of stability, Nova, said over my com uplink.
“It’s alright, I believe I did forget my key’s, set up my com terminal please. Thank you Nova.” I hastily replied. My eyes turn left, it’s seven-ten.
I walk back into my room, the hologram on my wall separates into four icons, “Message’s Please”.
“Already being set up Anderson” after a short pause Nova continued “Sir, something you should know, the message is encrypted heavily, the conclusion I am drawing from theories running through my processes is that they must know that I am here.”
“Alright, patch it through please.”
“Hello, I am with NVA, and We are interested in your work. After this message, you are to upload Nova, your AI interface, to your portable systems manager, leave everything you own behind and go outside onto docking bay 2-12B. If you agree, We would like to meet with you, if not you can simply go back to your… life.” The com went silent.
How he said it, how it was worded… I stare at my watch, seven-twenty two, I’m late. Life, the tone he used, facetious in manner and taunting in nature, seduction being his way into my head, and who is he referring to?
I take a last look at the terminal, command it to close down and turn to Nova, “It’s time to link, we’re going.”
“May I just warn you that this is in the unknown, I can’t predict the outcome of the event, the parameters are giving me... “ Nova’s words begin to become faded in my head, something is different.
“So I recommend to…”
“Anderson? Ander—“ Darkness
The feedback I'm looking for is does it feel right, I have no specific area I'm looking to move into, just letting the story flow as I feel it should. Do you enjoy it?
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Ahoy my good sir NeMeSiS3,
Thx for sharing, your story invoked feelings of Minority Report and the Matrix, and I enjoyed the way you wrote your characters inner dialogue and how everything in this world revolves around a set schedule of time.
I was curious about a couple of things...
+ Show Spoiler +
but without the undertone of fiction usually laying beneath the subsequent level of V.I. tech.
Not sure what the character is alluding too, my mind thought about the VI tech massacre that left 32 dead, but I don't think that's what your trying to convey.
Unplugging from the Nova and being greeted by darkness, was a good way to end the story b/c we can't see things when we veer off our normal path.
Here's one minor spelling error.
but I was to docile to recall the new tone.
too
In conclusion the story does feels right cause in the end he got back control even though his life has now faded into the uncertainty of darkness.
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The line was trying to show how the voice was of an vi but sounded real, like out of Place but thank u for the reply, Im actually aiming to make it a novel
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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.
Tell the teacher of memoirs of a geisha, I think the writer accurately depicts women
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TL really is on of the greatest places on the internet hah. Today I have to write a Science Fiction piece for my history of science elective. It's gotta be 6-8 pages, which I guess isn't too terrible for a creative assignment. The only problem for me is that I haven't tried to write fiction since..like..early high school English.
So that being said I'm really proud of TL for being so awesome that it even has an entire topic devoted to the art of fiction writing. I'm gonna read a few of yalls examples in addition to the linked resources on writing tips & guidelines. For me it seems like the toughest part is conveying interesting dialogue that doesn't feel fake/forced. I feel like it's really hard to develop the "flavor" of characters with only a limited amount of space given the short story format (~6-8pg).
Does anyone know of any juicy "Sci-Fi"-esque short stories I might find useful for inspiration? I know publications like The New Yorker frequently feature short fiction pieces, some of which are probably Sci-Fi. Any other ideas on where to find examples of short story Sci-Fi? thx in advance if anyone happens to be an SF fan
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Might share a few short stories I wrote here some day.
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On April 27 2012 22:22 FallDownMarigold wrote: TL really is on of the greatest places on the internet hah. Today I have to write a Science Fiction piece for my history of science elective. It's gotta be 6-8 pages, which I guess isn't too terrible for a creative assignment. The only problem for me is that I haven't tried to write fiction since..like..early high school English.
So that being said I'm really proud of TL for being so awesome that it even has an entire topic devoted to the art of fiction writing. I'm gonna read a few of yalls examples in addition to the linked resources on writing tips & guidelines. For me it seems like the toughest part is conveying interesting dialogue that doesn't feel fake/forced. I feel like it's really hard to develop the "flavor" of characters with only a limited amount of space given the short story format (~6-8pg).
Does anyone know of any juicy "Sci-Fi"-esque short stories I might find useful for inspiration? I know publications like The New Yorker frequently feature short fiction pieces, some of which are probably Sci-Fi. Any other ideas on where to find examples of short story Sci-Fi? thx in advance if anyone happens to be an SF fan
Look up Strange Horizons, Clarkesworld and Lightspeed. I think they're publishing some of the best SF* (and short SF) right now. All available online for free. Beyond that, there's some great work going on in anthologies at the moment. Then there are your long-running print markets like F&SF, Asimovs and Interzone, which, depending on where you are, can be difficult to get hold of. If you're stuck for ideas, look up some of the award shortlists that are floating around, such as the Nebulas or the Hugos, and see if any of the titles there are available online. If you're really stuck, let me know, and I can pull out some specific recs, but they may or may not be in the style that you like. I suspect that you'll find that a lot of SF short stories are not what you expect of the genre.
*By SF, I actually mean speculative fiction, which is basically the counterpart to realist fiction, and encompasses science fiction, fantasy, horror and all the weird little subgenres in between (including Weird fiction), and is a useful term to describe pieces that don't fit well into just one non-realist genre. So you'll find pieces that are fantasy and horror in these publications as well, but use your judgement, obviously, if you're strictly looking for science fiction. Might be worth remembering that dystopia is technically a kind of science fiction, and also that there is a lot of good YA that would fall under the category science fiction as well.
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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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Hey guys, I realized I posted in this thread and then neglected to keep up with it. Been working on a new novel, it's an idea/world that's been brewing for a year now. How do you guys generally feel about Zombies/Genre mixing?
Here's the intro bit of it: + Show Spoiler +Rain drops flowed into the intricate carvings of my mask; water spattered out of the open lip with every breath. I looked upwards to the grey sky. The rust dyed walls of the fortress surrounded me. The long handle felt slick, drops sliding and dripping off the hammerhead. The ravenous pounding of the doors in front of me matched my heartbeat. The dull thuds of flesh against metal and wood. I felt the pressure of the uneven courtyard cobblestones on my feet.
“Release them.”
The doors swung violently open as the locks were released. They came charging. Three of them, rotting, enraged. The blood-soaked robes felt heavy, sticking to my flesh. I inhaled the cold air deep into my lungs. I swung; the hammer whistling through the air; the weighted strands of chain-mail twisted outwards from my robes and clinked together.
No fear. No emotion.
The war hammer met the head of the first with a hollow sound; he fell, jaw still snapping. I swung back upwards, catching the second with the spike atop the hammerhead. The spike lodged itself into the head and refused to release. The limp head twisted as I jerked to defend myself with the shaft. The third still snapping, snarling, as it came barreling towards me.
The body weighed down the hammer. I blocked the attacker by jamming the side of the handle into the open jaw, the force of the charge sent shocks through my arms. It chewed on the wood while trying to viciously claw at my flesh. No fear. No fear. The pressure on the handle caused my gauntlet to bite into my hand.
The guards drew closer, the click-clack of their boots on the stone floor.
“Stop, this is mine!”
I tried to unhinge the spike from the head. The sound of twisting rotting flesh, gristly meat. The creature groped in the air in front of it; the force of its pursuit made for an uneasy footing. The handle started to give under the pressure of added weight and crushing jaw; snapping with a sudden violent crack. I began to fall backwards, the dead coming with me.
I released the broken half with the hammerhead; driving my newly freed hand into the face of the attacker. The body hit the floor with the hammerhead. The metallic clank drowned out the sound of bone and flesh.
We hit the ground. My vision shook. Unclear blurs. I felt its teeth gnashing against the metal of my gauntlet. Deep panicked breaths. No fear. Water spat out of my mask and back down upon me. Its soulless eyes looked down at me. I gripped the broken shaft tightly and drove into the side of its head. Its arms flailed and twitched before it finally fell limp.
Tossing the corpse from atop of me, I stood up. The broken bodies of the dead at my feet, black sludge oozing from their wounds. The rain washed the blood from my robes; red water draining in a circle around me.
Also in a semi-related note, the novel I had previously written is now free on Amazon for this weekend :D http://www.amazon.com/The-Last-Three-ebook/dp/B005XUHUFA/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1339141620&sr=1-1
And for those without a Kindle, there's a Kindle app for PC/Mac/ipods (iphones/ipads included)
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Totally a necro but...
November is coming up, and that means Nanowrimo (national novel writing month). The idea is to write a novel (or some story) of 50K words during November. I've already gotten a story pretty much all planned out-- we;ll see if I can just get the writing itself done.
Here's the website: http://www.nanowrimo.org/
I've been doing it for four years or so, though I missed the goal last year. Any other people do it/ interested in doing so?
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Yeah, I've been doing NaNo on and off since about .. 2003? (I feel old.) It can be useful as a process, but it certainly has its failings as well. The main benefit, though, would definitely to be to meet other writers in your area.
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I decided to write a story to leave here:
Once, there was this guy named Sam who wanted to open his own shoe store. He told his friends about his plan, which was very naive and ill-conceived, so they thought it was a joke. So Sam flipped out and stormed out of the restaurant without paying for his lobster linguine. The restaurant had a homeless wizard who was also a bouncer who ran outside and tackled Sam and Sam broke his arm on the pavement. Sam rolled over and groaned in pain. His arm was broken. The homeless wizard rolled over and groaned in pain. His arm was also broken. Just then, The Rapture happened, and Jesus came back and he said unto them, "I am the one who was sent by my Father to separate the sheep from the goats." and Sam replied by yelling "Get me to the hospital!"
Sam's friends ran outside and they were all drunk off wine coolers and none of them could drive and they were muttering "Oh shit, Sam was our designated driver... we really messed up." and then they saw Jesus standing there, clothed in light and standing on a cloud that flashed lightning. One of Sam's friends yelled "I'm sorry Jesus, but we're all drunk because we drank too many apple martinis and wine coolers and have been rendered hopelessly inebriated and can no longer drive, so Jesus, take the wheel." then they tossed Jesus the keys. Jesus caught the keys and replied "Why do you drink so you cannot drive?" and they were all like "Personally, we blame our parents and peer pressure for getting us into alcoholism, but that's moot now, because Sam has a broken arm and we need to get him to the hospital."
So Jesus opened the door and lifted Sam into the vehicle carefully. Sam moaned in pain and said "Thanks, Jesus. I know you're busy with The Rapture and everything, so it means a lot to me that you are taking time out of your schedule to get me to the hospital." Jesus just looked at Sam and said "I only do what my Father has commanded to do." and then put the keys in the ignition and put the pedal to the metal.
They arrived at the hospital at 4:39 p.m., and the waiting room was packed. There were people sitting around bleeding and with broken bones. Jesus and Sam sat down and waited for Sam's name to be called. Sam turned to some guy sitting next to him and said "My arm is broken, I can't believe I have to wait 20 minutes for medical care, this is outrageous."
The guy sitting next to Sam turned to him and coughed up some black liquid. "I've been waiting here for over an hour." He replied.
"What is that black shit? Are you okay?" Sam asked.
"My internal organs are disintegrating and turning into liquid, and my bones are also turning into liquid, and I've lost 30% of my blood this morning through my anus."
"You know, that really sucks. It makes me really mad that politicians in Washington won't fix this healthcare situation."
Then the guy slumped over and died on the spot. A janitor walked up with a mop and a bucket, and then picked up the body with the mop and put it into the bucket. Sam was outraged and yelled "What the hell? You don't just dump a body in a bucket! That is a human being who deserves dignity, even in death!"
The janitor just looked at Sam and said "Shut up, you fucking shit fucking fucker motherfucking goddamn shit-eating cock-sucking incestuous nazi-supporting faggot-ass fuckfaced pigfucker asshole rimjob nigger bitch cunt piss-drinking son-of-a-bitch cockface homosexual cum-dumpster sub-human trash cat molesting crack-smoking dick-gobbling cunt fucking fucker fuck, fuck you, go get raped you motherfucking piece of worthless garbage who should've been aborted you fucking fecal-eating faggot nigger fuck you go commit suicide you cunt pig-humping asshole dickhole cum-slurping shit-licking bitch-ass crusty-dildo-sucker fucker, fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you, go get raped in the skull, you piece of shit fucking bitch."
Sam listened to the tirade, which went on for several minutes and then abruptly ended. Sam replied "Look, I understand you're probably frustrated at the moment, but not only do I think your words are unwarranted, but highly inaccurate, as well. You have claimed many times that I engage in homosexual acts, which I do not. I would like to also let you know that I am not affiliated with nazism, nor have I copulated with animals. I have never attempted to consume fecal matter, and I am not an African-American, and I do not condone the use of the 'N-word', which you have used several times, much to the detriment of your argument, as I find this to be an unfounded ad hominem attack. Furthermore, I have much worth as a sentient, conscious, living being, and although I do not overestimate my worth in comparison to the cosmic scale, I believe that we as human beings should value each other, and you have indicated that you might not be entirely predisposed to assign value to your fellow man."
The janitor just smiled and replied "Haha, I was just kidding around. I know a lot of people here are going through tough times, so I feel that a little humor helps."
"Well," Sam retorted, "That wasn't exactly that funny. In fact, I would say it was deeply offensive on many levels and was devoid of any semblance of humorous content."
"It's kind of 'shock humor', where it's so over-the-top that it becomes funny."
"No... no it's not funny at all. A man just died in front of me while I have a broken arm and Jesus had to drive me to the ER because all my friends are drunk after they laughed at my dream to start my own shoe store and you go off cussing me out and saying you hope I die with no indication that you're kidding at all, and I just find that to be really distasteful."
The janitor thought about it and decided Sam was right. "I have considered your argument, have come to the logical conclusion that I was wrong, and therefore, I will exile myself to Papua New Guinea for the rest of my life, never to leave."
"No dude," Sam said, "You don't have to punish yourself. Just... don't do that anymore. It's not cool."
"Should I kill myself?"
"NO!"
"What should my punishment be? Do you want to beat me with a whip?"
"NO! What is wrong with you!? You don't need to be punished. I'm just asking nicely that you don't ever just cuss someone out again."
"Well, what should I do then? I just want to make people smile."
"You are a janitor. Your job isn't to make people smile, and besides, when we're suffering from sickness and injuries, we really aren't in the mood for jokes anyhow."
Then the janitor leaned in really close and whispered into Sam's ear and said "I'm going to have sex with you later."
The end.
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Holy shit nina, I didn't check who the author was when I read your short story. At first I was like "WTF this story is fucking messed up". Then I saw it was you who wrote it, and I thought "Ah its ninazerg. Bravo!"
On another note, M4nkind I don't think promoting your content is appropriate for this thread. The original post clearly states this is for feedback.
I did check out those links though, but did not read all of it. What I did read was well written. I can see you spent a lot of time on it.
Thanks for sharing M4nkind.
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