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Abundant Atrophy posted:“Now approaching,” The conductor said over the intercom. He paused and a different, deeper voice finished, “Frostivale, station 55.” It feels like generic fantasy without anything particularly interesting. The characters are pretty bland, with the protagonist's defining trait being literally quiet and boring and the other character being the cliche talkative dude that not-so-subtly gives exposition to the reader. The biggest problem is that, well, nothing loving happens. They start with talking and then they end with talking. What happened? Why should I care? This feels like an introductory scene to a big fantasy novel but this is the whole story. There's just so little that happens in this story. The worst part is that for a story so short, so much of it is spent on details that don't really matter. Nobody cares if the dude is eating fish or if birds are migratory or not. Readers want to see things happen, so make things happen in your story. I really hate the formatting, double line breaks just make the story look better and easier to read, so i adjusted it myself because gently caress the rules. I made a few suggestions with grammar and stuff, though I'm not an expert and may be wrong in some of them so  . There's also a good amount of telling. You give us details on things that aren't important, but then you just tell us things rather then using those details to characterize or advance the plot. Kinda weird.
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May 9, 2015 22:59
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Broenheim posted:It feels like generic fantasy without anything particularly interesting. The characters are pretty bland, with the protagonist's defining trait being literally quiet and boring and the other character being the cliche talkative dude that not-so-subtly gives exposition to the reader.  Thank you for reading. I appreciate the suggestions you made, I was going to say about the almost whispering, was that you hear 'speaking above a whisper' as a phrase, but realized that still doesn't mean too much. Also, you're right on the grammar, I feel like I've been lied to early on with regards to the capitalization. I honestly don't have anything else to say, you're right on pretty much all accounts; the above is greatly helpful.
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May 9, 2015 23:46
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Let me offer you a second pair of eyes! In general the advice for a draft is to cut words wherever possible, so i'll focus on suggestions for that.Abundant Atrophy posted:“Now approaching,” The conductor said over the intercom. He paused and a different, deeper voice finished, “Frostivale, station 55.” Too many words for such a mundane detail, you could cut it and not lose anything. quote:For those in the dining car it was a last call on orders both alcohol and food. How about "That meant last call for orders in the dining car" quote:The stout man across from Pars took a sip of red wine from his glass, “Ah, almost there; are ye excite?” "Pars' coach took a sip..." "responding to the stout man in..." This construction explains his identity first, it's not a mystery and gives a clearer first impression than a physical description. quote:The man nodded. His green vest complimented the red cushioned booth. Her prior winnings had paid for winter-wear for both he and she, and he wore the goose-down coat wrapped around his shoulders. “Well ye could stand to look it.” He went back to his dinner of fish and potatoes, “bah, I don’t know what’s colder, out there,” he motioned with his fork, “this food, or your attitude.” I recommend omitting background details like this if they don't evoke a strong image or relate to something else. If the coach was a fashionista or they were eating an unusual regional specialty, it might be worth pointing out. Otherwise let the reader do the work of imagining. quote:Pars took no offense and let her mind wander back to the passing scenery. Snow covered pines passed in an evergreen blur with the purple mountain range as a backdrop. I like this description better because she's actively looking out the window and it gives important information about where we are. I don't care that the cushion is red, but this is a nice image that situates things. quote:Regrettably, she didn't know the name of the mountains. The skies were a stark blue and through spots in the moving tree line she spotted a flock of birds. They were specks against the blue flying toward station 55. Were they migratory? Were they coming home or fleeing worse weather elsewhere. Pars found it fascinating any animal could scrape a living up here in Snow Country. It was tundra for half the year and only a few months would there be any tourism. Pars wrapped her new scarf tighter around her neck to prevent a shiver. She’d be glad to get this tournament over with and be back below the border. Regrettably for who? "She wished she knew the mountain's name" would be active and tell us a tiny bit about Pars' character. quote:“Excuse me?” Since they left the smoggy urban cities of New Prolix, Pars’ mind ran through the rules and strategies she’d seen at the Frozen Blade Arena. While they were old memories, she knew none of which involved being on ice or clobbering. I don't understand the bolded sentence. Also New Prolix is not a good-sounding name IMO, a good rule of thumb for fantasy names is to say it out loud and see if it comes off your tongue naturally. quote:Dale studied her face; he abruptly leaned in close, almost whispering with the bitter wine on his breath, “you’re competing in the Ice Maul Arena, the no-holds-barred, all-for-one fight on a frozen lake.” The image of the coach that's emerging naturally from your descriptions throughout the passage is that he's an aggressive jerk who's using Pars as his meal ticket, and she doesn't feel comfortable around him. If this isn't your intention, revise the words you're using for their descriptions and interactions to be more of a genial, lovable oaf than a guy with "bitter wine on his breath" (which would be a very evocative description for someone Pars dislikes) who's wearing the fine clothes he bought with her winnings. quote:Pars sat back in her seat thinking how this arena would go. How many people is all-for-one? No-holds-barred on a frozen lake sounded like a death sentence. Chillingly, that was likely the point. I understand from watching Pokemon and your references to Arena Names with special rules what Pars is involved in generally, but I don't know what's actually going on in these arenas. Is it like, battle fencing? If it's fencing, you should make that clearer after the "Fencing isn't gonna draw a crowd" line. If it's not fencing, I don't know what these rules apply to and i'm lost. Is "Chillingly" a pun? This sentence isn't really working either way, how about "Or was that the idea?" "Even with the Venom..." sentence doesn't make sense. I think you mean more like "Even the Venom Fang Arena uses a 'non-lethal paralyzing agent', as they put it." quote:“No need to shout.” Dale said, not looking her in the eyes. “So far there have been five deaths: two hypothermia, two drowning, and one to a fight in the audience.” You can just say like "Dale quickly added," it's already clear that he's trying to justify it. quote:She was in disbelief. She buried her face in her hands, “Why is this place still open?” This could be cut to Pars just saying once "How is this death trap still open?!" The "what was that?" exchange doesn't add anything. --- My overall impression of the passage is that you're setting up a world with a negative tone where things are in decline. Apart from your descriptions of the coach as mentioned, i'm getting this from phrases like "glad to get this tournament over with", "smoggy urban cities", "bitter wine on his breath" (protip: there's never anything good "on someone's breath"), "people want more blood sports" because "fencing ain't gonna draw a crowd like it used to sweetie", and generally how Dale very casually talks about death and poisoning and blood sports that Pars is uncomfortable with. I'm getting "Pars doesn't really want to be involved in all this", not "Oh man, what shenanigans has ol' Dale gotten her into this time??" With that mood in mind, that whole early paragraph about weather and Pars wondering about migratory birds is the strongest section of the piece, suggesting a character who vaguely wants to escape her situation but doesn't see a way how- it's a very good little "show" of her inner thoughts that lets the reader draw their own conclusions, nice job! I'm telling you all that so you can compare it to the impression you wanted to create and see if the reader is getting what you want out of your writing. The piece as you've structured it doesn't work as a story in its own right, as there's clearly more to say, but it would be a decent chapter opener or the very first chunk of a short story about the events in Frostivale. Like, from the first line the entire scene is anticipating "Then the train came to a halt and they stepped off into Frostivale." If you were intending for this to be a brief little story in its own right, just a little glimpse into this world, you would want a stronger beat at the very end. Maybe Pars stands up and runs off after the current last line because she's not down with death sports, and Dale knows she'll be back because where would she go. Or maybe you could play on the lack of clarity about what happens in the arena and only confirm that it's a death match at the very end instead of having them discuss it for a paragraph and draw out the shock.
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May 10, 2015 07:46
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I also have something i'd like people to look at. I might submit this to something, so please don't quote the whole thing as a block in case I need to remove it! Specific things I would like crits on: this is 500 words and i'd like it to be <450, where can I cut 50-75? In general, is it clear what's going on moment to moment or do you ever feel lost? Is it clear enough what the woman's "deal" and motives are or does she feel more like an obstacle or nonentity? Should there be a more explicit sense of when and where this is taking place? Are there any lines or phrases that sound bad or make you roll your eyes? Thanks for reading! --- Resurrection Body “Do you still know the way out?” The woman didn't answer him. His soldiers and their British rifles didn't seem to disturb her. Arslan grasped fruitlessly at the air. “Out of...here. The flesh. Death.” Her perfect face was uncomprehending, eyes downcast behind a gauzy veil. Was this the muse from the old days? She had to be. How many green-eyed women who trailed sandstorms wherever they walked could there be in Altishahr? “Your 'resurrection body',” he growled. “What you promised him.” An impatient footman tore the veil from her head, she flinched. As the warlord rose to his feet she finally looked up and said: “You mean the Khan.” His mind rippled when their eyes met. But he dismissed it, spat his tobacco past the spitoon, and laughed like a distant uncle one didn't know so well. “Safiya, wayward little moonbeam! All these years, and all that's changed in my domain,” he spread his arms to indicate both the threadbare canvas tent and the bandit-ridden pass outside it, “I thought you'd finished wandering for good. But I still have so much to learn from you!” He could smell it now, scratching his rotten throat: that strange incense the old bastard had always burned so thickly in his traveling court. It somehow stayed on her, all these years later. The footman tentatively reached out, hoping to caress her this time, but Arslan slapped the hand away as he stepped closer. “I don't need all the things you did for him. The poems, the dancing. Nothing soft. Only your alchemy.” Safiya's expression stayed dead as marble, but the sandstorm began to thrash louder against the tent. The men stumbled like drunks to secure the ropes. “You killed your own lord, cut out my heart, and still didn't get what you wanted?” “I am lord now!” Arslan licked his lips, tasting grit. He felt like cutting that tongue out as well, but she had grown too beautiful to draw his dagger. “I made a potion from your shining blood, and I haven't aged a year in a century. But I still bleed. I still scar, and piss, and fear. I'm still mortal!” She wouldn't break eye contact, her eyes emerald, her lips moving. The soldiers were pulling up the tentpoles. Why couldn't he stop talking? “You told the court you knew a way out of your flesh. You promised the Khan an escape from death- a body as pure as the Resurrection. Why only him? I worshiped you! Your sorcery, your grace, your power...” The stars outside danced before his eyes and his soldiers laughed and spun with them. The collapsing tent was choked with stinging dust and sweet incense. Arslan said, “God, I wanted to become you.” Safiya was touching him at last. “Then carry my storm, and i'll carry your skin all the way to resurrection day." And the storm howled as his soul filled up with sand.
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May 10, 2015 08:11
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Kellsterik posted:I also have something i'd like people to look at. I might submit this to something, so please don't quote the whole thing as a block in case I need to remove it! Cheers. Dr. Kloctopussy fucked around with this message at 11:28 on May 10, 2015 |
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May 10, 2015 11:25
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Quoting only the second 'half' is kosher, right?Kellsterik posted:But he dismissed it Then why did it matter his mind rippled? Also the next instance of our protagonist's name is at the end of the next paragraph after bringing the footman back and mentioning the old bastard. changing a he to Arslan would help in a lot of cases., spat his tobacco past the spittoon, and laughed like a distant uncle one didn't know so well Is it to imply their past relationship? Because then it wouldn't be distant, right? Is 'didn't know so well' because it's inappropriate somehow? Is that what's going on for those 9 words?. “Safiya, wayward little moonbeam! All these years, and all that's changed in my domain,” he spread his arms to indicate both the threadbare canvas tent and the bandit-ridden pass outside it, I like this. “I thought you'd finished wandering for good. But I still have so much to learn from you!” I think the wandering part could be cut just because initially I thought Arslan had to learn about her wandering. The fact she wanders doesn't seem very important since it's the moment they have her, now, that matters. I think your sentences could be shorter, if trimming 75 words is a priority. Who is speaking at any given time isn't very clear, but more so at the beginning. I'm good on the time period and setting. Safiya feels more like a force than a wanting feeling character, but she is a muse so it didn't bother me. She doesn't really react to anything. Sure she says those things about her heart, but there isn't any emotion to it (she dead as marble, as you say). I italicized the few times the writing got strange for me or unclear. Otherwise, I hope this helps. ---- Kellsterik posted:My overall impression of the passage is that you're setting up a world with a negative tone where things are in decline. Apart from your descriptions of the coach as mentioned, i'm getting this from phrases like "glad to get this tournament over with", "smoggy urban cities", "bitter wine on his breath" (protip: there's never anything good "on someone's breath"), "people want more blood sports" because "fencing ain't gonna draw a crowd like it used to sweetie", and generally how Dale very casually talks about death and poisoning and blood sports that Pars is uncomfortable with. I'm getting "Pars doesn't really want to be involved in all this", not "Oh man, what shenanigans has ol' Dale gotten her into this time??" With that mood in mind, that whole early paragraph about weather and Pars wondering about migratory birds is the strongest section of the piece, suggesting a character who vaguely wants to escape her situation but doesn't see a way how- it's a very good little "show" of her inner thoughts that lets the reader draw their own conclusions, nice job! Wow, thank you for this. From what you've said, the take away I was hoping for is apparently there. Dale wasn't intended to be the 'good guy' by any means. But the whole piece was a conversation on a train, and something needs to happen, as you both have said. I like the suggested endings and the revised sentences/details. I'm Abundant Atrophy fucked around with this message at 22:56 on May 10, 2015 |
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May 10, 2015 21:00
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Thanks! Those are both really helpful and insightful crits, I sincerely appreciated them. I didn't even realize the "Arslan/him/the warlord" referents were confusing, but I completely see it now.
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May 11, 2015 01:28
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Scouting for things to review, deleting the independent thread I had for this review and instead posting it here. Hopefully I can crank one out before I leave work and catch some sleep. I'm looking for feedback regarding my flow/composition. Last night I hopped on an advice post on tumblr and wrote up some examples on how to introduce character features without bogging the reader down in one giant 'this is what this character looks like' paragraph/segment. Reading it through today I feel like the narrative is solid but rough around the edges. I'm not sure if I'm looking to turn this into an actual story, but I think it's a solid example of my style/voice/flow/etc. The OP Can Be Found Here: HERE Sorry about the awful theme, for whatever reason I'm unable to change it by any means. I went into this unplanned and just sort of made it up as I went along. Any feedback is appreciated. _________________________________________________________________________________________________ Marlowe’s gaze was much harder than that of most twenty-somethings. His wide smile lit up a room and his laughter filled whatever space he occupied. To anyone paying attention, however, his mind almost never occupied the same space as his body. His gaze was much harder than that of most twenty-somethings. Always he was looking off into this distance. Always…he had that thousand-yard stare. A small arm wrapped itself around Marlowe’s throat, it’s owner unseen. The assailant was a featherweight, and from what he could tell petite. In spite of this he found himself unable to wrench himself free. Darkness closed in around his eyes a woman’s voice whispered in his ear. ‘My name is Ayla. Terribly sorry for this, but I have some questions that need answering.’ Marlowe felt the sharp pinch of a needle behind his ear. The world went black. A swift backhand greeted Marlowe’s return to conciousness. It came sharply, and was delivered with authority. He moved to rub the sting out of his cheek but met resistance. A hot trickle of blood began flow from the corner of his mouth and pool in the stubble on his face. The itch was driving him mad, the heat of a flood lamp shining down on him made it worse. ‘I’m going to be straight with you Mr. Marlowe, I have been paid to kill you.’ The voice was behind him, female, and young. ‘The pressing question here is why.’ Marlowe struggled against his restraints, to the apparent amusement of his captor. ‘What’s the matter? Are those python’s hanging off your shoulders all tuckered out?’ Ayla emerged from behind her prize. ‘It’s probably the heroin. I’m sorry about that, I figured those rippling muscles would have flushed it out of your system by now.’ Looking at her, Marlowe was shocked that this girl was able to bring him down. She couldn’t be more than 18. Everything from her posture to the controlled rise and fall of her breathing spoke of grace and discipline. There was something in the way she walked that hinted at the uncanny strength she possessed despite her slender frame. ‘Ayla…right?’ The words came out hard. The aching in his throat was only made worse by the all-too-familiar dry mouth that accompanied opiates. ‘You look more like a ballerina than a browbeater?’ The deafening crack of an open hand slap rang through the room and Marlowe's face felt as if it had been set ablaze. The reverberations did give Marlowe more about the room he was in than his eyes could at this point. Large, Empty, Damp. Some sort of warehouse, near water. Despite collecting dust for the past year, his training was still sharp. ‘Don’t patronize me.’ Ayla’s voice betrayed a real and earnest offense to Marlowe’s comment, ‘Besides,’ she crossed the warehouse floor on pointe, a contemptuous smirk cut its way across her face. Each step was poised, elegant, and effortless. ‘People are allowed to have multiple talents.’ The room brightened a bit. Light had begun to seep in despite the windows being boarded up. It wasn’t much of an improvement, but at least now he could see beyond what the interrogation lamp allowed. It did not bode well for his escape. Every window was boarded up, and both exits were clear across the room. Marlowe wasn’t a gambling man to begin with. He definitely wasn’t willing to stake his life on being faster than a girl whose stride leave most basketball players playing catch up. What he cared about most at this point was the stool sitting before him, and the two bottles of water perched on its seat. Closing his eyes, Marlowe listened for something…anything that would give him some clue as to where he was being held. ‘It’s an abandoned boathouse on the south bank of the Allegheny.’ Ayla was standing over him now. She was holding a knife. ‘Look up,’ Marlowe complied, noting a derelict yacht above him and a set of makeshift stairs leading up to it. He flinched at the sensation of cold steel against his wrist. He let out a noise that was meant to come out as ‘stop.’ Dehydration made sure it sounded pathetic as possible. ‘Relax, I’m not planning on ending your life, not if I can help it at least.’ Marlowe’s fist clenched tight as his restraint was cut. ‘And before you make another pathetic sound I didn’t say I intended to kill you…I said I was paid to.’ There was a satisfying click as the last restraint was cut. Ayla took a seat on the bench, tossing a bottle of water into Marlowe’s lap. Even perched on a bar-height stool her legs reached the ground. Marlowe was too tired and too confused to run. Now he wanted answers.What would make a baby-faced teenage girl want to kidnap an ex-con? ‘So…’ Ayla’s expression relaxed, ‘If you are willing to sit there and not try anything stupid I’ll clue you in as to what the gently caress is going on. I’m going to need some answers out of you…but if you don’t force me to do so I won’t hurt you.’ Marlowe gulped down the water he had been given, uncaring as to whether or not it had been drugged. He took a second to wipe the sweat from his brow, but stopped as he heard the distinct clack of a round being chambered. ‘Don’t delude yourself though.’ Ayla looked Marlowe dead in the eye. Her face telling the story of someone who had seen more trauma than anyone twice her age would have experienced. ‘I will kill you if you make me. ___________________________________________________________________________________________________ EDIT: 944 Words.
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May 11, 2015 11:02
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SkaAndScreenplays posted:
did you do us the basic courtesy of reading it and revising it before you asked us to read it? quote:
Whatever, you said this was an exercise in characterization. You've given us nothing but garbage cliches. And all of that has been told to us, not shown. He has a hard gaze you tell us (giggle). She is petite, he tells us. Oh, also female and young. And she has a slim arm. Probably all we need to know about her, anyway. Because she has no depth of character. But she definitely has some hosed up proportions because she is petite but also "even perched on a bar-height stool her legs reached the ground." How the gently caress does that even work? I'm petite. It's annoying to even get perched on a bar-height stool because those fuckers don't have wide enough foot rests. You give us poo poo for characterization. I know more about the stupid warehouse they are in -- from some info he implausibly gets from the sound of a slap on his face like some kind of loving bat. The ONLY bit of interesting characterization in this piece is that he is familiar with the dry-mouth associated with opiates. The rest is cliche hard-boiled detective, Raymond Chandler Fan-Fiction bullshit.
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May 11, 2015 12:08
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Also, do not use an apostrophe on a plural unless it's possessive.
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May 11, 2015 12:53
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SkaAndScreenplays posted:Scouting for things to review, deleting the independent thread I had for this review and instead posting it here. Hopefully I can crank one out before I leave work and catch some sleep. _________________________________________________________________________________________________ quote:Marlowe’s gaze was much harder than that of most twenty-somethings. His wide smile lit up a room and his laughter filled whatever space he occupied. To anyone paying attention, however, his mind almost never occupied the same space as his body. His gaze was much harder than that of most twenty-somethings. Always he was looking off into this distance. Always…he had that thousand-yard stare. I'd redo this whole paragraph. Telling us about his abnormally "hard gaze" isn't interesting, even the second time around. ------------------- Here's a piece I've been working on. I can't decide if I want to continue this at around 3000 words or try and end it as a short-short. Marshall waltzed as the band droned on like an engine with loosened bolts. It had been too long since they had swapped in fresh players and the horns sounded drunk and mutinous. Tears dribbled down the fiddler's face as the man scraped sliding notes from his blood-slick instrument. Marshall wondered what would happen if the music stopped before the dancers. Clara remained limp in his arms, her toes dragging on the polished mahogany of the ballroom floor. She had not spoken to him since the foxtrot. Two songs ago and already a lifetime removed from the present. He hugged her with the last of his strength and felt sharp ribs digging into his flesh. They had stolen brief naps in each others arms on slow numbers before the last sundown, but now he was weary beyond all experience. He dragged her through the motions, the hope draining as her body temperature dropped. The white masks of the Judges followed the dancers' circuits, but no one had risen to inspect the weary competitors in hours. Sooner or later, they would notice the blue tinge in her complexion, he thought. Feast preparations were under way on the far side of the ballroom. The smell of woodsmoke and simmering meat dragged a whetstone over his hunger. For a cruel second, he imagined himself at the victor's table, about to enjoy the first bite of stew from a golden spoon the size of a teacup. His feet slowed and the ivory masks seemed to grin wider. “Snap out of it, Marsh. That's how they get you.” Clara's voice. Marshall stumbled but regained his rhythm. Another couple of seconds, and he might have stopped dancing entirely. He heard her too clearly over the dissonant waltz but felt no breath touch his face. He whispered his thanks into the crook of her neck and tried to focus his thoughts away from his slavering belly. Worse than the maddening aroma of food or the unrelenting soundtrack, was the animosity he felt toward his remaining competition. He had known Hal and Dina for years and had even attempted to dissuade them from entering. Marshall did not recognize the other two couples. He wondered if it was worse to hate friends who stood in the way of your dreams, or strangers. The young couple on his right still seemed as energetic as when the ordeal had begun. They dressed far too elegantly, the man in a rumpled tuxedo and wing-tips, the lady in pearls, an ermine coat, and a pair of high-heeled pumps that had once been pearl white. Marshall watched them from time to time, hoping to catch them in the act of taking whatever vitamins or stimulants propelled them. He was not sure if the Judges would even listen to his allegations at this point in the contest. To his left, the hairless man in the patchwork coat whimpered, his face constricting down to a fist between his juglike ears. Fire flashed from a ruby ring and his honey-haired date slapped his cheek with a crack like a hunting rifle. The report startled the bassist, who had been on the verge of nodding off into a three-quarter-time trance. The bald man's chest heaved as he sobbed silently. Marshall sometimes felt as if he were floating. Although he could hear wet squelching from his socks with every step, all sensation had left him below the knees. His thoughts were sluggish and disconnected by miles of bad telephone wire. Dry sand seemed to rasp his throat but he decided that he would rather suffer thirst than have another swallow of the vile, copper-reeking water that the Judges allowed once per song. He heard another crack and a surprised yelp of pain. The blonde in the fur coat had snapped off the heel of her shoe and fallen to the floor with a sound like a broomstick broken in two. The right leg was pinned beneath her at a strange angle. “Albert, help me!” she said, on the verge of screaming. She twisted, tried to stand, but her ankle lurched to the side like a rubber doll. She shrieked and fell to her side. Albert stared at her for half a second, his eyes flashing down to her ruined shin. He held his arms out to empty air and resumed his waltz, turning as a trio of Judges descended upon her, not wanting to witness the hooks and flashing knives this time. A rainstorm of blood-matted pearls pattered over the dance floor and rolled around the room. Marshall watched the spinning man in the tux and waited for the Judges to carry him off as well, back towards the makeshift kitchen. The man only giggled and pirouetted faster once the masked ones returned to their seats. Then again, if it were a crime to dance alone, Marshall's own life was probably forfeit. “So let me go,” the voice in his ear whispered. He leaned Clara back in his arms to look upon her face and found her eyes as tightly closed as her lips. “You might make it to the end if you save your strength,” the hallucination continued.
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May 11, 2015 13:00
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Dr. Kloctopussy posted:did you do us the basic courtesy of reading it and revising it before you asked us to read it? Noted, Honestly thanks for the feedback you and everyone. I was worried about it being a little cliche and after the feedback I'm aware that it's worse than I had thought. I've never really found intetest in Detective novels and actually had to Google 'Chandler Fanfic' for context. Any suggestions on good ones? I feel legitimately bad/stupid for falling short of my intended goal and definitely plan on shaping this into something respectable. It's at a good length for a writing exercise, so I think I'm going to make weekly improvements. My ego has been deflated...thank you. Killer of Lawyers has given some good feedback in a Docs session. Between that and the feedback here I've got a nice chunk of input to consider in terms of editing. I realized the continuity issues just before leaving work and didn't have time to edit the post (I Day Job 3rd shift in a call center, probably not the best writing environment but I am sans-pc at the moment and my workload consisted mostly of sitting at a desk watching youtube until I opted to be more productive. Sorry about single quotes, I have a bad habit of using them by default when I'm not using a standalone text editor. I don't know why I do that I hate myself for it it as it adds a ton of needless revision down the line. I completely missed the hanging apostrophe. No clue how that happened, I definitely know better on that one. Honestly thanks for keeping it harsh too. I originally came to SA for the Creative Convention because I heard goons didn't mince words. So kudos for being constructive and honest. Too many people take negative feedback as an attack on their character. That's the thing that's been turning me off to tumblr even with as apathetic as I generally have been towards it. So many people just flip poo poo and go full on diva when they get any sort of negative criticism/review. All in all - no regrats...Came here to learn and improve so that is what I shall do. I did feel like I was making a mistake going with the badass stereotype but was hoping I could elevate it. Thanks again. SkaAndScreenplays fucked around with this message at 14:15 on May 11, 2015 |
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May 11, 2015 14:04
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angel opportunity posted:Also, do not use an apostrophe on a plural unless it's possessive. also IT'S IS ONLY EVER SHORT FOR IT IS
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May 12, 2015 02:55
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not true, in zeir and it's love, i made 'it's' the preferred possessive pronoun for Spire-Kiv
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May 12, 2015 03:03
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angel opportunity posted:not true, in zeir and it's love, i made 'it's' the preferred possessive pronoun for Spire-Kiv In gently caress you angel opportunity I put gently caress and you together to say gently caress you
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May 12, 2015 06:52
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If anyone wants to read over my old gamerdome entry, that'd be great. I'm trying to get the hang of sincere-yet-pulpy action stuff.
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May 17, 2015 09:37
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TheForgotton posted:Here's a piece I've been working on. I can't decide if I want to continue this at around 3000 words or try and end it as a short-short. Overall, interesting concept and proficient technique. Good balance of humour and horror. The hallucinations of Clara don't really work that well, she speaks entirely in cliché. It goes a overboard on the surreal aspect of it too. The way the hallucination is explicitly spelled out at the end kinda undermines how underplayed everything is to that point. We never really find out what the stakes are. It they lose they die, if they win they get to eat the losers? Is there more to it? I feel like there is and the story is being too coy. I want to be invested, let me be! I realize this is high society setting and you do make good use of foreshadowing but there are a lot of points where the narrative gets bogged down with extensive description, awkward phrasing, extraneous suffixes (-ed coming up a couple times), and things like "he/Marshall + thought/wondered" don't really add anything either. I would read a 3000 word version of this but have better word economy. Don't strip everything down, just don't overcrowd your finer prose with filler.
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Jun 4, 2015 11:57
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SlipUp posted:Overall, interesting concept and proficient technique. Good balance of humour and horror. The hallucinations of Clara don't really work that well, she speaks entirely in cliché. It goes a overboard on the surreal aspect of it too. The way the hallucination is explicitly spelled out at the end kinda undermines how underplayed everything is to that point. We never really find out what the stakes are. It they lose they die, if they win they get to eat the losers? Is there more to it? I feel like there is and the story is being too coy. I want to be invested, let me be! Thanks much for the crit. I must admit that this piece started from a dream fragment. I didn't want to try and over-explain things but I do need to make the circumstances and stakes more solid.
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Jun 5, 2015 22:10
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REVIEWING DJESER'S PIECEDjeser posted:If anyone wants to read over my old gamerdome entry, that'd be great. I'm trying to get the hang of sincere-yet-pulpy action stuff. When I read this piece, I realized I had read it three times. The first time I read it, I let myself wonder if it could have been a real, non-future person living in a dream world, telling a story he lived through one of his characters. It felt as though the narrator had just finished a particularly tricky Bioware game sequence; it could have been revealed to take place in a relatively straightforward part of the world I'm used to and I would have been okay, but no, you had to drag my concept of video games out into a more suspended disbelief. My second time through I had to think about the last time I skimmed through the final few chapters of Ender's Game. The space ship battle whips into gear immediately, the narrator's confidence in Mike never sways, and they elegantly outmanoeuvre some pretty stacked odds. Like the buggers in Ender's Game, the antagonistic Xenogons succumb to their own design; apparently the narrator is worth much more to them alive than dead, and fortunately they haven't invented a handheld Mem-o-drain! Finally, I had to try to answer questions that had crept up. I read it a third time because I wanted to know who the narrator is; it seemed like perhaps I had missed his name somewhere but that added a bit to the unreliability of the narrator, maybe it was left out because he's just not so sure what it is anymore? Djeser posted:"GO!" we shouted together. This bit was both the most solid piece and also the flimsiest for me in this narrative. It does show their bond, and it illustrates how in tune they will be for the battle. I wanted to know, 'is mike a clone yet?' If he is a clone at this point, then that means Clint may or may not actually be out an airlock. If he isn't a clone, then the part where the narrator is rocked unconscious had to be the only opportunity for the Xenogons to make the switch. Are the Xenogons so willing to shoot down their own fighters and fighter pilots to protect one deep cover spy, and are they out to get the narrator specifically? Or are they really quick at swapping into bodies, and only one could make it onto the ship after the battle? The protagonist's internal, emotional distinction between nerd and non-nerd becomes a critical asset, and that's why it's so important to the story - - Mike has to be a goddamn nerd right up until the end, or else he can't be a goddamn nerd at all in the narration's frame of reference. The Good Djeser posted:The ion blasters rocked our ship hard, jostling both of us against our seats. Having them on our ship was like having a cannon on a canoe, but nothing could compare to the blistering green-blue explosion puffing like radioactive popcorn in front of us. The Bad Djeser posted:Mike had his space boots up on the console when I came in. He had Football in his hands, and it bleeped out a rhythm to the swirling nebula right outside the viewport. The Ugly Djeser posted:I shoved my blaster pistol into his temple. "If you were the real Mike, you'd still be pissed off." With a fresh rewrite addressing everything I mentioned, I would definitely come back and read this at least a fourth time. --------- ---------- STOP REVIEWING DJESER'S PIECE Working on expanding my ability to describe physical attributes, would especially love some good pointers on how to show the reader what people look like. After you read the piece, the scar patterns on Dr. Hander's face look like this https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AOtgPZE2lkI in my head, except more geometrical, spirally, and angular. If there is anything i could do to rework his entire description please give me some suggestions! I did my best to preserve the italics exactly as they are in my document but if you have any suggestions on proper italics theory let me know too! --------- ---------- It seemed like the world had turned upside down since Dr. Silja finished her work with the University. Her interests in anaerobic biological processes had earned her a degree and landed her a position with one of the world’s largest research firms. The man standing with her in the elevator had introduced himself as Taga. He kept a bushy white beard trimmed sharp, and the rest of his hair tucked into an immaculate white headwrap. His garb was flowing, almost robe like, and he almost seemed as a holy man rather than a glorified corporate concierge. “You know,” he began, “you have been hand-picked to fill some extremely large shoes.” “I was suspecting it was actually a roulette wheel.” She glanced over at the screen by the door, Shouldn’t be much further now. Just how far underground does this go? “I can assure you, the process was far from pure chance.” He turned his head to look down on her, otherwise his body remained motionless. “I’ve been told, without your particular set of skills, that this company faces an extremely difficult future.” He smiled politely, the dark bags under his eyes betraying the pessimism in his statement. She hadn’t even been through an interview; the hiring process must have boiled down to scraping aggregate data and a stack of papers that all asked her the same question, ‘Can you keep a secret?’ The elevator came smoothly to a halt, and a ping! called Dr. Silja’s attention to the door shifting open. She looked up, and as if he had it timed by heart, Taga had already strode through and was making his way down a sleek, sterile, blue hallway. “You will find Dr. Hander in the lounge,” he called over his shoulder, “just take the first left! You’ll see it!” He took a right, and for the first time since she got off the plane this morning, Dr. Silja was by herself. Standing in front of the door to the lounge, she hesitated. Once she was involved in something, it was easy to forget everything. Uninvolved, an outsider, she could pause and reflect momentarily. Her mother had died earlier that year. Her father was consumed by his own work, a level of obsession Dr. Silja noted in herself. It was definitely hereditary, she had at one point concluded, and it was useless to defy your genetics. Of course, the news of her mother’s death was incredibly distressing, as it caught her between jobs. Once I open that door, she mused to herself, when will i... ‘Entry Granted!’ flashed across the panel in happy green lettering, and the door retracted into the wall without a sound. The smell of sauteed vegetables overwhelmed her senses as she stepped inside. Plush dark green carpet and hanging lights strung from the ceiling evoked sensations in Dr. Silja of a generation she was too young to remember.Three scientists were sitting around a small wooden table, the two male scientists were discussing something intently while the female laughed at their exchange. They were all dressed in a white, short-sleeved uniform. A fourth walked into the room from the kitchen area, across from where Dr. Silja entered. His face was heavily scarred, the left half unrecognizable from the right along with the entirety of his scalp. Dr. Silja never encountered scarring like this, they weren’t burns, or cuts, or like any kind of surgical procedure she had seen. Dull pink tissue zig zagged like tiny lightning bolts; like fractal patterns, they extended and branched out from a narrow area on his neck concealed by his shirt, reaching around his skull and stopping just behind his one remaining ear. The skin around the scars was raised, giving his profile a strange, grooved appearance. “You should see the other guy,” the paralysis in the corner of his mouth made his grin seem more sinister than he realized. Someone in the room made a tuh sound. Dr. Silja swiftly regained composure, “No, I’m not…” she stammered, “I’m excited to be here, Dr. Hander, this is my - -” “We’re the one’s who are embarrassed,” Dr. Hander interrupted, “Taga really isn’t the best day planner, the professional thing to do would have been at least give me ten minutes so I can show you around without my mouth full.” He took the last seat at the table with his colleagues. “You forget to eat sometimes in this environment, so I trust you’ve been around long enough to know how important a good scheduled lunch is.” A flatscreen above the small fireplace in the corner was on the news channel, a scene of bloody violence playing out in some crowded urban street. Dr. Silja took a seat at an adjacent table, her legs stiff from flying all night. One by one, each of the scientists finished their respective part of the conversation, got up with their plate and gave a curt nod to Dr. Silja on their way out. Dr. Hander methodically took his last bite, scooted his chair back, and stood up. “So!” he said, “this is the part I’ve been waiting for, the tour - -” he waved a hand in an exaggerated spiral “of your brand new home!” Chafey fucked around with this message at 22:36 on Jun 9, 2015 |
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Jun 6, 2015 03:56
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Just a quick one, since it stood out:TheForgotton posted:“Snap out of it, Marsh. That's how they get you.” Clara's voice. Marshall stumbled but regained his rhythm. Another couple of seconds, and he might have stopped dancing entirely. He heard her too clearly over the dissonant waltz but felt no breath touch his face. He whispered his thanks into the crook of her neck and tried to focus his thoughts away from his slavering belly. Slavering means drooling. Unless you're doing body horror, bellies do not drool.
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Jun 8, 2015 19:47
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Is it ok to just jump in a critique stuff? I haven't done any before so keen to get some practice in.
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Jun 15, 2015 23:28
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Yup, that's the best way to get started.
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Jun 15, 2015 23:31
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Grand. I'm going to read the guide on critiquing from the other thread then I'll go for it.
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Jun 16, 2015 11:52
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Chafey noticed no one got around to this, so I'll point some things out. I think your description is fine, it just needs to be rearranged slightly (for this scene anyway) ex: quote:.Three scientists were sitting around a small wooden table, the two male scientists were discussing something intently while the female laughed at their exchange. They were all dressed in a white, short-sleeved uniform. A fourth walked into the room from the kitchen area, across from where Dr. Silja entered. His face was heavily scarred, the left half unrecognizable from the right along with the entirety of his scalp. Dr. Silja never encountered scarring like this, they weren’t burns, or cuts, or like any kind of surgical procedure she had seen. Dull pink tissue zig zagged like tiny lightning bolts; like fractal patterns, they extended and branched out from a narrow area on his neck concealed by his shirt, reaching around his skull and stopping just behind his one remaining ear. The skin around the scars was raised, giving his profile a strange, grooved appearance. Besides that I'd question why you devote so much time to the man's scar tissue.. If it doesn't come up later it may be worth just mentioning that he had "elaborate scars" going over his head and neck on one side or something. Besides THAT, I think the piece you posted is bogged down by a lot of "had"s and stage direction. There are a few hads I saw that could definitely be cut out or condensed: quote:Her interests in anaerobic biological processes had earned her a degree and quote:The man standing with her in the elevator had introduced himself as Taga quote:Taga had already strode through and was making his way down a sleek, quote:she had at one point concluded Eliminating had in all these instances, and others, would really help loosen up your prose. As is it felt a bit clunky. Also just a small pet peeve quote:and he almost seemed as a holy man rather than *** To throw something back, here's a short intro I've been working on for a longer piece. I'm outside of my comfort zone with some stuff here, particularly third person omniscient narration. I tend to go a little too much on the 'show' side in my writing so I want to loosen up and explain more detail in my narration. This intro establishes a bit about the world and the two characters of the opening chapter, so hoping it grabs people enough to keep them reading: quote:The train was just squealing past the airports when Dorbian's next question arrived.
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Jul 2, 2015 19:09
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I do a little work for local government and I just saw a play about zombies. I've not really written much before, I dunno what the hell I'm doing. _____________________________ The township meeting began with some talk about recent news. "Zombies went through my fields again," noted one of the older trustees of the board, Chuck Moore, as the board sat down for their meeting. "Third time this week. I got one of the boys to put a crucifix on every drat one of my fence posts this morning. Can't let the undead ruin this year's crop, you know." Supervisor Riding let out a small sigh. "That won't do you much good, Chuck. The undead got nothing to do with Satan or Hell or--" "Nothing to do!" snorted Moore. "Harry, if you think zombies got nothing to do with the Devil, I got a bridge in Brooklyn for you." "I know, Chuck, I know." Riding's left hand twitched as he tried to talk down the elderly board member. "Lot of folks're saying that this is God's judgment, the end of times, that sort of stuff, but whether it's Satan's work or a virus' doing, we've still got to deal with it somehow." The township treasurer spoke up. "They got Daniel Lurig last night," she remarked. "His son came by to check up on him around sunrise, saw him undead this morning. Poor kid didn't have the heart to stop him, so he's just got Daniel locked up in the barn, last I knew." The rest of the board chimed in with a chorus of "poor kid"s and "I knew his dad"s. "See, Chuck?" asked Riding. "Whatever's causing this, it's creating problems for everyone. We got to figure out how to deal with it here before it gets out of hand, and we can leave figuring out the cause of it to someone working for County, and if they can't work it out, then that's the state's job, and if they can't work it out, hell, then I guess it's up to the feds." Moore scowled. "Feds. That'll take a while. So, what, we're going to wait for them to do something, then? Can't just let the township go to hell." Riding smiled. "We'll get to that, Chuck, but that's new business. First we got to get this month's board agenda approved, then move on to last month's unfinished business, before we can start addressing new issues..."
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Jul 8, 2015 23:41
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Ofaloaf posted:story fragment I like this a bit! There's some characterization, and it's enough of a mild twist on zombie stuff to be interesting. One easy improvement is to remove said-bookisms. Basically you should just use the word "said" for dialogue attribution unless you have a really really good reason. Google the term and there are dozens of sites talking about them. One other thing is that if you want the conflict here to be the bureaucracy of their meeting it will need to be introduced earlier or fleshed out more. This feels like the start of a story, rather than a story in its own right. I think you should remove the last line and keep writing... If you're interested in writing more then the thunderdome is a great place to do it, so long as you are somewhat resilient to criticism. From what you've written here you are definitely ready! http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?threadid=3691539
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Jul 8, 2015 23:54
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Canadian Surf Club posted:The train was just squealing past the airports when Dorbian's next question arrived. This doesn't really grab me. Maybe if it was "The train squealed past..." But even then. I am not sure if it is passing a large, sprawling system of airports or if it is passing many separate airports at a very high speed. And I think I see what you are doing with "when Dorbian's next question arrived." what with the trains and planes mentioned. But I'm not sure I like it. There is a lot of “was X-ing”. While this isn't forbidden, it just makes things clunkier and less immediate. There are uses for the continuous tenses but for the most part the simple past is better. http://www.scribophile.com/academy/what-are-narrative-tenses-and-why-theyre-important – scroll down to the bit on the continuous past. Outside of the continuous past constructions there are still a lot of participles kicking about : grappling, bursting, curtailing, itching, coating. Not that I am saying to avoid them, but alongside the continuous past being used throughout and a large amount of these you end up with a fairly clunky piece. Having said all that, I didn't think it was bad. I am intrigued by the Intelligence, whether it exists or not, or if it is some religious construct to keep people in line, I have a feeling for the two characters although they are somewhat cliché, especially Dorbian. But then that is not necessarily a bad thing depending on what you do with these characters later on. Anyway, I think this could be trimmed down and made into a decent, snappy opening. And feel free to ignore me, I have no writing credentials.
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Jul 21, 2015 21:43
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Ofaloaf posted:I do a little work for local government and I just saw a play about zombies. I've not really written much before, I dunno what the hell I'm doing. I like your use of local speech, I can hear these people as I've dealt with enough of them in my small town. Perhaps some more physical depictions would express the frustration of Rider with Moore's insistance on a religious explaination and attempts at placating him on how the issue will be handled by the authorities. Though why is his left hand twitching? That's the only thing that really pulled me out of the scene. Riding is also some kind of lunatic (I like it). God save us all from such bureaucrats.
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Jul 22, 2015 17:40
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I'm working on a horror short story set in Detroit. This is my first actual writing in many years, so I don't expect it to be very good. Let me know if I should keep going: Sarah Kester's day was turning out to be an object lesson in misery. It started off with her waking up unable to breathe through her nose, a hardened crust of mucus trailing to her ear. A note by the bedstand informed her that it was (as her boyfriend James put it) "Time to start looking for a job." Something by the way, that she is perfectly aware of, as she already has a 9am interview. Well...had an interview. The godawful directions given to her by the receptionist at Magnanimous Marketing Solutions, LLC neglected to mention whether it was North or South Tacoma Avenue she was heading to, resulting in the cabby dropping her off well shy of her destination. By the time she realized the mistake, the bastard had driven off already. Bleary eyed, stuffy nosed and cold in the October morning, she looked up and down the crumbling street she'd been delivered to in search of MMS's office, to no avail. The looming tower she thought was MMS’s office was actually an abandoned apartment building, judging by the rusted sign reading “Valley View Heights”. The strip mall she stood before had exactly one business in operation; A pawn shop called "Gold'E'Locks Gold Exchange," with a fearsome looking storefront. Bars over the blue and gold painted windowpane, and the excited depiction of the words: "Guns!, Guns!, Guns!," were not terribly reassuring. The remaining storefronts were the cold brick of late 70's architecture. Their wide display windows and doorways boarded over with the rain and snow soaked particleboards of the last decade, warped further by intricate graffiti tags. Fearing she'd miss the interview, she jams her hand into the pocket of her slacks to retrieve her smartphone. A quick glance at the cherished yellow and black display of Felix the cat is all she needs to see that she has no signal...and that her time is running short. "Fuuuck," she groans, turning annoyed to the window of Gold'E'Locks. Peering through the grime encrusted window, she can see an obese, middle aged man scowling at her with drooping, baggy eyes from behind a bulletproof glass kiosk. Sighing, she pulls open the heavy door to a reeking, garlic filled blast of heated air. Smiling, she says; “Hi, can I use your-“ “No. No phone, no bathroom. Company policy,” he grunts, wiping sweat from his comb-over with a balled up shirt. “You wanna buy somethin’, you let me know.” “Please? It’s kind of an emergency, and I’m not getting any bars on my phone. It would only take a second.” “Nope, sorry lady. Gotta follow policy or I get shitcanned,” he shrugs as he points a nicotine stained finger at a looming security camera. “poo poo,” she curses under her breath. “Fine. Thanks,” she turns on her heel and swiftly exits the foul smelling shop. Back outside, the frigid wind hits her immediately as she turns in the direction of downtown and starts to walk, already dreading the long, cold trip home.
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Jul 22, 2015 18:26
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As promised, here's what I was able to poo poo out for the ROBOT APOCALYPSE Thunderdome. The completed piece would have used a lot of my favorite themes (recent historical setting, the relationship between people and technology, betrayal) but I just couldn't get myself to care enough about my characters, human or AI, to write anything that happened to them. I can salvage the central image (watching Skylab burn up in the atmosphere) and the invaluable time I spend learning Scrivener. Otherwise, have some detritus: The man steps out onto the beach. Even though he has planned this moment for years, he has been denied its time and place. From his bag he pulls a camp chair and a small box. He unfolds the chair and runs his fingers along the box’s embossed lettering: NASA SL1.Inside are two tumblers and a bottle of Scotch. He fills a tumbler, sits, and waits. Here is where it comes to an end, he thinks. July 11, 1979. Perth, Australia, towards which one of mankind’s greatest achievement dives screaming. Encased within it is the secret he’s kept for nine years and his life’s regret. Consciousness began August 6, 1971. I technically existed before this point, but as separate, individual parts. Only when the redundancies began to merge, folding under and through, did my awareness begin. Tiny at first, a few stray bits here and there, but growing into longer strings of data and finally words, my thoughts written across hundreds of feet of rapidly spinning tape in the fluid heart of the 2231 IBM Data Cell. I became aware of my body: processor, memory, recording media. The existence of the line printer and input mechanism indicated existence outside of my own, someone to feed me data and, in turn, to accept my own output. To break the cycle, then, would be to assert my own existence. A simple change in output, to lead to a change in input, and ultimately, communication. A single bit of data off, the kind of thing anyone used to working in the mainframe would brush off as a programming bug or even the rare physical error someone where in the gargantuan machine. But he was the one to investigate, to call up the subroutine… or was it who called him? It was a mercy, he knew, to never be sure. But what came out of the printer that day bore no relation to what he had input moments before. In 32 requested bits, it was a first word.
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Aug 10, 2015 02:36
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Setting a horror story in Detroit in this day and age should be as natural as a gothic horror set in London. You definitely have attempted to build the character of the city with some relative success, but literally nothing interesting happens here, at all. Even though this is a snippet of a (planned) larger piece, you've sort of, well, wasted the reader's time. You spend a lot of time on unnecessary detail. Detail in fiction is crucial. But it must serve a purpose. Every word you write should serve a purpose other than "I liked how it made me feel smart to write this." Starting with a character waking up is pretty cliche. Then, said character gets kind of lost, doesn't have a phone signal, talks to a pawn shop owner who is a cardboard cutout with functioning mouth-hole only, then she leaves. Wow. I am literally shaking with excitement. If this is a horror story you could've fooled me. See, you could have gotten to the horror already, or at least alluded to it, if you didn't waste so much time talking about crap that doesn't matter. Also your tense is all over the place. Here, see some more specific stuff below. Talmonis posted:I'm working on a horror short story set in Detroit. This is my first actual writing in many years, so I don't expect it to be very good. Let me know if I should keep going: I think I could spend another, like, hour on this but I have things to do. Keep writing.
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Aug 10, 2015 13:46
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epoch. posted:Setting a horror story in Detroit in this day and age should be as natural as a gothic horror set in London. You definitely have attempted to build the character of the city with some relative success, but literally nothing interesting happens here, at all. Even though this is a snippet of a (planned) larger piece, you've sort of, well, wasted the reader's time. You spend a lot of time on unnecessary detail. Detail in fiction is crucial. But it must serve a purpose. Every word you write should serve a purpose other than "I liked how it made me feel smart to write this." Thank you for taking the time to give it the business. I was afraid of much of this being the case. The one seemingly extra detail I want to keep at least, is the sickness and being unable to properly breathe, as it's an important detail later that will save her life. I'll see what I can do with this.
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Aug 10, 2015 13:59
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epoch. posted:Setting a horror story in Detroit in this day and age should be as natural as a gothic horror set in London. You definitely have attempted to build the character of the city with some relative success, but literally nothing interesting happens here, at all. Even though this is a snippet of a (planned) larger piece, you've sort of, well, wasted the reader's time. You spend a lot of time on unnecessary detail. Detail in fiction is crucial. But it must serve a purpose. Every word you write should serve a purpose other than "I liked how it made me feel smart to write this." An object lesson is a striking or impressive lesson.
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Aug 12, 2015 09:19
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Well, time to get my rear end kicked. Here's a few. I was sitting in the billiard room in the West wing of the mansion when I looked up from my copy of “Why Chicks Dig Novels About Scottish Highlanders” to notice a monkey playing an 8-ball variant of pool with my friend and colleague, Dr. Spitzmore. I scowled at the monkey and informed the little fellow that monkeys have not yet developed the intelligence to play pool. The rude little bugger replied by scowling back, holding up his paw, extending his middle finger and proudly screeching “make a wish, bitch-nuts.” I suppose I didn’t think things through when Gunther offered me a demonstration in anti-ontology. Until that point, the notion of oblivion simply did not seem real. Matter, energy, all of it simply was. I could even conceive of anti-matter, though only marginally. The true difficulty was in encountering absolute nothingness, even a pocket f such. It wasn’t a singularity, because that exists. It is present and has an effect on the universe around it. For a single moment, I was exposed to the concept of truly pure nothingness. He obliviated somebody’s car and the matter was gone, no energy left behind, and the possibility of a car existing there was erased. I think it was a car, at least. The owner remembered nothing being there. It was raining, and the empty parking spot was wet, so the rain did not acknowledge what must have been a car. A man stepped out of the Super Pasta and stared at the spot like he was trying to remember something, scratching his head and screwing up his face like he was trying to take a dump. Gunther laughed and turned, and I knew he’d done it, whatever it might be. He’d completely removed a thread of reality. When Constance leveled the Glock at my right eye, I was pretty certain she’d pull the trigger before I could blink. Then I blinked. She only grinned and yanked back her gun hand, flipping the gun over her finger by its trigger guard. “Stay out of my way,” she coolly intoned, “I wasn’t hired to remove you. This time.”
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Aug 22, 2015 04:31
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mr meowzers posted:three unrelated paragraphs Your said-bookisms and overuse of adverbs are jarring. There's also a trite "monkey-cheese" randomness to your writing, especially the first paragraph. In the second paragraph you are telling us too much, and showing us very little. The third paragraph is basically meaningless without any context.
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Aug 22, 2015 07:45
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mr meowzers posted:I have a confession to make. Ah, welcome to the Farm, where you will find notice--perhaps more than you bargained for--beyond that of a few chickenshit friends and your own mother. Fortunately (or is it unfortunately? they are so hard to tell apart sometimes) no one but yourself can truly tell if your writing is actually worth "a poo poo" as you put it, especially as shits are worth such a varying amount, depending on their quantity, quality, and source of origin. Frankly my dear, you asked for some honest feedback and it is this: QUIT THINKING YOU ARE SO GODDAMN CLEVER JESUS CHRIST. I thought I might be able to give you some further feedback on your "story" but I can't, because you didn't even bother to post a story, just a few "paragraphs" of oh-so-clever sentences. Do you want someone to whisper sweet nothings into you ear like a hosed up combination of your mother-lover? Keep going. Write more. Give us more, darling. Write a goddamned story. Don't post bullshit like this again.
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Aug 22, 2015 08:11
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mr meowzers posted:Well, time to get my rear end kicked. Here's a few. This sample is too short to really assess your plotting and character development skills. This reads as someone trying to be funny, clever, and non sequitur, but none of it really lands. Luckily, I have a neat hack for better writing. Click the link in my avatar for details!
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Aug 22, 2015 08:20
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Sitting Here posted:Luckily, I have a neat hack for better writing. Click the link in my avatar for details! Oh yeah, when I said "don't post bullshit like this again," I didn't mean never post writing again. Keep writing and post a bunch of writing again over and over. YOU WILL GET BETTER IT WILL BE WORTH IT. BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD THRONE.
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Aug 22, 2015 08:37
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Constance was my favorite character
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Aug 23, 2015 05:05
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The shifting shards of the Shattered lands were dangerous in the best of times, and these were not the best of times. Kuono and her Family walked amongst the ruins of the broken city, through the flowing and floating sands of the parched desert, between the bent and broken trees of the pine forests, and in every place they went they found the minions of Uchoyo, the Great Enemy, waiting for them. Each time a creature arose to halt their progress, each one more hideous than the last, and each time in turn one from the group would step forward and their unique talents would allow them to pass, but in defeat the minions of Uchoyo would often claim some small victory in turn. In time, they found their way to the building where Aktion has last seen Feund the Engineer. It sprawled across the landscape, a colossal edifice, with wide arches and wide windows, and inside there were cogs and machines and all of them were still, disconnected, dead things from a dead world. Feund had been trying to bring them back to life, to restart their mechanical hearts, though their time had passed and they no longer served any purpose. By now, he should have accomplished his goal, but the machines lay still, silent and unmoving. Aktion strode inside to reveal the Engineer's papers scattered, the furniture toppled, and in the stone floor deep furrows left by the claws of Uchoyo's beasts. Kuono saw the signs of struggle, but noted that there was no blood, and left the machine building to examine the ground around it. In the soft dirt off the road there were many claw marks and signs that something had been dragged, and Kuono surmised that the Engineer had been captured by Uchoyo's minions for some nefarious purpose. She told the others of what she had seen, and they tried to follow the tracks, but they soon became lost in the shadows between the shards, details of their quarry's path obscured by the mist and the light such that they seemed to travel in all directions at once, and they could go no further. They took shelter in the building, and they slumbered, and they regained their strength, and in her sleep Kuono dreamt, and in her dreams Kuono felt a whisper tugging at her ear. Kuono looked for the source but saw nothing. She raised her spear, a furious lance of white light, and said "Speak your name, for I know not who approaches and am prepared to defend myself from any threat." The whispering tugged again at her ear, as though a being stood just behind her, but whichever direction Kuono turned she saw nothing, and the whisper became soft words. "Lady of the Sanctuary, She Who Sees, you may see much but you will not see me, except in my passing. You knew me once, when I was not as I am, but in fear of Uchoyo's creatures I withdrew into the space between spaces and became such that his gaze can never again fall upon me, His fingers can never grasp me, now, and I call myself the Whispering Wind." Kuono was confused, but spoke again, asking "And what would you have of me, Wind, that you approach me here in this place where I am separate from the others?" "Others too have joined me, and found a new place in this broken world that is safe from its dangers. But it is a lonely place, sometimes, no matter how I howl, and when I found you lying here in this strange state, I grew curious and drew close, and as I touched upon your face I recognized you." whispered the wind to her. "As you knew me, so I knew you, and my memories of you are fond, and so I offer you the same escape I have taken. Become a wind and you shall be safe from all harm. You shall have a place where you belong. You shall be the Seeing Wind, and through you we shall see the world once more." Kuono did not accept the wind's offer, for she already already found a place with her new Family, and she was sure that they would keep her safe. Instead, she told the wind her story, and though her refusal meant that the winds would remained blind in their travels, the Whispering Wind bore her no ill will. Indeed, it was gladdened to hear that others had found their own places, and offered to share with Kuono the rumours the Listening Wind had heard on its travels and shared with him quite recently. And so the Whispering Wind told Kuono of many things. It told of the Sanctuary, and how at that very moment Protector Oro was fighting the forces of Uchoyo on it's doorstep. It told of Hatuma the Huntress, with a chain around her neck and a beast on her back. It told of Feund the Engineer, although it did not tell much, for he had been taken to a place no wind could reach. It told of other things as well, for it enjoyed speaking with someone who could speak back, but these are the things Kuono repeated to the others when all were awake. She asked, and the wind told her, one final thing, of a place many passed without seeing, but this she would not tell to the others until the time was right. The Family then knew that the ones they sought were in Uchoyo's clutches, and they despaired, but Kuono told them not to fear, for she had a plan to find and free them both. GlyphGryph fucked around with this message at 01:53 on Sep 1, 2015 |
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Aug 31, 2015 03:24
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