The Farm 2013. Flash Fiction and Snippets Critique Hub (<1000 Words)

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theworstname: Jun 9, 2011; Spider Robinson's posterior.

STONE OF MADNESS posted:

You never got a crit for this and I doubt you'd like your piece to slip forgotten into forums history, so here goes.

First up, we need to talk about our mutual friend, the humble

While we tend to think of commas as an 'anything goes' kind of luxury option, they are required and there are a few places you just aren't using them. This will always hurt your prose.

For pacing:

If you don't use commas, your clauses will blur together. Sometimes this is desirable, other times, not so much. The first sentence is just difficult to read. "... jumpsuit who sat..." vs "... jumpsuit, who sat...".
And then there's this:

Hang on a master criminal on a narrow walkway over HANG ON WHAT what is a 'criminal on a narrow' oh right WELL I WAS STILL READING THAT CLAUSE THANK YOU VERY MUCH

In dialogue:

This last is especially important because you always, always do this where you'd normally put a period. Question or exclamation marks are a different matter - you let them do their job. But it is NEVER acceptable to have
"Dialogue." he said
because it reads like
"Dialogue." He said.
which, if you'll cast your mind back to kindergarten, is how the retarded kids used to read out loud. Don't encourage them.

Just for completion's sake, this

is a sentence in which a comma could be used, but it's up to you. As it stands, the sentence passes briskly and if that's the tone you want, then perfect.

And just to spit on my own statements above, this

would work a whole lot better as

Enough about commas; let's talk about style.

The TV show works great. I was uncertain about the italics at first, but I think it was a good choice as it allows you to eliminate 'THEY LOOKED AT THE TV AND' when you so choose (and when you don't, you're quite gentle about it, which is ideal). One thing that's really noteworthy about this part of your story is that all of the action and dialogue is reported in summary, ie. 'told', and it works fantastically, because you're contrasting the TV show with the 'real life' of your story. Obviously, when it comes to the story proper, this is to be avoided.

'a' instead of 'the' and vice versa

I'd put 'the' low ceiling. You're allowed to treat your setting as a given; God knows your characters generally will, especially when it comes to ceilings. And it just reads better this way.

No comment

I'd put 'a keypad'. Unless I missed you drawing my attention to it earlier, this is the first we've heard of this keypad and keypads are rare enough to warrant specific mention. 'The' assumes, 'a', um, doesn't really. If you want us to know that this is a universe where there are keypads on every door BECAUSE, put 'the' and be prepared to make it worthwhile.

It's a bit too early to tell for sure, but I think you might have a tendency to get excessively wordy in parts. Remember, just because you happen to be endowed with a compendious vocabulary, you are not obliged to deploy its entirety at any given moment.

A clear example of when the temptation to use all the cool words just gets too exciting. You're actually wasting details when you pack them in so tightly. Tell us that it's dark, tell us that it's the darkness of the underground, tell us it's a street (unless it somehow deserves the distinction of being a promenade - this could be, but hasn't yet been established to my satisfaction), tell us it's been destroyed. Actually no wait show us these things instead tia

Your sci-fi secrets are presented a little too opaquely for my comfort - I'm being alienated by references to dried waste and mouth-gels that I'm not familiar with and don't understand. This is fine as long as you don't keep us hanging too long. By dumping the names of these things, 'gel from his mouth', 'mule is picking up the dried waste', you're actually making it more difficult to prolong an explanation than if you'd tried to allude to the nature of the things via an on-sight description (hope that makes sense). I have no loving idea what's going on with the gel-smearing but I definitely want to find out.

Finally, the POV is omniscient at this stage, and it doesn't really feel like we're getting any one character's perspective. Fine when we're looking at the TV show, not so great for holding a reader's attention. I suspect that Bryce is your man, now make me feel it.

I've got to admit - I'm intrigued by your story so far. Definitely post more once it's written.

Thanks for the very helpful critique, I hope to address the problems you mentioned as the story progresses.

I've tried to improve my grammar and comma placement in the following entry. However, brief descriptions and wordy words are still a problem.
Things get even more enigmatic (and maybe a little confusing) in this next part.

It's too drat long, so I moved it to its own thread.

The Second Division (1117 words) entry #2

I'm going to add more to this story, so I might as well dump future additions in there.

theworstname fucked around with this message at 12:52 on Feb 25, 2013

# ? Feb 24, 2013 13:25

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# ? Apr 25, 2024 06:32

Jeza: Feb 13, 2011; The cries of the dead are terrible indeed; you should try not to hear them.

Prologue

Rain lashed the windows relentlessly, rattling the panes. Lightning blazed across the heavens and thunder rumbled like some ancient evil. General Braunschweig trembled at every noise under his covers. Veteran of a dozen campaigns over his long and illustrious career but never before had he felt a fear like this. The howling wind played the chimney like a whistle while the familiar creaks and groans of his family seat taunted him. It was the waiting he couldn't bear - too much for an old soldier like himself.

He wrenched the duvet aside and dropped his feet into his bedside slippers. Ridiculous in nightgown and cap he shuffled to the umbrella stand where he kept his old sabre. As his fingers settled into their well-worn grooves on the hilt he felt some calm return. It looked like tonight was going to be another sleepless vigil. It had been a grave mistake getting involved with those ambitious upstarts. He ambled across to his oft-visited liquor cabinet and poured himself a generous brandy. '54 Leipzburg Reserve, his secret weapon for occasions such as these. He figured it might go some way to stopping the tremors, but even if it didn't; he took a long slug from the tumbler and wiped his mouth . Butter-smooth, as always. He had once joked, half-seriously, that Leipzburg was the only friend he could truly rely on.

He sunk down into his old armchair. It creaked and the red leather cushions wheezed and surrendered with a sigh to accommodate him. The firelight played through the amber liquid in his glass, casting warm scythes of light across his trembling hand. He watched it shake detachedly. It was a sobering window into his own past. The missing chunk from his index finger - shrapnel from a misfiring cannon had ripped that away at Alacampha. The dark lateral scar from when that Tarkan officer had gone for him with one of their brutal scimitars. The permanent purplish powder scorch from when a mortar had exploded mere feet away from him at Belkos. Even still, those wounds were slight compared to the savaging time had wrought upon his hands. Yellowing skin, black liver spots and gangrenous looking veins ruptured up from inside, all vying for prominence. His physical appearance was abhorrent to him.

Time. One enemy he couldn't fight with conventional means. Perhaps if he hadn't been so averse to aging gracefully he wouldn't have got into this mess into the first place. Hubris and fear had brought him here. He had once remarked that there was nothing more pathetic and undignified than an old man begging for his life. True words � was what he was doing so different? But show him a man his age who wouldn't have taken the opportunity if it had presented itself. Or perhaps his principles had simply crumbled into dust, he considered darkly. He really had grown old. With that, he necked the rest of the brandy.

The brandy worked its magic and his sabre stopped rattling in its scabbard. Steadiness regained, if not his total composure, he walked to the door.

�Report Corporal,� he barked at the man he had stationed at his door.

There was no reply.

�Corporal, report,� he spoke a little louder, the tremors edging back into his voice.

Still there was no reply.

Sabre at the ready, he swallowed, and slowly turned the door-handle until the latch clicked. He jerked the door open in a quick motion, hoping to catch off-guard anybody lying in wait. But the corridor was empty. No guard, no phantom assassin. Just the sound of the rain on the windows and the glow from the gas lamps. Perhaps the Corporal had merely gone to relieve himself. If he had abandoned his post, by God, he would see him cleaning latrines for a full year. The sabre in his arm drooped as he untensed.

Then, the gaslamp at the furthest end of the corridor was snuffed out. The General blinked, unsure if his aged eyes were playing tricks on him. He gripped his sword tightly once more and strained to see into the murky distance. The next gaslamp along flickered out of existence as he watched. And then like dominoes they died each in turn faster and faster, one by one, until they had all ceased burning. He took several steps backwards, panic seizing his heart and squeezing tight. He felt short of breath. A cold draft blew in from the end of the hall, giving him goosebumps.

�Oh God...� he whispered to himself. Whatever good prayers might do for him now.

The light disappeared - the fire in his bedroom suddenly extinguished - and he was plunged into total darkness. He drew his sabre with a metalline aspiration and dropped the scabbard with a loud clatter.

�Who's there!� he shouted, bravado the last refuge from terror. His words were eaten by the blackness. The only sound was that of the wind and rain. Lightning flashed. In the brief brilliance, something appeared at the end of the corridor. A hunched silhouette of a man, swaying. The light from the flash died away but he could still see something there. A man-shaped illuminance. A peal of thunder grumbled. The silhouette lurched from side to side like a drunkard.

Then it moved. It staggered towards him, horribly slow yet with inexorable intent. General Braunschweig was rooted to the spot, hypnotised by what he was witnessing. The light from the figure grew brighter and it became harder and harder to look at directly. The carpet beneath it began to scorch and smoke. As it got closer, the outer edges became indistinct, less and less human with every step. It began to bubble and drip liquid light. The curtains ignited at its passing.

�I'm not the one you want!� screamed the General towards it �It wasn't me, I was dragged into this. I don't care about the box or its miserable secrets! Leave me be!�

At his shout reverberated throughout the house, the apparition flickered and disappeared like a snuffed candle. The General blinked, agog. Blue and white wraiths danced before his eyes from the sudden absence. For a cruel moment, relief washed over him. Had it left him in peace? He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. As he did, he felt an unnatural warmth behind him. And he knew it was not the warmth of his rekindled fireplace. He turned slowly, dreading. He opened his eyes and was face to face with an abomination. It groaned and burbled, a bright white molten man. The neon effervescence of its skin gave off an oppressive heat and hissed like a snake. The General stared, going blind, into the area where its eyes ought to be.

�What are you?� he whispered.

The nightmare-being didn't speak. It emitted a tortured screech. The volume and dissonance of it conjured up a storm in the room, ripping books from the shelves and smashing bottles and glasses in a deafening fury. In the eye of the storm stood the General and the monster, stock still. General Braunschweig couldn't see, couldn't hear, but he felt the thing wrap him in its liquescent grasp. In a seething column of smoke and fire, the General burned.

This is a Prologue which is the hook for something I am writing. The General is an irrelevant bit-part character and doesn't come up again other than maybe in an oblique reference or two (in my head anyway), so I want this piece to work as a standalone thing that grabs interest while also straddling the line between making the character forgettable but not hollow. Does it grab your interest? Is it crap? Lay it on me.

# ? Feb 26, 2013 18:56

autism ZX spectrum: Feb 8, 2007; by Lowtax; Fun Shoe

I really disliked the General at first because of the trembling under covers in a storm thing. What a wuss. It made me think of him way differently than what the rest of the story would have be believe. I know he's supposed to be scared, but it's really hard to see him as a scared man in the first bit. He seems kind of like an old codger or a bumbling fool.

Maybe something like showing us his reactions to things going on instead of telling us he's scared?

I feel really bad ripping into it, 'cause the more I read it the more I like it. It really comes into itself in the second half, and it gets really good. As a hook? I'd rework it. If it's any help, whatever you did in your latest TD entry worked wonders. Edge of my seat the whole way through.

# ? Feb 27, 2013 05:44

Dr. Kloctopussy: Apr 22, 2003; "It's time....to DIE!"

Why hook us with an irrelevant character? Why can't you just start in with the main story? In my opinion, irrelevant character prologues need a HUGE justification. I can't say you don't have one, since I don't know the whole story, but make drat sure you have one. A good example, in my opinion, is the prologue in Game of Thrones (yeah, I'm totally going there), because 1) the moderately irrelevant character actually sets up the first, incredibly prophetic first scene (Ned killing the deserter) and 2) it establishes that "here be magics!" in a story which cannot, in it's own narrative pacing, get to the magics until very far into the book.

Despite all my comments below, this is fairly on par with the random (published) fantasy I pick up from time-to-time.

Jeza posted:

Prologue

Rain lashed the windows relentlessly, rattling the panes. Lightning blazed across the heavens and thunder rumbled like some ancient evil. IT WAS A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT (but more seriously, all of these phrases, and the existence of the storm reek of cliche) General Braunschweig trembled at every noise under his covers. (The noises were under his covers?) Veteran of a dozen campaigns over his long and illustrious career but never before had he felt a fear like this. (Grammatical Error: It should be "he was a veteran...." I guess you are trying to avoid the passive voice, but leaving it out makes the sentence not work. The howling wind played the chimney like a whistle while the familiar creaks and groans of his family seat taunted him. It was the waiting he couldn't bear - too much for an old soldier like himself.

He wrenched the duvet aside and dropped his feet into his bedside slippers. Ridiculous in nightgown and cap he shuffled to the umbrella stand where he kept his old sabre. As his fingers settled into their well-worn grooves on the hilt he felt some calm return. It looked like tonight was going to be another sleepless vigil. It had been a grave mistake getting involved with those ambitious upstarts. He ambled does a man preparing for yet another sleepless night, kept awake by anxiety and fear, really amble? across to his oft-visited liquor cabinet and poured himself a generous brandy. '54 Leipzburg Reserve, his secret weapon for occasions such as these. He figured it might go some way to stopping the tremors, but even if it didn't I like this stop; he took a long slug from the tumbler and wiped his mouth . Butter-smooth, as always. He had once joked, half-seriously, I like this joke, but the over-explanation leaves it cold that Leipzburg was the only friend he could truly rely on.

He sunk down into his old armchair. It creaked and the red leather cushions wheezed and surrendered with a sigh to accommodate him. The firelight played through the amber liquid in his glass, casting warm scythes of light across his trembling hand. He watched it shake detachedly. It was a sobering window into his own past. The missing chunk from his index finger - shrapnel from a misfiring cannon had ripped that away at Alacampha. The dark lateral scar from when that Tarkan officer had gone for him with one of their brutal scimitars. The permanent purplish powder scorch from when a mortar had exploded mere feet away from him at Belkos. I like the hand-injury list, but I think it would be improved if it was more methodical, reflecting his military mind, e.g. "Missing chunk from index finger - shrapnel from a misfiring cannon at Alacampha. Dark lateral scar - a Tarkan officer with a scimitar. Powder scorch - an ill-timed mortar at Belkos. You get the idea. ~~Even~~ still, those wounds were slight compared to the savaging time had wrought upon his hands. Yellowing skin, black liver spots and gangrenous looking veins ruptured up from inside, all vying for prominence. His physical appearance was abhorrent to him.

Time. One enemy he couldn't fight with conventional means. Perhaps if he hadn't been so averse to aging gracefully he wouldn't have got into this mess into the first place. Hubris and fear had brought him here. He had once remarked that there was nothing more pathetic and undignified than an old man begging for his life. True words � was what he was doing so different? But show him a man his age who wouldn't have taken the opportunity if it had presented itself. Or perhaps his principles had simply crumbled into dust, he considered darkly. He really had grown old. With that, he necked the rest of the brandy. This paragraph is the crux of the General's fear and crisis. It's not quite strong enough to carry its purpose, and it's a bit lost after the preceding paragraphs. I do like the strong start of just Time.

The brandy worked its magic and his sabre stopped rattling in its scabbard. Steadiness regained, if not his total composure, he walked to the door.

�Report Corporal,� he barked at the man he had stationed at his door.

There was no reply.

�Corporal, report,� he spoke a little louder, the tremors edging back into his voice.

Still there was no reply.

Sabre at the ready, he swallowed, and slowly turned the door-handle until the latch clicked. He jerked the door open in a quick motion, hoping to catch off-guard anybody lying in wait. But the corridor was empty. No guard, no phantom assassin. Just the sound of the rain on the windows and the glow from the gas lamps. Perhaps the Corporal had merely gone to relieve himself. If he had abandoned his post, by God, he would see him cleaning latrines for a full year. The sabre in his arm drooped as he ~~untensed~~relaxed?.Good paragraph

Then, the gaslamp at the furthest end of the corridor was snuffed out. The General blinked, unsure if his aged eyes were playing tricks on him. He gripped his sword tightly once more and strained to see into the murky distance. The next gaslamp along flickered out of existence as he watched. And then like dominoes they died each in turn faster and faster, one by one, until they had all ceased burning. He took several steps backwards, panic seizing his heart and squeezing tight. He felt short of breath. weak, passive sentence at the height of action A cold draft blew in from the end of the hall, giving him goosebumps.

�Oh God...� he whispered to himself. Whatever good prayers might do for him now.

The light disappeared - the fire in his bedroom suddenly extinguished - and he was plunged into total darkness.cliche He drew his sabre with a metalline aspirationNO. and dropped the scabbard with a loud clatter.

�Who's there!� he shouted, bravado the last refuge from terror. His words were eaten by the blackness. The only sound was ~~that of~~ the wind and rain. Lightning flashed. In the brief brilliance, something appeared at the end of the corridor. A hunched silhouette of a man, swaying. The light from the flash died away but he could still see ~~something~~ it there. A man-shaped illuminance. A peal of thunder grumbled. The silhouette lurched from side to side like a drunkard.

Then it moved. It staggered towards him, horribly slow yet with inexorable intent. General Braunschweig was rooted to the spotcliche, hypnotised by what he was witnessingtoo passive. The light from the figure grew brighter and it became harder and harder to look at directlytoo passive. The carpet beneath it began to scorch and smoke. As it ~~got~~drew? closer, the outer edges became indistinct, less and less human with every step. It began to bubble and drip liquid light. The curtains ignited at its passing.

�I'm not the one you want!� screamed the General ~~towards it~~ �It wasn't me, I was dragged into this. I don't care about the box or its miserable secrets! Leave me be!�

AtAS his shout reverberated throughout the house, the apparition flickered and disappeared like a snuffedsecond use of word "snuffed" in too short a passage to support it candle. The General blinked, agog. Blue and white wraiths danced before his eyes from the sudden absence. For a cruel moment, relief washed over him. Had it left him in peace? He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. As he did, he felt an unnatural warmth behind him. And he knew it was not the warmth of his rekindled fireplace. He turned slowly, dreading. He opened his eyes and was face to face with an abomination. It groaned and burbled, a bright white molten man. The neon effervescenceNO. Does neon even make sense in the context of the story? of its skin gave off an oppressive heat and hissed like a snake. The General stared, going blind, into the area where its eyes ought to be.

�What are you?� he whispered.

The nightmare~~-being~~ didn't speak. It emitted a tortured screech. The volume and dissonance of it conjured up a storm in the room, ripping books from the shelves and smashing bottles and glasses in a deafening fury. In the eye of the storm stood the General and the monster, stock still. General Braunschweig couldn't see, couldn't hear, but he felt the thing wrap him in its liquescentNO grasp. In a seething column of smoke and fire, the General burned.

This is a Prologue which is the hook for something I am writing. The General is an irrelevant bit-part character and doesn't come up again other than maybe in an oblique reference or two (in my head anyway), so I want this piece to work as a standalone thing that grabs interest while also straddling the line between making the character forgettable but not hollow. Does it grab your interest? Is it crap? Lay it on me.

Interest piqued: Medium. If the box, its contents, and the ambitious upstarts don't play a major role, then I'm pissed.
Crap: No.
In sum: my biggest concerns are with the purpose of the prologue in general, and why make it about an otherwise irrelevant character? You don't need to justify it to me here--it obviously depends greatly on the entire body of writing. But answer it for yourself OR PERISH.

I also feel like the first half can be tightened up considerably, and the overall feel/tone could be improved. By that I mean either give us a better feel for the world or put us deeper into the mind of the General. Your strongest prose is when the words come directly from the General: "and if it didn't;" "Time. One enemy he couldn't fight with conventional means." "Whatever good prayers might do for him now." There is only one view-point character in this section, and I think tightening your narrative style to his thoughts would provide greater zest.

# ? Feb 27, 2013 06:51

sebmojo: Oct 23, 2010; Legit Cyberpunk

Jeza posted:

Prologue

This is crap. Don't tie an adjective to every noun. Don't have a prologue like this. Do make an old general more of a badass, unless he's an explicit coward.

# ? Feb 27, 2013 08:46

theworstname: Jun 9, 2011; Spider Robinson's posterior.

I kind of liked it. A little bit camp, a little bit Lovecraftian horror, like an Indiana Jones or Hell Boy movie.
Those silly Nazis and their meddling in things paranormal, when will they ever learn?

Unless the details about the bit-part General are especially relevant to the rest of the story, half of the words in the prologue can safely be eliminated.

theworstname fucked around with this message at 11:01 on Feb 27, 2013

# ? Feb 27, 2013 09:53

Jeza: Feb 13, 2011; The cries of the dead are terrible indeed; you should try not to hear them.

Thanks for the input. What happens to the guy is relevant, just not the guy himself. And yes the box is the major plot point, so no worries on that front.

I only wrote this prologue as a taster of things to come. I did actually post what would have been the original start of my story as its own thread here months ago, but feedback was that really it was too boring. Since then I have spiced up that chapter a little, but really I want the whole thing to start slow and build up into a crescendo. So the cut and thrust of why I put this in is was essentially "Hey guys! Look! Fun stuff will happen if you wait a bit!"

Patronising? Maybe. But I'll hold off before scrapping it.

Things that I'll be aiming to change: Redress the whole character issue of the grizzled-but-cowardly general, tighten up first half, cut some adjectives to appease sebmojo and try to nail down a proper tone. It is so, so easy to fall into the trap of tongue in cheek fantasy tropes and really I want to avoid them at all costs, at least at the start. I think impersonal horror would work better overall, so I'll try to cut the Hollywood.

Shout-out to Kloctopussy, thanks for the line-edit. I'll be incorporating most of that stuff.

# ? Feb 27, 2013 12:05

Martello: Apr 29, 2012; by XyloJW

Dr. Kloctopussy posted:

a crit

Thunderdome misses you.

# ? Feb 27, 2013 12:11

Dr. Kloctopussy: Apr 22, 2003; "It's time....to DIE!"

Martello posted:

Thunderdome misses you.

I miss Thunderdome

Last day of the bar exam tomorrow. I'll be there next week.

# ? Feb 27, 2013 18:01

Martello: Apr 29, 2012; by XyloJW

Dr. Kloctopussy posted:

bar exam

# ? Feb 27, 2013 18:17

Phil Moscowitz: Feb 19, 2007; If blood be the price of admiralty,
Lord God, we ha' paid in full!

Dr. Kloctopussy posted:

Last day of the bar exam tomorrow.

Don't let legal writing kill your prose!

Here are some comments on the prologue:

Jeza posted:

Prologue

Rain lashed the windows relentlessly, rattling the panes. Lightning blazed across the heavens [a little trite here] and thunder rumbled like some ancient evil. General Braunschweig trembled at every noise under his covers. Veteran of a dozen campaigns over his long and illustrious career ~~but~~, never before had he felt a fear like this. The ~~howling~~ wind played the chimney like a whistle [if it's whistling, we don't need the howling] while the familiar creaks and groans of his family seat taunted him. It was the waiting he couldn't bear - too much for an old soldier like himself.

He wrenched the duvet aside and dropped his feet into his bedside slippers. Ridiculous in nightgown and cap he shuffled to the umbrella stand where he kept his old sabre. As his fingers settled into their well-worn grooves on the hilt he felt some calm return. It looked like tonight ~~was going to~~would be another sleepless vigil. ~~It had been~~He'd made a grave mistake getting involved with those ambitious upstarts.[I know this is a prologue and presumably we will learn more about these upstarts, but it's a throwaway line.] He ambled across to his oft-visited liquor cabinet and poured himself a generous brandy. '54 Leipzburg Reserve, his secret weapon for occasions such as these. He figured it might go some way to stopping the tremors, but even if it didn't; he took a long slug from the tumbler and wiped his mouth . Butter-smooth, as always. He had once joked, half-seriously, that Leipzburg was the only friend he could truly rely on.[More clich� � oh alcohol, my only real friend...]

He sunk down into his old armchair. It creaked and the red leather cushions wheezed and ~~surrendered with a sigh to accommodate him~~ accommodated him with a sigh. ~~The~~ Firelight played through the amber liquid in his glass, casting warm scythes of light [ehhh] across his trembling hand. He watched it shake detachedly [Is his hand shaking so hard it's about to fall off??] ~~. It was~~, a sobering window into his ~~own~~ past. The missing chunk from his index finger - shrapnel from a misfiring cannon had ripped that away at Alacampha. The dark lateral scar from when that Tarkan officer had gone for him with one of their brutal scimitars. The permanent purplish powder scorch from when a mortar had exploded mere feet away from him at Belkos. Even still, those wounds were slight compared to the savaging time had wrought upon his hands. Yellowing skin, black liver spots and gangrenous-looking veins ruptured up from inside [ruptured implies broken skin, but I doubt that's what you meant], all vying for prominence. His physical appearance was abhorrent to him. [I think you could remove this or otherwise improve its passivity.]

Time. One enemy he couldn't fight with conventional means. Perhaps if he hadn't been so averse to aging gracefully he wouldn't have got into this mess into the first place. ~~Hubris and fear had brought him here. He had once remarked~~ Once, he'd known that there was nothing more pathetic and undignified than an old man begging for his life. ~~True words � was what he was doing so~~Was this hubris any different?[�]

Maybe not, he thought. But show ~~him~~me a man ~~his~~my age who wouldn't have taken the opportunity if it had presented itself.[�]

Or ~~perhaps his~~maybe your principles ~~had~~have simply crumbled into dust.~~, he considered darkly.~~[Terrible adverb use, he thought elucidatingly]. ~~He really had grown old. With that, he~~He necked the rest of the brandy.

The brandy [repetition - maybe use "booze" or another term] worked its magic and his sabre stopped rattling in its scabbard. Steadiness regained, if not his total composure, he walked to the door.

�Report, Corporal,� he barked at the man he had stationed at his door.

There was no reply.

�Corporal, report,� he spoke a little louder, the tremors edging back into his voice.

Still there was no reply.

Sabre at the ready, he swallowed, and slowly turned the door-handle ~~until the latch clicked.~~. He jerked the door open in a quick motion, hoping to catch off-guard anybody lying in wait. But the corridor was empty. No guard, no phantom assassin. Just the sound of the rain on the windows and the glow from the gaslamps. [one word] Perhaps the Corporal had merely gone to relieve himself. If he had abandoned his post, by God, hethe General would see him cleaning latrines for a full year. [more clich�. why not peeling potatoes? I'm sure there are more interesting and painful punishments that could be meted out to guards who abandon their obviously endangered officers. The sabre in his arm drooped as he untensed.

Then, the gaslamp at the furthest end of the corridor was snuffed out. The General blinked, unsure if his aged eyes were playing tricks on him. He [/s]gripped his sword tightly[/s] tightened the grip on his sword once more and strained to see into the murky distance. The next gaslamp along flickered out of existence, and then another. ~~as he watched.~~ And then like dominoes they died, each in turn faster and faster, ~~one by one,~~ until they had all ceased burning. He took several steps backwards, panic seizing his heart and squeezing tight. ~~He felt short of breath.~~ A cold draft blew in from the end of the hall, giving him goosebumps.

�Oh God...� he whispered to himself. Whatever good prayers might do for him now.

~~The light disappeared - the~~The fire in his bedroom suddenly extinguished and he was plunged him into total darkness.[In addition to being passive, another clich�. Maybe some other verb besides plunging?] He drew his sabre with a metalline aspiration [No idea what this means.] and dropped the scabbard with a ~~loud~~ clatter. [Is there another kind of clatter?]

�Who's there!� he shouted, bravado the last refuge from terror. His words were eaten by the blackness. The only sound was that of the wind and rain. Lightning flashed. In the brief brilliance, something appeared at the end of the corridor. A hunched silhouette of a man, swaying. The light from the flash died away but he could still see something there. A man-shaped illuminance. A peal of thunder grumbled. The silhouette lurched from side to side like a drunkard.

Then it moved. [I thought it was already swaying, lurching from side to side?] It staggered towards him, ~~horribly slow yet with inexorable intent.~~[I really don't think so.] General Braunschweig was rooted to the spot, hypnotised by what he was witnessing. The light from the figure grew brighter and it became harder and harder to look at directly. The carpet beneath it began to scorch and smoke. As it got closer, the outer edges became indistinct, less and less human with every step. It began to bubble and drip liquid light. The curtains ignited at its passing. [There is really so much good here that it's painful to see the bad. Igniting the curtains, scorching the carpet, dripping liquid light, growing bright and indistinct--all good. Too much "began to" and "became," though.]

�I'm not the one you want!� screamed the General towards it �It wasn't me, I was dragged into this. I don't care about the box or its miserable secrets! Leave me be!�

At his shout reverberated throughout the house, the apparition flickered and disappeared like a snuffed candle. The General blinked, agog. Blue and white wraiths danced before his eyes from the sudden absence. For a cruel moment, relief washed over him. Had it left him in peace? He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. ~~As he did, he felt an unnatural warmth behind him. And he knew it was not the warmth of his rekindled fireplace. He turned slowly, dreading.~~ [You can do much better with this realization that death is imminent. And is he really not going to open his eyes before turning around?] He opened his eyes and was face to face with an abomination. It groaned and burbled, a bright white molten man. The neon effervescence of its skin gave off an oppressive heat and hissed like a snake.Just no. Oppressive heat? The General stared, going blind, into the area where its eyes ought to be. [Something about this doesn't work. He's going blind! That's insane and awesome; scary, visceral poo poo. Make it feel that way!]

�What are you?� he whispered.

The nightmare-being didn't speak. It emitted a tortured screech.[Is it a computer or something? Why is it emitting sound?] The volume and dissonance of it conjured up a storm in the room, ripping books from the shelves and smashing bottles and glasses in a deafening fury. In the eye of the storm stood the General and the monster, stock still. General Braunschweig couldn't see, couldn't hear, but he felt the thing wrap him in its liquescent [Umm...] grasp. In a seething column of smoke and fire, the General burned. [Nice.]

[Not one use of "immolation" in this whole thing? You left that one on the table.]

It might not seem like it, but I like this. The apparition is good and disturbing. The way it approaches is a little clich�d in general and I have no idea who the General is or why I should care about him, despite some characterization you put in there.

How does the box have anything to do with anything? Does he recognize the immolated man? Did he always know that this would happen to him, that the monster would come for him? Seems like it but he's oddly surprised by it all. Great way to kill someone though.

# ? Feb 27, 2013 21:31

Great Rumbler: Jan 30, 2013; For I am a dog, you see.

quote:

�What are you?� he whispered.

"I'm Gotham's reckoning."

Sorry, I will never be able to read that line without thinking of TDKR.

# ? Feb 27, 2013 21:46

Phil Moscowitz: Feb 19, 2007; If blood be the price of admiralty,
Lord God, we ha' paid in full!

Also, Jeza, don't talk about saber rattling in a literal sense. It's a well-known idiom and looks silly when you use it to mean the guy is actually shaking his sword and making a noise with it.

# ? Feb 27, 2013 22:06

Martello: Apr 29, 2012; by XyloJW

Also an actual combat-ready saber shouldn't rattle.

# ? Feb 27, 2013 22:07

Phil Moscowitz: Feb 19, 2007; If blood be the price of admiralty,
Lord God, we ha' paid in full!

I've rattled a saber in its scabbard before.

Oh I see your edit. Mine was ceremonial so...yeah.

# ? Feb 27, 2013 22:08

Jeza: Feb 13, 2011; The cries of the dead are terrible indeed; you should try not to hear them.

Prologue - MARK TWO?

Rain lashed the windows, rattling the panes and lightning ignited thick swathes of cloud. General Braunschweig looked out gravely. It was eerie, out-of-season weather. He was well on his way to finishing his third brandy, but still he could feel his fingers refusing to be still. The palm of his other hand rested on the pommel of his sabre. It had been a mistake getting involved with those ambitious upstarts.

He went to refill his glass from the dwindling reservoir in the decanter and retired to his armchair. The cushions wheezed and surrendered with a sigh to accommodate him. The firelight cast scythes of light across his trembling hand. He watched it shake. It was a sobering window into his own past. The missing chunk from his index finger - shrapnel from a misfired cannon at Alacampha. The dark lateral scar across the back � the scimitar slash of a Tarkan officer. The purplish powder scorch - a chance mortar at Belkos. An ancient map of scar-tissue that you could follow back through the decades. Yet those wounds were slight compared to the savaging time had wrought upon his hands. Yellowed skin, liver spots and gangrenous looking veins ruptured up from inside, all vying for prominence. His physical appearance was an abhorrence to him.

Time. One enemy he couldn't fight with conventional means. If he hadn't been so averse to aging gracefully he wouldn't have gotten into this mess. He remembered remarking once that there was nothing more pathetic and undignified than an old man begging for his life. True words � he thought it still � but was what he was doing so different?

He clutched his tumbler a little tighter. Perhaps his principles had wasted away like the rest of him. Perhaps our dignity withers and fails like the rest of us. Was he then to be blamed? He felt bitterness rise. Show him the man in his place who wouldn't have done the same, he wanted to shout. Show him what the better man would have done. He necked the rest of the brandy in anger, then sagged. It was too late now for regrets and remonstrations. His dignity knew that much at least.

He shook his head and walked to the door.

�Report Corporal,� he commanded the man stationed outside.

There was no reply.

�Corporal, report,� he spoke a little louder, alcohol infused bravado draining from his voice.

Still there was no reply.

Sabre at the ready, he swallowed, and slowly turned the door-handle until the latch clicked. He jerked the door open in a quick motion, hoping to catch off-guard anybody lying in wait. But the corridor was empty. No guard, no phantom assassin. Just the sound of the rain and the glow from the gas lamps. If he had abandoned his post, by God, the man would regret it. The sabre in his arm drooped as he relaxed. Perhaps the man had simply gone to relieve himself.

Then, the gaslamp at the furthest end of the corridor was snuffed out. The General blinked, unsure if his aged eyes were playing tricks on him. He tightened his grip on his sword once more and strained to see. The next gaslamp along flickered out of existence as he watched. There was no mistaking it. And then like dominoes they died, each in turn faster and faster, one by one, until they had all ceased burning. He took several steps backwards, panic seizing his heart and squeezing tight. A cold draft blew in from the end of the hall.

He began to whisper a prayer but stopped himself. Whatever had come for Gerhardt and Albert had come for him. And their prayers had done them no good at all.

His only source of light - the fire in his bedroom � was suddenly extinguished and he was engulfed by darkness. He drew his inadequate sabre dropped the scabbard with a loud clatter.

�Who's there!� he shouted.

His words were eaten by the blackness. Still the only sounds were the wind and the rain. Lightning flashed. In the brief brilliance, something appeared at the end of the corridor. A hunched silhouette of a man, swaying. The light from the flash died away but he could still see it there. A man-shaped illuminance.

The silhouette lurched from side to side like a drunkard. Then it began to stagger towards him, horribly slow yet with inexorable intent. General Braunschweig was rooted to the spot. It was hypnotic. The light from the figure grew brighter and brighter until he had to shield his eyes. The carpet beneath it began to scorch and smoke. As it got closer, the outer edges became indistinct, less and less human with every step. It bubbled and dripped liquid light. The curtains ignited at its passing.

�Leave me be!� screamed the General as he backed away �I don't have it, I never had it!�

At his shout, the apparition flickered and disappeared. The General blinked. Blue and white wraiths danced before his eyes from the sudden absence. For a cruel moment, relief washed over him. Had it left him in peace? He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. As he did, he felt an unnatural warmth behind him. And he knew it was not the warmth of his rekindled fireplace. Dread filled him. He turned, and was face to face with an abomination. It was a nightmare. It looked like man who had fallen into boiling lead. It stumbled towards him groaning and burbling, thick white gobs of its skin sloughing off onto the floor. It was a living furnace. The General felt his skin begin the blister and his eyes drying in their sockets. The sheer intensity of the light rendered him blind.

He swung his sabre wildly, trying to fend it off, but it was useless. The apparition released a tortured wail. The volume and dissonance of it seemed to bring the storm into the room, ripping books from the shelves and smashing glass in a deafening fury. In the eye of the maelstrom the monster and the General stood together. General Braunschweig couldn't see, couldn't hear. He shouted incoherently. He felt the thing wrap him in its melting grasp. And in a seething column of smoke and fire, the General burned.

Sheer weight of crits encouraged me to get stuck right back into this. I'd like to think I ticked most of the boxes that I set for myself but in doing so I probably made a whole bunch more boxes to tick. To me this feels tighter and slicker, then again that might just be a case of pride before the fall.

P.S. Sabres can totally rattle so :frogout:

, but I too wondered whether it was too idiomatic.

Jeza fucked around with this message at 00:55 on Feb 28, 2013

# ? Feb 28, 2013 00:35

autism ZX spectrum: Feb 8, 2007; by Lowtax; Fun Shoe

Jeza posted:

Prologue - MARK TWO?

Rain lashed the windows relentlesslyI'd ditch 'relentlessly'. If it's rattling the panes, it's pretty serious., rattling the panes. Lightning sliced up and ignitedmaybe either sliced up or ignited but not both? It's hard to build a mental picture otherwise. I like ignited more, personally the thick swathes of cloud. General Braunschweig looked out gravely. It was eerie, out-of-season weather. Ominous, even.please don't tell me it's ominous, invoking pathetic fallacy is enough He was well on his way to finishing his third brandy, but still he could feel his fingers refusing to be still. The palm of his other hand rested on the pommel of his sabre. It had been a mistake getting involved with those ambitious upstarts.

The rest of it I can't really find fault with, but my fine-toothed comb isn't as fine as some others.

# ? Feb 28, 2013 00:49

Jeza: Feb 13, 2011; The cries of the dead are terrible indeed; you should try not to hear them.

Nubile Hillock posted:

The rest of it I can't really find fault with, but my fine-toothed comb isn't as fine as some others.

Good calls.

# ? Feb 28, 2013 00:56

Phil Moscowitz: Feb 19, 2007; If blood be the price of admiralty,
Lord God, we ha' paid in full!

I'm not going to nitpick. I think it's better, but I still don't get why you have him asking about himself in the third person.

quote:

He clutched his tumbler a little tighter. Perhaps his principles had wasted away like the rest of him. Perhaps our dignity withers and fails like the rest of us. Was he then to be blamed? He felt bitterness rise. Show him the man in his place who wouldn't have done the same, he wanted to shout. Show him what the better man would have done. He necked the rest of the brandy in anger, then sagged. It was too late now for regrets and remonstrations. His dignity knew that much at least.

Why would he want to shout, "Show him the man in his place who wouldn't have done the same?"

Wouldn't he shout, presumably to himself or to God or whatever, "Show me the man in my place who wouldn't have done the same? Show me what the better man would've done!"

I like these rewrites:

quote:

The silhouette lurched from side to side like a drunkard. Then it began to stagger towards him, horribly slow yet with inexorable intent. General Braunschweig was rooted to the spot. It was hypnotic. The light from the figure grew brighter and brighter until he had to shield his eyes. The carpet beneath it began to scorch and smoke. As it got closer, the outer edges became indistinct, less and less human with every step. It bubbled and dripped liquid light. The curtains ignited at its passing.

(Except the inexorable intent stuff, but hey...your prerogative.)

quote:

�Leave me be!� screamed the General as he backed away �I don't have it, I never had it!�

At his shout, the apparition flickered and disappeared. The General blinked. Blue and white wraiths danced before his eyes from the sudden absence. For a cruel moment, relief washed over him. Had it left him in peace? He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. As he did, he felt an unnatural warmth behind him. And he knew it was not the warmth of his rekindled fireplace. Dread filled him. He turned, and was face to face with an abomination. It was a nightmare. It looked like man who had fallen into boiling lead. It stumbled towards him groaning and burbling, thick white gobs of its skin sloughing off onto the floor. It was a living furnace. The General felt his skin begin the blister and his eyes drying in their sockets. The sheer intensity of the light rendered him blind.

Much cooler. "I don't have it, never had it," is intriguing to me. I also think the disappearance works here--has it left him alone, now that he's denied ever having it? It may not be totally unique but I like the way it's done.

Also much more brutal, the way he goes blind--his eyes are drying in their sockets! loving great. You don't even have to tell me he's going blind, I get it! MAYBE YOU CAN MAKE HIS EYEBALLS BLISTER. Now that's an image--eyelids crackling, lashes singing off; eyeballs blistering in their sockets.

# ? Feb 28, 2013 01:47

sebmojo: Oct 23, 2010; Legit Cyberpunk

Jeza posted:

Prologue - MARK TWO?

Rain lashed the windows, rattling the panes. General Braunschweig looked out as lightning ignited a thick swathe of cloud. It was eerie, out-of-season weather. He was on his third brandy, his fingers were twitching on the cool glass. The palm of his other hand rested on the pommel of his sabre. It had been a mistake getting involved with those ambitious upstarts.

He refilled his glass and retired to his armchair. The cushions wheezed and surrendered with a sigh to accommodate him. The firelight cast scythes of light across his trembling hand. He watched it shake. It was a sobering window into his own past. The missing chunk from his index finger - shrapnel from a misfired cannon at Alacampha. The dark lateral scar across the back � the scimitar slash of a Tarkan officer. The purplish powder scorch - a chance mortar at Belkos. An ancient map of scar-tissue that you could follow back through the decades. Yet those wounds were slight compared to the savaging time had wrought upon his hands. Yellowed skin, liver spots and gangrenous looking veins ruptured up from inside, all vying for prominence. His physical appearance was an abhorrence to him.

Time. One enemy he couldn't fight with conventional means. If he hadn't been so averse to aging gracefully he wouldn't have gotten into this mess. He remembered remarking once that there was nothing more pathetic and undignified than an old man begging for his life. True words � he thought it still � but was what he was doing so different?

He clutched his tumbler a little tighter. Perhaps his principles had wasted away like the rest of him. Perhaps our dignity withers and fails like the rest of us. Was he then to be blamed? He felt bitterness rise. Show him the man in his place who wouldn't have done the same, he wanted to shout. Show him what the better man would have done. He necked the rest of the brandy in anger, then sagged. It was too late now for regrets and remonstrations. His dignity knew that much at least.

He shook his head and walked to the door.

�Report Corporal,� he commanded the man stationed outside.

There was no reply.

�Corporal, report,� he spoke a little louder, alcohol infused bravado draining from his voice.

Still there was no reply.

Sabre at the ready, he swallowed, and slowly turned the door-handle until the latch clicked. He jerked the door open in a quick motion, hoping to catch off-guard anybody lying in wait. But the corridor was empty. No guard, no phantom assassin. Just the sound of the rain and the glow from the gas lamps. If he had abandoned his post, by God, the man would regret it. The sabre in his arm drooped as he relaxed. Perhaps the man had simply gone to relieve himself.

Then, the gaslamp at the furthest end of the corridor was snuffed out. The General blinked, unsure if his aged eyes were playing tricks on him. He tightened his grip on his sword once more and strained to see. The next gaslamp along flickered out of existence as he watched. There was no mistaking it. And then like dominoes they died, each in turn faster and faster, one by one, until they had all ceased burning. He took several steps backwards, panic seizing his heart and squeezing tight. A cold draft blew in from the end of the hall.

He began to whisper a prayer but stopped himself. Whatever had come for Gerhardt and Albert had come for him. And their prayers had done them no good at all.

His only source of light - the fire in his bedroom � was suddenly extinguished and he was engulfed by darkness. He drew his inadequate sabre dropped the scabbard with a loud clatter.

�Who's there!� he shouted.

His words were eaten by the blackness. Still the only sounds were the wind and the rain. Lightning flashed. In the brief brilliance, something appeared at the end of the corridor. A hunched silhouette of a man, swaying. The light from the flash died away but he could still see it there. A man-shaped illuminance.

The silhouette lurched from side to side like a drunkard. Then it began to stagger towards him, horribly slow yet with inexorable intent. General Braunschweig was rooted to the spot. It was hypnotic. The light from the figure grew brighter and brighter until he had to shield his eyes. The carpet beneath it began to scorch and smoke. As it got closer, the outer edges became indistinct, less and less human with every step. It bubbled and dripped liquid light. The curtains ignited at its passing.

�Leave me be!� screamed the General as he backed away �I don't have it, I never had it!�

At his shout, the apparition flickered and disappeared. The General blinked. Blue and white wraiths danced before his eyes from the sudden absence. For a cruel moment, relief washed over him. Had it left him in peace? He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. As he did, he felt an unnatural warmth behind him. And he knew it was not the warmth of his rekindled fireplace. Dread filled him. He turned, and was face to face with an abomination. It was a nightmare. It looked like man who had fallen into boiling lead. It stumbled towards him groaning and burbling, thick white gobs of its skin sloughing off onto the floor. It was a living furnace. The General felt his skin begin the blister and his eyes drying in their sockets. The sheer intensity of the light rendered him blind.

He swung his sabre wildly, trying to fend it off, but it was useless. The apparition released a tortured wail. The volume and dissonance of it seemed to bring the storm into the room, ripping books from the shelves and smashing glass in a deafening fury. In the eye of the maelstrom the monster and the General stood together. General Braunschweig couldn't see, couldn't hear. He shouted incoherently. He felt the thing wrap him in its melting grasp. And in a seething column of smoke and fire, the General burned.

Sheer weight of crits encouraged me to get stuck right back into this. I'd like to think I ticked most of the boxes that I set for myself but in doing so I probably made a whole bunch more boxes to tick. To me this feels tighter and slicker, then again that might just be a case of pride before the fall.

P.S. Sabres can totally rattle so , but I too wondered whether it was too idiomatic.

This is much improved, I had a go at the first couple of paragraphs see what you think.

# ? Feb 28, 2013 02:00

autism ZX spectrum: Feb 8, 2007; by Lowtax; Fun Shoe

The 'cool' part of 'his fingers were twitching on the cool glass' really bugs me. If it's his third, the glass wouldn't be cool. I'd be more inclined to something like "his fingers still twitching against the tumbler's glass"

# ? Feb 28, 2013 02:33

SlipUp: Sep 30, 2006; stayin c o o l

Plank posted:

Toben, take two. 752 words
Not bad at all.

This is from the last page but it got overlooked. I think you go overboard on comma use. Commas are only needed in series of 3 or more terms.

For example "Toben struggled to rise, and the soldier hauled him up." should be "Toben struggled to rise and the soldier hauled him up." The comma slows down the action in the first example. (Although to be extremely picky it should be "Toben struggled to rise so the soldier hauled him up." as the "and" implies it is happening simultaneously and I assume he struggled before he was helped.) Another example is "A new cut appeared on the slave�s chest, joining a mess of bruises, welts and old scar tissue." The sequence should read "a mess of bruises, welts, and old scar tissue." Or you can flip it around and say gently caress the oxford comma and take out all of the commas before "and" but you should pick one and stick with it.

Also, temper your friend�s advice. Don't let the story bog down assigning adjectives to everything in sight trying to make it come to life. It'll just smother the story.

# ? Feb 28, 2013 20:30

sebmojo: Oct 23, 2010; Legit Cyberpunk

Nubile Hillock posted:

The 'cool' part of 'his fingers were twitching on the cool glass' really bugs me. If it's his third, the glass wouldn't be cool. I'd be more inclined to something like "his fingers still twitching against the tumbler's glass"

That's my addition and you're right, it's bad form to do that in an edit anyway.

# ? Mar 1, 2013 02:08

Jeza: Feb 13, 2011; The cries of the dead are terrible indeed; you should try not to hear them.

sebmojo posted:

This is much improved, I had a go at the first couple of paragraphs see what you think.

You know something works when you read over something and think 'that was what I wrote wasn't it?'.

Coincidentally I was reading some earlier parts of this thread and saw that you really have a disliking for Perdido Street Station. Yeah, I definitely think I know what style of writing really pushes your buttons :yum:

Might necro my old thread with some of my new stuff on this story. Please though, contain your excitement.

# ? Mar 1, 2013 22:49

SlipUp: Sep 30, 2006; stayin c o o l

The Spice of Life. 814 words.

Mandy looked over at Will. �Stay here for a second.� she said. They had just met earlier that day at a record store over a vinyl copy of The Kill�s �Midnight Boom� and hitting it off over tales of what walking clich� tormented their day to day lives when he mentioned it was his first time in the city. Mandy offered to show him around so he accepted in a way he hoped didn�t betray what little composure he had. They were going to walk to a nice bar nearby when found themselves in a dilapidated part of town.
"Sure, what's up?" He asked as he leaned against a bus stop to play inconspicuous. Mandy hinted at man in a muddy oversized hoody standing under the arch of a fire exit of the building across the street.
�I�m going to talk to this guy for a second and get some stuff to party with tonight. I�ll be right back.� She said. Will stayed put, attempting to exert cool and failing. She started across the cracked and broken street. The hooded man had been leaning against an extended horizontal soldier in the building�s brickwork when he noticed Mandy. He looked around as she approached him.
�You carrying?� She asked. The dealer�s eyes looked into hers as if sizing her up. He smirked slightly.
�Yeah maybe. How much you got?�
Will watched from across the street. He fidgeted nervously and stole a glance at the lady waiting beside him. She had an armful of groceries and thankfully was not paying him any attention. If he had a superpower, that would be it. Checking for traffic from both sides, he didn�t see any. A field in an adjacent lot was overrun weeds and trash. Nervously, he noted he was out of his element and left hoping this person he known only for a few hours knew what she was doing. Not a great start.
Mandy pulled some crumpled bills out of her pocket and handed them to the hooded man who tucked it quickly into his pants. He walked over to a nearby trashcan and reached under the garbage bag in the bin to retrieve a plain black back pack. Facing Mandy with it in hand, he unzipped it and reached in, pulling out a large Ziploc freezer bag. Inside was a large amount of green plant matter with slight notes of purple divided into several different quantities in smaller sandwich bags. The man in the hoody was too distracted with this to notice Mandy slowly reach into her jacket. Out from her pocket emerged a small canister about the dimensions of a travel size shampoo bottle. The nozzle on top one that was now staring him down from less then six inches away. Her sudden movement pulled his attention away from his drug collection and into how unpleasant his situation had now become. There was a moment of silence
"Wait--" He began as the can made its countermand. It blasted liquid fire that left an orange streak vertically across his face. The actual sound was an innocuous whisper but it was punctuated with the hooded man�s violent scream. After a few seconds he dropped to the ground clutching his face in pain. Mandy held him in her spicy embrace for a few more moments before stopping. Silently, she slipped the weapon back into its place. She liberated the dollar bills and the bag of weed, stuffed them into the backpack, and walked to Will at a brisk pace. The man in the hoody was still on the ground holding his eyes.
"You fuckin bitch! I'm goin to gently caress you up! Get back here!" The anger in his voice undermined by coughs and sobs.
"Here, hold this." Mandy said as she tossed the bag to Will. He caught it awkwardly against his chest, holding it like that for a moment. His eyes watered at the overwhelming stench of weapons grade hot sauce. Even the grocery lady was paying attention now, her eyes darting between them before intently looking away. He felt cold shock run through his fingers and toes. He had never even seen a drug dealer, much less be an accessory to robbing one. He looked back at the man.
"What about him? What if he calls the cops?" He asked with belated hesitation.
Mandy smiled at his nervousness. "gently caress him." She said reassuringly. "What is he going to say? �Help police, those teenagers stole the drugs I was trying to sell'?" She glanced back at her victim. He had managed to make it to his knees, hunched over with his face in his arms. He alternated between frenetic coughs and vulgar threats.
"Still, we better cheese it before his friends show up."
Good point, he thought. Slinging the pack over his shoulders, he hooked thumbs under the straps and they calmly walked away from the bus stop.

---

First thing I've written in years. Be harsh, I need to shake the rust off.

SlipUp fucked around with this message at 23:45 on Mar 1, 2013

# ? Mar 1, 2013 23:41

sebmojo: Oct 23, 2010; Legit Cyberpunk

Jeza posted:

Coincidentally I was reading some earlier parts of this thread and saw that you really have a disliking for Perdido Street Station. Yeah, I definitely think I know what style of writing really pushes your buttons

i actually don't mind his style as such, he's a very good writer; it's the pretentiously baroque miserablism that twists my nipples. I should read another of his to see if I like it better.

# ? Mar 2, 2013 03:54

Down With People: Oct 31, 2012; The child delights in violence.

SlipUp posted:

The Spice of Life. 814 words.

First thing: break up your paragraphs more, like so. It does wonders for readability. Second thing: I switched the first paragraphs around so that it runs together more, rather than you interrupting the conversation with exposition.

Mandy and Will had just met earlier that day at a record store over a vinyl copy of The Kill�s �Midnight Boom".~~and hitting it off~~ They hit it off over tales of what walking clich�s tormented their day-to-day lives That just seems like a really clumsy way to say it. It sounds like the cliches are actually things that walk around, tormenting them. Find a new way to say that, or cut out 'walking'. when he mentioned it was his first time in the city. Mandy offered to show him around so he accepted in a way he hoped didn�t betray what little composure he had. They were going to walk to a nice bar nearby when they found themselves in a dilapidated part of town.

Mandy looked over at Will. �Stay here for a second.� she said.

"Sure, what's up?" He asked as he leaned against a bus stop to play inconspicuous. Mandy hinted at man in a muddyCOMMA oversized hoody standing under the arch of a fire exit ~~of the building~~ Don't need that. across the street.

�I�m going to talk to this guy for a second and get some stuff to party with tonight. I�ll be right back.� She said.

Will stayed put, attempting to exert cool and failing. She started across the cracked and broken street. The hooded man had been leaning against an extended horizontal soldier This is a clunky description. Use simpler words. in the building�s brickwork when he noticed Mandy. He looked around as she approached him.

�You carrying?� She asked. The dealer�s eyes looked into hers as if sizing her up. He smirked slightly.

�YeahCOMMA maybe. How much you got?�

Will watched from across the street. He fidgeted nervously and stole a glance at the lady waiting beside him. She had an armful of groceries and thankfully was not paying him any attention. If he had a superpower, that would be it. Checking for traffic from both sides, he didn�t see any. A field in an adjacent lot was overrun weeds and trash. Nervously, he noted he was out of his element and was left hoping this person he known only for a few hours knew what she was doing. Not a great start.

Mandy pulled some crumpled bills out of her pocket and handed them to the hooded manCOMMA who tucked it quickly into his pants. He walked over to a nearby trashcan and reached under the garbage bag ~~in the bin~~ inside to retrieve a black back-pack. Facing Mandy with it in hand, he unzipped it and reached in, pulling out a large freezer bag. Inside was a large amount of green plant matter with slight notes of purple divided into several different quantities in smaller sandwich bags. Look, if you mean weed, just say weed. You're coming off as far too clinical in your attempt to be coy about what's happening.

The man in the hoody was too distracted with this to notice Mandy slowly reach into her jacket. Out from her pocket emerged a small canister about the ~~dimensions~~ size of a travel shampoo bottle. The nozzle on top ~~one that~~ was now staring him down from less then six inches away. Her sudden movement pulled his attention away from his drug collection and into how unpleasant his situation had ~~now~~ become. There was a moment of silence.

"Wait--" He began as the can ~~made its countermand.~~ sprayed him. It blasted liquid fire that left an orange streak vertically across his face. The actual sound was an innocuous whisper but it was punctuated with the hooded man�s violent scream. After a few seconds he dropped to the groundCOMMA clutching his face in pain.

Mandy held him in her spicy embrace for a few more moments before stopping. Silently, she slipped the weapon back into its place. She liberated the dollar bills and the bag of weed, stuffed them into the backpack, and walked to Will at a brisk pace. The man in the hoody was still on the ground holding his eyes.

"You fuckin' bitch! I'm goin' to gently caress you up! Get back here!" he yelled, the anger in his voice undermined by coughs and sobs.

"Here, hold this." Mandy said as she tossed the bag to Will. He caught it awkwardly against his chest. ~~holding it like that for a moment.~~ His eyes watered at the overwhelming stench of weapons-grade hot sauce. Even the grocery lady was paying attention now, her eyes darting between them before intently looking away. He felt cold shock run through his fingers and toes. He had never even seen a drug dealer, much less be an accessory to robbing one. He looked back at the man.

"What about him? What if he calls the cops?" He asked with belated hesitation.

Mandy smiled at his nervousness. "gently caress him." She said reassuringly. "What is he going to say? �Help police, those teenagers stole the drugs I was trying to sell'?" She glanced back at her victim. He had managed to make it to his knees, hunched over with his face in his arms. He alternated between frenetic coughs and vulgar threats.

"Still, we better cheese it before his friends show up."

Good point, he thought. Slinging the pack over his shoulders, he hooked thumbs under the straps and they calmly walked away from the bus stop.

You need to learn to use commas more. Your language is far too clinical and full of unnecessary poo poo, e.g. countermand, green plant matter. Also, you should decide if this is going to be seen from Will's perspective or Mandy's perspective, rather than cutting between the two.

# ? Mar 2, 2013 03:57

Jeza: Feb 13, 2011; The cries of the dead are terrible indeed; you should try not to hear them.

sebmojo posted:

i actually don't mind his style as such, he's a very good writer; it's the pretentiously baroque miserablism that twists my nipples. I should read another of his to see if I like it better.

He does tone it down some, but I'd say that is pretty much omnipresent. Could try Kraken though, it is set in London which constrains the baroque and I vaguely remember it as being not being completely miserable.

But yeah, less derail and more people posting stuff

# ? Mar 2, 2013 13:29

SlipUp: Sep 30, 2006; stayin c o o l

Down With People posted:

You need to learn to use commas more. Your language is far too clinical and full of unnecessary poo poo, e.g. countermand, green plant matter. Also, you should decide if this is going to be seen from Will's perspective or Mandy's perspective, rather than cutting between the two.

This is exactly what I was looking for, thanks!

# ? Mar 2, 2013 17:49

Tiggum: Oct 24, 2007; Your life and your quest end here.

A Battle For the Ages (245 words)

My opponent was fast and cunning, and all through dinner he goaded me ceaselessly. Twice I got up to confront him, only to find him vanished, nowhere to be found. I let him escape for the time being, more intent on eating.

After dinner I was ready to let the matter rest, but the bastard returned. I heard him to my left and turned, only to hear him retreating behind me. I spun around � he was gone.

I got up to follow, then heard him to my right. I was quick, but he was quicker still, gone again before I could catch sight of him. I picked up my weapon.

Still no sign of the enemy, so I sat down and waited. Soon he made his presence known once more. Moving quickly I blasted at his retreating back. Had I missed, or was he crawling off to die? No way to be sure, so I followed.

I stood in silence, listening for the faintest sound of my foe. There it was! He'd got behind me again! Back and forth, around and around I chased him, spraying wildly at the slightest glimpse, always a step behind.

Finally I found him at rest. He flew, but slowly. At least one of my attacks must have hit the mark. I pursued relentlessly, hitting him several more times. At last he lay dying.

I hit him with one more blast, then went to get a tissue. loving flies.

# ? Mar 12, 2013 14:34

Phil Moscowitz: Feb 19, 2007; If blood be the price of admiralty,
Lord God, we ha' paid in full!

I laughed at the payoff, but I figured out where it was going too soon. If you hold off with the "dinner" stuff you can lead us along a little more.

# ? Mar 13, 2013 22:39

Tiggum: Oct 24, 2007; Your life and your quest end here.

Phil Moscowitz posted:

I laughed at the payoff, but I figured out where it was going too soon. If you hold off with the "dinner" stuff you can lead us along a little more.

Something like this?

Tiggum posted:

My opponent was fast and cunning, and all through the evening he goaded me ceaselessly. Twice I got up to confront him, only to find him vanished, nowhere to be found. I let him escape for the time being.

I was ready to let the matter rest, but the bastard returned.

# ? Mar 14, 2013 04:04

Sid Delicious: Oct 31, 2007

Just for the record, I have no education in creative writing, its just something I enjoy doing sometimes. With that in mind here is my short story Shirt Bot. Its mostly stream of consciousness that I just decided to put down on paper, so I apologize if the ending feels abrubt. I'm also not very good at staying in tense/perspective so I hope I did alright this time around. Would love some critique and opinions on it, thanks everyone.

Shirt Bot

This is a tale about Shirt Bot, the shirt deploying robot. He was created specifically for the purpose of deploying shirts to people who didn't have a shirt of their own. Don't argue it's a much more common plight than you might believe. His creator suffered from brief lapses in memory and quite often forget his own shirt, which is really the only reason he even built it. After his creators death he found it more and more difficult to find people who needed shirts. He wandered from coast to coast distributing his shirts where needed as he went but he felt something was missing. While hanging around in San Francisco a young man suggested he try going to Mexico, as he had heard there was many more poor people there, so Shirt Bot packed up his belongings, which in this case was a photograph of his creator and a chocolate bar he had been carrying with him for a long time, trying to figure out what it was for.

As he began his journey south he met a young man with what appeared to be only half a shirt. Shirt Bot offered him a shirt but the young man just cursed at him and called him a homophobe. Unfortunately Shirt Bot didn't even understand the concept of sexuality let alone have any hatred for anyone based on it. He apologized profusely and carried on his merry way.

He finally reached the border between the Unites States and Mexico after about a week of walking. He began plodding through the checkpoint when he heard a man yell to stop. He turned and saw a border patrol guard aiming a semiautomatic rifle at him. He waved pleasantly and turned around again. The first shot whistles right past his head. He turned again looking absolutely horrified. He couldn't understand why this human would just fire at him for what he believed to be no reason. He ejected a shirt and attempted to hand it to the man, who looked utterly confused.

"You're gonna need to show me your passport and tell me why you're planning on crossing the border there son" the guard said to him gruffly.

"I'm not certain what a passport is my good man but I'm traveling to the country of Mexico to distribute my shirts to the poor of that land" Shirt Bot responded with cheer in his voice. He always had cheer in his voice.

"Well I'm afraid without a passport you won't be visiting anywhere anytime soon young man" the guard told him, with authority dripping from his words.

Shirt Bot was confused. He had never heard of a passport before, and he just wanted to help people. He decided to ask the man about the chocolate bar, since he had yet to find out what it was for.

"Well color me astounded young fella, is that a Dream Bar? I haven't eaten one of those in years, they stopped making them when I was still a boy. They had so many preservatives in em, I bet you that it'd still be fine to eat," the guard told him.

"You may have it if you like, I don't believe it can be perused by my own self" Shirt Bot told him. "You may also have one of my many shirts if you would like."

"We'll that's mighty generous of you son. I'll tell you what, you go on ahead to Mexico. I can't see you causing any trouble as polite and selfless as you seem to be," the guard said, his eyes glistening. He wasn't crying of course not. He just had something in his eye. Hope for the future.

Shirt Bot continued his journey south and came upon a village. He could see that the buildings here were ramshackle and in a condition that could only be described as "bad". He decided here was as a good a place as any to begin his shirt distribution. He wandered to the center of town where he found a crowd already gathered.

"Greetings fellows I have brought you all fine new shirts this day. Line up in an orderly fashion and I shall distribute them accordingly."

Unfortunately none of them spoke a word of English and they believed he was insulting them, maybe even their wives too. For the record many of their wives were not what might be considered conventionally beautiful. Or unconventionally for that matter. It seems Shirt Bot had gotten himself in another fine mess.

<What do you think it is?> one of the men asked the rest, still convinced it had said something offensive about his wife.

<It looks like some kind of war machine, sent to strike fear into our hears> another man replied, with an edge of nervousness in his voice.

"I don't understand what you are saying, I apologize I do not have a built in universal translator," Shirt Bot said to them in his usual cheerful fashion. He began taking shirts out for all of them, which they took as a sign of aggression. Luckily none of them were particularly brave and they just scattered like field mice. Shirt Bot stood where he was, confused by the actions of man yet again.

"Well I suppose I might as well move on, find somewhere I am more wanted than here," he sighed, less cheerfully than he'd ever spoken in all his years. He began walking towards the other end of the village, noticing that many people were staring out their windows at him.
<Excuse me sir, you�re not here to hurt us are you? I can tell you�re a kind person, not one to be feared> a young boy emerged from an alleyway and asked him. <Come with me, I�ll introduce you to my family>

"I'm sorry young man I don't know what you're saying to me. At least you don't seem to be afraid, I shall come with you I believe," Shirt Bot exclaimed, the regular cheer returning to his voice. Shirt Bot followed the boy down the alleyway, and was soon gone. Here's hoping he had a good life and was able to fulfill his destiny.

# ? Mar 19, 2013 00:53

Dr. Kloctopussy: Apr 22, 2003; "It's time....to DIE!"

Sid Vicious posted:

Just for the record, I have no education in creative writing, its just something I enjoy doing sometimes. With that in mind here is my short story Shirt Bot. Its mostly stream of consciousness that I just decided to put down on paper, so I apologize if the ending feels abrubt. I'm also not very good at staying in tense/perspective so I hope I did alright this time around. Would love some critique and opinions on it, thanks everyone.

Okaaaaaaay, let's start with the basics: editing.

Writing, when you expect other people to read what you've written, isn't a one-shot deal. You don't just decide to write down your story, stream of consciousness style, and then post it. You write it down stream of consciousness style (if that's how you want to do it) and then you read it and fix it up as best you can. So, you shouldn't have any problem with "staying in tense/perspective," because you go back and correct all the times you strayed before anyone else reads it. Your story has a lot of tense problems. Tense changes within a single sentence at times. It's also just clunky and repetitive, but that's something you can definitely improve with practice. Here's a line edit of the 1st paragraph. I mostly just put in punctuation where it was missing, because overall your sentence structure is really awkward and there's nothing really happening. You overuse the passive voice. It is very dry and not really funny/charming/whimsical, which is maybe what you were going for?

Most of us here don't have any formal education in creative writing, either. But we keep writing, editing, and hopefully improve. Give it an edit (or two) and repost it.

quote:

Shirt Bot

This is a tale about Shirt Bot, the shirt deploying robot. He was created specifically for the purpose of deploying shirts to people who didn't have a shirt of their own. Don't argue, it's a much more common plight than you might believe. His creator suffered from brief lapses in memory and quite often ~~forget~~forgot his own shirt, which is really the only reason he even built it (the only reason he built his shirt? grammatical ambiguity). After his creator's death, he found it more and more difficult to find people who needed shirts (why would it be more difficult to find people without shirts after his creator died? These don't seem logically related.). He wandered from coast to coast distributing his shirts where needed as he went (awkward phrasing) , but he felt something was missing. While hanging around in San Francisco, a young man suggested he try going to Mexico, as he had heard there was many more poor people there,.(holy hell, this is quite the run-on sentence! split it up) sSo, Shirt Bot packed up his belongings, which ~~in this case~~(as opposed to what other case??) ~~was~~were (multiple belongings, so plural) a photograph of his creator and a chocolate bar he had been carrying with him for a long time, trying to figure out what it was for.

# ? Mar 19, 2013 02:28

Zack_Gochuck: Jan 4, 2007; Stupid Wrestling People

Sid Vicious posted:

Just for the record, I have no education in creative writing, its just something I enjoy doing sometimes. With that in mind here is my short story Shirt Bot. Its mostly stream of consciousness that I just decided to put down on paper, so I apologize if the ending feels abrubt. I'm also not very good at staying in tense/perspective so I hope I did alright this time around. Would love some critique and opinions on it, thanks everyone.

Shirt Bot

This is a tale about Shirt Bot, the shirt deploying robot. He was created specifically for the purpose of deploying shirts to people who didn't have a shirt of their own. Don't argue it's a much more common plight than you might believe. His creator suffered from brief lapses in memory and quite often forget his own shirt, which is really the only reason he even built it. After his creators death he found it more and more difficult to find people who needed shirts. He wandered from coast to coast distributing his shirts where needed as he went but he felt something was missing. While hanging around in San Francisco a young man suggested he try going to Mexico, as he had heard there was many more poor people there, so Shirt Bot packed up his belongings, which in this case was a photograph of his creator and a chocolate bar he had been carrying with him for a long time, trying to figure out what it was for.

As he began his journey south he met a young man with what appeared to be only half a shirt. Shirt Bot offered him a shirt but the young man just cursed at him and called him a homophobe. Unfortunately Shirt Bot didn't even understand the concept of sexuality let alone have any hatred for anyone based on it. He apologized profusely and carried on his merry way.

He finally reached the border between the Unites States and Mexico after about a week of walking. He began plodding through the checkpoint when he heard a man yell to stop. He turned and saw a border patrol guard aiming a semiautomatic rifle at him. He waved pleasantly and turned around again. The first shot whistles right past his head. He turned again looking absolutely horrified. He couldn't understand why this human would just fire at him for what he believed to be no reason. He ejected a shirt and attempted to hand it to the man, who looked utterly confused.

"You're gonna need to show me your passport and tell me why you're planning on crossing the border there son" the guard said to him gruffly.

"I'm not certain what a passport is my good man but I'm traveling to the country of Mexico to distribute my shirts to the poor of that land" Shirt Bot responded with cheer in his voice. He always had cheer in his voice.

"Well I'm afraid without a passport you won't be visiting anywhere anytime soon young man" the guard told him, with authority dripping from his words.

Shirt Bot was confused. He had never heard of a passport before, and he just wanted to help people. He decided to ask the man about the chocolate bar, since he had yet to find out what it was for.

"Well color me astounded young fella, is that a Dream Bar? I haven't eaten one of those in years, they stopped making them when I was still a boy. They had so many preservatives in em, I bet you that it'd still be fine to eat," the guard told him.

"You may have it if you like, I don't believe it can be perused by my own self" Shirt Bot told him. "You may also have one of my many shirts if you would like."

"We'll that's mighty generous of you son. I'll tell you what, you go on ahead to Mexico. I can't see you causing any trouble as polite and selfless as you seem to be," the guard said, his eyes glistening. He wasn't crying of course not. He just had something in his eye. Hope for the future.

Shirt Bot continued his journey south and came upon a village. He could see that the buildings here were ramshackle and in a condition that could only be described as "bad". He decided here was as a good a place as any to begin his shirt distribution. He wandered to the center of town where he found a crowd already gathered.

"Greetings fellows I have brought you all fine new shirts this day. Line up in an orderly fashion and I shall distribute them accordingly."

Unfortunately none of them spoke a word of English and they believed he was insulting them, maybe even their wives too. For the record many of their wives were not what might be considered conventionally beautiful. Or unconventionally for that matter. It seems Shirt Bot had gotten himself in another fine mess.

<What do you think it is?> one of the men asked the rest, still convinced it had said something offensive about his wife.

<It looks like some kind of war machine, sent to strike fear into our hears> another man replied, with an edge of nervousness in his voice.

"I don't understand what you are saying, I apologize I do not have a built in universal translator," Shirt Bot said to them in his usual cheerful fashion. He began taking shirts out for all of them, which they took as a sign of aggression. Luckily none of them were particularly brave and they just scattered like field mice. Shirt Bot stood where he was, confused by the actions of man yet again.

"Well I suppose I might as well move on, find somewhere I am more wanted than here," he sighed, less cheerfully than he'd ever spoken in all his years. He began walking towards the other end of the village, noticing that many people were staring out their windows at him.
<Excuse me sir, you�re not here to hurt us are you? I can tell you�re a kind person, not one to be feared> a young boy emerged from an alleyway and asked him. <Come with me, I�ll introduce you to my family>

"I'm sorry young man I don't know what you're saying to me. At least you don't seem to be afraid, I shall come with you I believe," Shirt Bot exclaimed, the regular cheer returning to his voice. Shirt Bot followed the boy down the alleyway, and was soon gone. Here's hoping he had a good life and was able to fulfill his destiny.

The problems here go way beyond grammar, passive sentence structure, and tense issues. A couple of things:

Writing 101: Showing vs. Telling.

Here's a couple explanations from around the web. You can google more:

http://www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/there-are-no-rules/showing-vs-telling-in-your-writing
http://www.readwriteandedit.com/showvstell.html

Second, there's absolutely no climax. The only thing close is when shirt-bot tries to cross the border. There needs to be a point where the protagonist reaches his lowest low, where it looks like he will never reach his goal, this is known as the act-two turning point. The hero generally, there are obviously infinite variations, picks himself up, dusts himself off, and takes one last crack at reaching his goal. One last desperate bid. In order for this to work there needs to be a conflict. Two parties who want opposite things need to be in some sort of struggle against each other. There is no real conflict in your story. You are writing around the conflict because conflict is hard. Real, drag you out by the hair, beat the ever-loving poo poo out of you conflict in this sort of story.

I'll help you out, here's what you need to focus on, shirt-bot is trying to get the Mexico to distribute shirts. A border guard won't let him cross the border. He tries everything and just when it looks like he's never going to make it... (This is where your climax goes).

I hope that helps somewhat. Really, you need to get some of the fundamentals down pat. Right now your story is sort of just this happened then this happened then this happened. The end. It needs to be this happened but this happened therefore this happened until finally this happened. The end. You need some sort of arc for any story to work, even old ghost stories kids tell around the campfire have an arc. Does that make sense?

Zack_Gochuck fucked around with this message at 12:38 on Mar 19, 2013

# ? Mar 19, 2013 12:32

SleuthDiplomacy: Sep 25, 2010

Tiggum posted:

A Battle For the Ages (245 words)

I stood in silence, listening for the faintest sound of my foe. There it was! He'd got behind me again! Back and forth, around and around I chased him, spraying wildly at the slightest glimpse, always a step behind.

Finally I found him at rest. He flew, but slowly. At least one of my attacks must have hit the mark. I pursued relentlessly, hitting him several more times. At last he lay dying.

A funny little tale. I agree with what Phil Moscowitz said about catching on to the "punchline" of the story a little early. While I'm all about trimming things down, the excessive drama of this showdown with a fly necessitates unnecessary detail, if that makes sense. Sort of a jab at the poorly-written action scenes a lot of thriller/military pulp stories seem to have. The speaker themselves doesn't need to do anything ridiculous, like an action roll over the couch or whatever, but something that shows the reader that the speaker is trying to think of themselves as badass/in a tense situation despite doing something mundane.

On a more minor note, the bolded section doesn't really do it for me. "At rest" seems a little bid laid-back for recuperating from a "firefight," and the bit about the adversary flying kind of tips your hand too much. Him flying and being at rest also kind of contradict each other.

# ? Mar 19, 2013 12:44

Sid Delicious: Oct 31, 2007

Zack_Gochuck posted:

The problems here go way beyond grammar, passive sentence structure, and tense issues. A couple of things:

Writing 101: Showing vs. Telling.

Here's a couple explanations from around the web. You can google more:

http://www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/there-are-no-rules/showing-vs-telling-in-your-writing
http://www.readwriteandedit.com/showvstell.html

Second, there's absolutely no climax. The only thing close is when shirt-bot tries to cross the border. There needs to be a point where the protagonist reaches his lowest low, where it looks like he will never reach his goal, this is known as the act-two turning point. The hero generally, there are obviously infinite variations, picks himself up, dusts himself off, and takes one last crack at reaching his goal. One last desperate bid. In order for this to work there needs to be a conflict. Two parties who want opposite things need to be in some sort of struggle against each other. There is no real conflict in your story. You are writing around the conflict because conflict is hard. Real, drag you out by the hair, beat the ever-loving poo poo out of you conflict in this sort of story.

I'll help you out, here's what you need to focus on, shirt-bot is trying to get the Mexico to distribute shirts. A border guard won't let him cross the border. He tries everything and just when it looks like he's never going to make it... (This is where your climax goes).

I hope that helps somewhat. Really, you need to get some of the fundamentals down pat. Right now your story is sort of just this happened then this happened then this happened. The end. It needs to be this happened but this happened therefore this happened until finally this happened. The end. You need some sort of arc for any story to work, even old ghost stories kids tell around the campfire have an arc. Does that make sense?

Okay yeah that makes a lot of sense, thanks. Back to the ol' writing board. Is that a saying?

# ? Mar 19, 2013 22:39

Symptomless Coma: Mar 30, 2007; for shock value

Sid Vicious posted:

Okay yeah that makes a lot of sense, thanks. Back to the ol' writing board. Is that a saying?

Get really famous, and make it one.

# ? Mar 20, 2013 09:26

Tonsured: Jan 14, 2005; I came across mention of a Gnostic codex called The Unreal God and the Aspects of His Nonexistent Universe, an idea which reduced me to helpless laughter. What kind of person would write about something that he knows doesn't exist, and how can something that doesn't exist have aspects?

Spontaneous unfinished Fantasy thing

Feeling the need for other eyes on this:

Frank Thatcher stood before the forge. He was only an apprentice at the smith shop but he was a hard worker and quick learner. Old Burke-the master who ran the Gilded Bird- saw in him these traits the moment he walked into the smithy groveling for a job. A far more important attribute that became apparent was the pride young Thatcher took in his craftsmanship. Every time he stoked the furnace fire he would simultaneously stoke his ambition with fantasies of mastership and fame. It was exactly this dual process that Frank was currently engaged in. He gave the forge a few precise puffs from his bellows. The crimson flames roared in response, ravenously devouring the offered fuel. A combustive cheer thundered in adulation, filling the air with cackling and spitting, further filling Frank's grand dreams. How much longer could Burke head the smithy? His protrudent figure and heavy-set breaths assured Frank not for long. Ten years maybe? Frank's brow sprayed sweat, not from anticipation but from the climbing heat. He would let nothing interfere with his art, not even his daydreams. A few more puffs should do it.

The age of the bellows was showing in this effort, small cracks emerged at the apex of the decompression chamber. The exceptionally hot forge fire was taking its toll. While pondering this, he glanced to his arms, scanning his wrist to his elbow, weaving through the cracks and scales of near-scorched flesh. Yes, this heat was taking its toll. Frank focused his eyes on the bellows once more. He should inform Burke immediately, if the bellows snapped during one of the more important client's commissions Burke, in his avarice, might attempt to forge shoddy substitutes to meet the demand. The Gilded Bird's renown rested on its quality. Burke, in his old age had forgotten or refused to care about that fact. It was up to Frank to keep up appearances. After all, what was mastery without renown? Frank was satisfied that the forge was in order.

He turned his attention to the center in the smithy's room were the main attraction of the Gilded Bird, a giant metallic raven shaped anvil, rested snugly. It was formidable in size and girth, taking up most of the room, it was enough surface area to easily support three or even four smithy's work simultaneously. It was not made of gold, however, an observation that so many foreign patrons found to be amusing. The relic was a glossy jet black, though it was perhaps thousands of years old it retained a strange sharpness of color, as if it had been freshly forged that day. It is a stark contrast to the rest of the building. The roof wrought with mold, the doors and walls riddled with unsettling creaks and snaps -they stood as testaments to the ravage of time. Not the anvil, though, it was as lustrous as the day it was made, defiant of inevitability. Frank was not allowed to work on the anvil. Too young and feeble, Burke would tell him. Only a master's hand could handle such an enigma.
An enigma it was, Frank remembered, the metal itself was of an unknown origin. The royal academy had sent a metallurgist a few years back. The scholar was unable to determine what material the anvil originated from and suggested that dark magic may have been used in his creation. Burke scoffed at that saying 'pigheaded rabble rouser and occultist chagrin.' Frank didn't know what that meant, still doesn't.

Dark magic. It made a sick sort of sense to Frank, as beautiful was the anvil was to gaze upon, it still had some intangible off-putting quality. Whenever he starred too long at it, he could swear he felt some sort of presence, and it was starring back into him. A quick glance around the shop told Frank that Burke wasn't around. He decided to approach the anvil, unable to bridle his curiosity. The academy should have sent some mages frank thought, skimming the surface of the anvil with his finger tips.

"NO. THEY SHOULD HAVE SENT A PRIEST." A voice with a metallic tinge pervaded Frank's head. His entire body quaked with reverberations of each word.

Frank reeled backwards, tripping over a soap bucket and falling clumsily with the full force of his weight into the tannery shelf. The shelf then reacted how most inanimate objects react to being impacted upon by large objects imbued with the force of momentum: it fell. Rawhide and leather scraps tumbled over poor Frank, bruising his scalp as they buried him.

"What in the Three Moons was that?" the husk-raspy voice of Burke emitted. The forge master emerged from the cellar. "Great merciful Bathu! Boy what have you done now?" Burke surveyed the destruction in disbelief. Frank stood himself up and started unearthing the leather hide he had been previously interred into.

"I thought I.." Frank stammered, starring at the raven anvil, ran his hand over his eyelids and massaged them while replaying the event in his head. That could not have happened.
"Well what?"

"I just..I.." Frank paused for a moment before continuing "I think I'm exhausted. Filling in Mr. Dothur's order must be getting to me. I might be succumbing to fatigue."

"Oh sure, next you'll have a hacking fit and say you have the black lung as well." Burke let out a hearty chortle. "Aye lad, take the rest of the day off, not that I believe you, I just don't want to see more of my shop destroyed by yer idle fancies."

Tonsured fucked around with this message at 02:41 on Mar 21, 2013

# ? Mar 21, 2013 00:35

Adbot: ADBOT LOVES YOU

# ? Apr 25, 2024 06:32

Sitting Here: Dec 31, 2007

Hmmm. I see a few things.

Tonsured posted:

Spontaneous unfinished Fantasy thing

Feeling the need for other eyes on this:

Frank Thatcher stood before the forge. He was only an apprentice at the smith shop but he was a hard worker and quick learner.Is this Frank's CV? Old Burke-the master who ran the Gilded Bird- saw in him these traits the moment he walked into the smithy groveling for a job. A far more important attribute that became apparent was the pride young Thatcher took in his craftsmanship. Every time he stoked the furnace fire he would simultaneously stoke his ambition with fantasies of mastership and fame. It was exactly this dual process that Frank was currently engaged in.<<This is like the definition of telling and not showing He gave the forge a few precise puffs from his bellows. The crimson flames roared in response, ravenously devouring the offered fuel. A combustive cheer thundered in adulation, filling the air with cackling and spitting, further filling Frank's grand dreams.Who's cheering with adulation? The forge? It's a lot of abstract description with no real image to anchor any of it to How much longer could Burke head the smithy? His protrudent figure and heavy-set breaths Pointless fancy talk for "he's fat and old" assured Frank not for long. Ten years maybe? Frank's brow sprayed sweat,To my knowledge foreheads shouldn't and can't spray sweat. Seek help, Frank. not from anticipation but from the climbing heat. He would let nothing interfere with his art, not even his daydreams. A few more puffs should do it.

So far we know there is a guy named Frank and boy does he love his forge, but not protrudent Mr. Burke. And he has a severe sweating problem.

The age of the bellows was showing in this effort, small cracks emerged at the apex of the decompression chamber. The exceptionally hot forge fire was taking its toll. While pondering this, he glanced to his arms, scanning his wrist to his elbow, weaving through the cracks and scales of near-scorched flesh.Shouldn't he be watching what he's doing? Yes, this heat was taking its toll. Frank focused his eyes on the bellows once more. He should inform Burke immediately, if the bellows snapped during one of the more important client's commissions Burke, in his avarice, might attempt to forge shoddy substitutes to meet the demand. The Gilded Bird's renown rested on its quality. Burke, in his old age had forgotten or refused to care about that fact. It was up to Frank to keep up appearances. After all, what was mastery without renown? Frank was satisfied that the forge was in order. Ok, we have some semblance of a conflict here, maybe. Old dude is trying to cut corners, young passionate smith picks up the slack in hopes of finding fame and renown. But then...

He turned his attention to the center in the smithy's room were the main attraction of the Gilded Bird, a giant metallic raven shaped anvil, rested snugly. It was formidable in size and girth, taking up most of the room, it was enough surface area to easily support three or even four smithy's work simultaneously. It was not made of gold, however, an observation that so many foreign patrons found to be amusing. The relic was a glossy jet black, though it was perhaps thousands of years old it retained a strange sharpness of color, as if it had been freshly forged that day. It is a stark contrast to the rest of the building. The roof wrought with mold, the doors and walls riddled with unsettling creaks and snaps -they stood as testaments to the ravage of time. Not the anvil, though, it was as lustrous as the day it was made, defiant of inevitability. Frank was not allowed to work on the anvil. Too young and feeble, Burke would tell him. Only a master's hand could handle such an enigma.

An enigma it was, Frank remembered, the metal itself was of an unknown origin. The royal academy had sent a metallurgist a few years back. The scholar was unable to determine what material the anvil originated from and suggested that dark magic may have been used in his creation. Burke scoffed at that saying 'pigheaded rabble rouser and occultist chagrin.' Frank didn't know what that meant, still doesn't. Oh. So here is where things actually start, with this mysterious raven-shaped anvil.

Dark magic. It made a sick sort of sense to Frank, as beautiful was the anvil was to gaze upon, it still had some intangible off-putting quality. Whenever he starred too long at it, he could swear he felt some sort of presence, and it was starring back into him. A quick glance around the shop told Frank that Burke wasn't around. He decided to approach the anvil, unable to bridle his curiosity. The academy should have sent some mages frank thought, skimming the surface of the anvil with his finger tips.

"NO. THEY SHOULD HAVE SENT A PRIEST." A voice with a metallic tinge pervaded Frank's head. His entire body quaked with reverberations of each word.

Frank reeled backwards, tripping over a soap bucket and falling clumsily with the full force of his weight into the tannery shelf. The shelf then reacted how most inanimate objects react to being impacted upon by large objects imbued with the force of momentum: it fell. Rawhide and leather scraps tumbled over poor Frank, bruising his scalp as they buried him.

"What in the Three Moons was that?" the husk-raspy voice of Burke emitted. <<This is pretty much now NOT to tag dialog. "...Burke rasped" might work better. The forge master emerged from the cellar. "Great merciful Bathu! Boy what have you done now?" Burke surveyed the destruction in disbelief. Frank stood himself up and started unearthing the leather hide he had been previously interred into.Throughout this piece you say simple things in really flowery elaborate ways. This is one of them. It's a problem because it disconnects the reader from your story every time they have to go back and parse an over-elaborate sentence.

"I thought I.." Frank stammered, starring at the raven anvil, ran his hand over his eyelids and massaged them while replaying the event in his head. That could not have happened.
"Well what?"

"I just..I.." Frank paused for a moment before continuing "I think I'm exhausted. Filling in Mr. Dothur's order must be getting to me. I might be succumbing to fatigue." "I'm sure it was nothing" said every movie ever

"Oh sure, next you'll have a hacking fit and say you have the black lung as well." Burke let out a hearty chortle. "Aye lad, take the rest of the day off, not that I believe you, I just don't want to see more of my shop destroyed by yer idle fancies." IDK Burke seems pretty agreeable other than his evil anvil.

So first thing I thought was "who is frank and why is he stroking his massive forge I mean stoking his ambitions?" But going along with the two long paragraphs of Frank's forge time; you set him up as a somewhat serious dude, only to have him bumble and flail around in the anvil scene.

But laying that aside, there isn't much going on in those first, long two paragraphs. A lot of that stuff is character development that you should be showing as your character goes through the story. We don't need to know right off the bat that Frank is constantly stoking his smithy desires unless that fact directly pertains to the larger conflict hinted at with the raven-shaped anvil.

And then there is the passive and overly flowery sentence structure in some places:
"A far more important attribute that became apparent..."
"...that Frank was currently engaged in."
"...pervaded Frank's head."

Those are a few examples that I saw from scanning it just now. Your characters can be verbose and flowery if they must, but you as the narrator need to be conveying things as clearly and concisely as possible. Right now some of it verges on purple prose.

If you are going further with this, I would start with Frank investigating the anvil or some other inciting event. Two paragraphs of ruminations on the glory of smithing isn't the best attention grabber.

# ? Mar 21, 2013 07:15

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