|
quote:
Anybody can post on a forum; I deserve no props. @GP What I wrote comes from a period where I was messing with the themes of confusion and dreams. (I had also just discovered the jarring endings of Adventure Time) I'm still not good at expressing the little distortions and what the fucks that are experienced while asleep, although to be honest I've always liked things that leave core concepts to the audience's imagination. I wrapped this direction up with Tales From Ominy (which I posted here http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?threadid=3649617&pagenumber=1&perpage=40#post432013292 ) and may have went a little too far with show taking precedence over a protagonist who I only saw as a weird west bountyhunter/man with no name. Right now I'm taking a step back with traditional poo poo while I read up on writing 101 and think up some characters that can drive my outlines and infodump exposition.
|
# ? Jul 11, 2014 04:27 |
|
|
# ? Mar 29, 2024 01:35 |
|
Sithsaber posted:You reiterated the problem with train of thought and for some reason pasting killed the line break. But more to the point, does every story require spelling things out? I've always enjoyed good usage of omission. First off: Shut the gently caress up about blaming every problem on pasting and your phone. Only a bad tradesman blames his tools for shoddy craftsmanship. A good one makes do, or gets better tools before he tries selling a lopsided chair. Things I have done on a phone: Written a Thunderdome interprompt and counted the wordcount manually. Three times. To make sure it was accurate. Written numerous decent-length roleplay posts, free of formatting errors. Posted on this forum, including having to manually type a URL because it wouldn't paste where I wanted it to, while my keypad was glitching on me. Also no errors. Understood that some things just aren't meant to be done on a phone and waited until I was at a computer to do them, like reading this thread. Proofread and edited the poo poo that I expect other people to read and critique me on. Second: Your use of omission is you trying to be clever and mysterious. All it results in is no one knowing what you're trying to write because we can't read your mind. Grizzled Patriarch broke it down further, he's cool. My advice is to reread where you liked that, and pay closer attention to how it was done, what was shown (notice that word) rather than what was omitted, how those things played off each other. Right now you're omitting the details that make things comprehensible, rather than the details that raise the questions that create intrigue. And yet still being far too wordy. quote:Ps. And wouldn't a little give or take be better than basically telling me to shut the gently caress up? Some of us like to learn through active communication. There's a reason for people muting their mics in Skype calls when their stories are being critiqued. You defend yourself constantly. You, the author, will not always be there to explain to the reader what the hell is going on or what you meant. You aren't engaging in "how do I make this better"; you're monologuing "this is what I meant, you plebes just don't get it," and even if you don't mean it that way, which I am frankly inclined to doubt, it's obnoxious. Sithsaber posted:think up some characters that can that can drive my outlines Please do. The reason no one gives a poo poo about your samples is because none of them have characters with noticeable traits, so there's no reason to empathize, and no reason to care. Just try following the advice I posted here, and Beef's further rants on the topic that I linked in that post. It will be much easier to try to crit your writing from a complete self-contained short story than some snippet with no context. quote:and infodump exposition. please don't infodumping is a plague unto man for the love of the book gods no
|
# ? Jul 12, 2014 20:45 |
|
Echo Cian posted:First off: Shut the gently caress up about blaming every problem on pasting and your phone. Only a bad tradesman blames his tools for shoddy craftsmanship. A good one makes do, or gets better tools before he tries selling a lopsided chair. So do you get a hard on when you're freaking out like this? The other guy handled the issue with tact and without foaming at the mouth, which is obviously something you can do. You actually typed a paragraph complaining about me complaining about my shity phone, which is insane. Ps. The mods tend to be at my throat whenever I jump into shut like this, but advising you to chill the gently caress out over a dead conversation I thanked the critiquer for (after he clarified so as not be crazy harsh like you) is a human move. WTF happened to you today?
|
# ? Jul 12, 2014 21:30 |
|
quote:
I graduated to Microsoft word mobile. This is old and probably isn't showy. I post it to test my editing skills. Sithsaber fucked around with this message at 01:59 on Jul 14, 2014 |
# ? Jul 13, 2014 00:43 |
|
Sithsaber posted:So do you get a hard on when you're freaking out like this? The other guy handled the issue with tact and without foaming at the mouth, which is obviously something you can do. You actually typed a paragraph complaining about me complaining about my shity phone, which is insane. Aww did I hurt your fee-fees? It is far from insane to call you out or constantly using an annoying excuse for you to be lazy and not fix the poo poo you're trying to get feedback on. You want us to fawn all over you but you can't be assed to take the time to even fix your writing. Would you submit to an editor like this and expect them to nod and accept your excuses? You don't see how insulting this is? I actually gave you advice but you want to refuse to acknowledge that and whine about me calling you out for being lazy. Though you also either disregarded or didn't understand half of what I suggested in fic advice, so I'm not sure what I expected.
|
# ? Jul 13, 2014 01:49 |
|
Echo Cian posted:Aww did I hurt your fee-fees? My point was that this was solved two days ago. You need to stop before you attention whore and actually read the rest of the thread. I accepted that I was doing something wrong and got a new app to help me out.
|
# ? Jul 13, 2014 01:56 |
|
at you calling me an attention whore, and pretty sure you didn't admit to any error in the last two days before insulting me, but okay, fair enough. On your last offering: Nice outline, but where's the story? That isn't sarcasm. At least not entirely. But that entire thing is telling. You don't show a thing; the entire "story" consists of you telling me that Pride did this and was like that and Vanity did this other thing and boy did Pride hate that. The sudden violence is exactly that : It comes out of nowhere because, though you went on for paragraphs about hate, he was thinking of positive things. Sure, he snapped, but it was because The Author decided he should, not because it followed from what we had seen before. It almost works but it's again missing a reason for the reader to care. So what if two dudes hate each other? What makes these guys any different or more interesting from the million other times this story has been written, other than having meaninglessly meaningful names? Please take the advice that Grizzled Patriarch has given you, take the advice you ignored in my other post, and write a simple, new story that isn't obtuse, high-concept or faux-symbolic. Learn to walk before you try to dance a foxtrot.
|
# ? Jul 13, 2014 02:52 |
|
Echo Cian posted:at you calling me an attention whore, and pretty sure you didn't admit to any error in the last two days before insulting me, but okay, fair enough. Like I said, I just posted that to see if I've improved my basic editing. That story is even older than "Tales From Ominy". Did you notice any glaring grammatical, structural or punctuation errors aside from the fundamental problem of too much tell? "The Hindsight" will be all tell if I can keep up with it. Sithsaber fucked around with this message at 03:35 on Jul 13, 2014 |
# ? Jul 13, 2014 03:31 |
|
Sithsaber posted:Brother Pride hated many things, most of all his brother. His brother was stupid, his brother was crass, and his brother revelled in all things petty. For years Brother Pride had tolerated him, for YEARS Brother Pride had turned a blind eye as Brother Vanity grew more and more cruel. He had tried compassion and understanding. He had tried sternness and strength; nothing seemed make a difference. The boy remained the same. This has a lot of ideas, but no substance. You cannot tell a reader about undescribed cruelties/revelries/stupidities/toleration/hatred/whatever. Well, you can, but they won't be interested, and they won't believe you. What did he do that was stupid? What was crass? What revelry? Why was it petty? How did he tolerate him? I don't know the answer to any of this. If these things are something you care about enough to tell us, then show us why they're worth telling us about. Don't just say 'it was really bad and he was a dumb guy'. This story is nothing but telling me about things that vaguely happened in an indefinite setting. Let's talk about the three things a basic story needs: character, setting and plot. A character is someone who the reader can identify with. This doesn't mean they have to be the same demographic as the reader, but it means their experience should relate to the reader's life in some way. The reader thinks, "oh, I've got a greedy friend, he's kind of like this character," or "I can empathize with the empty motions of a robot whose masters are long dead", or anything in between. A setting is where a story takes place. All stories have a setting, even if it's not explicit. Sometimes, a story focused on characters can make no direct reference to its setting, but it will be evident from the writing and the interactions approximately where and when it happens. Even if it isn't explicitly told, the writer should have the setting in mind, because a well-realized setting adds to the real-ness of a story. Finally, plot is the series of events that occur as a character tries to reach a goal or solve a problem. A good story introduces and establishes the conflict the character faces, shows that character working toward that conflict, and in the end, the character solves their conflict (or not) and has changed as a person (or not) from their experience. In this story, most of the plot came in the last few paragraphs. Most of the piece is establishing the conflict, and there's little that gets shown of the character trying to solve his problem. Purely grammar-wise, there's nothing wrong with your writing that isn't just beginning writers' overzealousness. You can put together a sentence fine, when you're not overwriting. The really damning part of your writing for me is how hollow everything is and how little you seem to have invested into the story beyond some damp symbolism. Note 1: Do you need to describe every last thing? No, that's silly. But you do need to describe enough that the reader can fill in the gaps themselves. Good writing (especially in short stories) is like a great sketch. You see just a few quick lines, but suddenly there's an image there. You don't have to draw in every detail, but you're not playing Pictionary. Just like in writing, you don't need to describe every detail, but you have to give the reader enough that the world feels real to them. Here, it barely feels like you're even trying to make this world real. Note 2: When you're writing something for other people to read, there's a certain amount of trust the reader puts in you. To put it shortly, they trust you to have a meaningful story. If you start doing this hollow stuff where it doesn't even feel like you put any time and effort into the story, if you make these narrative shortcuts that undermine the weight of the story, then they won't trust you. People will start disbelieving the story you're telling them if they get the idea that you're bullshitting them. Djeser fucked around with this message at 06:01 on Jul 13, 2014 |
# ? Jul 13, 2014 04:12 |
|
Although this one's been done pretty thoroughly already (and kudos, Djeser, for the general advice), I did have a few impressions.Sithsaber posted:[...] an adolescent [...] Strictly editorial comment that I don't think had been mentioned by others. As I read the first part of the piece, I found myself imagining that Pride was the author and was attempting to malign his brother. That got me wondering, does the actual author have a brother? Is this an exercise in catharsis? I can't help but thinking that the whole thing would generate more interest if it were presented mostly as monologue by Pride. Say, for instance, that he's defending himself while on trial by Justice. Then all the tells wouldn't be historical authorial statements, they'd be rationalizations and aspersions by a frustrated character. Of course, that would require a rework of the ending. Regardless, I didn't develop much empathy for either of the named characters. Nor, I suppose, for any of the unnamed populace who were presumably affected by the unleashed war.
|
# ? Jul 18, 2014 00:28 |
|
Hammer Bro. posted:Although this one's been done pretty thoroughly already (and kudos, Djeser, for the general advice), I did have a few impressions. You hit the nail on the head, you psychoanalyzing motherfucker.(a term ofrespect of course)The idea was to take some sibling rivalry and turn it into a dreamlike tale of mutual destruction. I was thinking about just adding some world building to the first few paragraphs but your input makes more sense, even if it takes away from the mythic aspects of the story. I could also write "a tall mountain being smashed into by a slightly smallerr tidal wave" and then go on about the water soaking into the rubble, but it seems like no one enjoys the fusion analogy of family abuse and hatred begetting hatred ad infinitum. Sithsaber fucked around with this message at 01:30 on Jul 18, 2014 |
# ? Jul 18, 2014 01:18 |
|
I recently decided to take a stab at writing; I had no idea how hard it would fight back! There are a couple of specific things I'd like feedback on, but I don't want to spoil the virgin reading experience with leading questions, so I'll start with the story (~630 words). --------------- Excerpts from the Seaford Satellite Freak Farm Fire Friday, October 30, 1987 By Charlene Holmes A fire broke out late last night on the Givens ranch. Mr. Givens says he was awakened around 12:30 by a commotion among his broilers. When he went out to investigate, he saw multiple patches of scrub brush ablaze, and immediately called 911. Fortunately, the Local 87 dispatched the flames before any significant damage was done to person or property. The cause of the fire is still unknown. Maggie on the Move? Saturday, October 31, 1987 By Chuck C. Allen Many years ago, back when my grandfather was but a babe, a child was born to a girl named Margaret. This child entered the world silently, though the room that heralded it was suffused with lament. It is said that this child was born with one foot gnarled like a hoof, tortuous ridges marring its brow, and a nubby, incessantly writhing protrusion above its hindquarters. One of its eyes was veiled in a lactic membrane of crimson. The other, lacking iris and pupil, glistened a slimy pitch. Neither strayed from the agonized visage of the woman who bore it. Margaret, a penitent Christian girl, was distraught. Clearly this was the work of the Devil; punishment for her sole act of mortal weakness. There was only one thing to do. Concealing the child, which was simultaneously blessed and cursed with silence, Margaret stole away to the bridge south of the cemetery and cast the abomination into the creek. Even its splash made not a sound. Nobody knows what next happened to Margaret, but she was never seen again as a creature of the flesh. [Continued on page 3.] For years now there have been stories of strange happenings at Maggie's Bridge -- ghostly lights, vehicular failures, and an oppressive sense of dread. Some claim they can see the silhouette of a weeping young woman, others hear the wail of a vengeful banshee. Certainly the number of automobile accidents in the immediate vicinity is unusually high. So it may come as a surprise that last night around midnight an anonymous resident of Blades reported an apparition. "I stepped outside to clear my head," claims the citizen, "when I saw an angry young woman stalking off toward the forest. She was carrying a barn lantern and looked like she was searching for something. I didn't think much of it until I saw her pass through a tree, literally right through it, then vanish. I hurried inside, but when I looked out the window all I could see was a smokey orange glow coming from across the highway." The informant asked to remain anonymous in order to avoid a reputation as a fabulist. Still, he concluded our conversation with, "It was real. I swear it." Could it be that Maggie is extending her sphere of influence? No longer content merely to haunt those who torment her, has she embarked upon some grievous quest to propagate her misery? Keep your eyes peeled for geists in the night and stick with the Satellite during the day for updates on this recent development. Fowl Fire Foul? Sunday, November 1, 1987 By Charlene Holmes Police are investigating the recent farm fire after an anonymous tipster indicated evidence of arson. Small amounts of kerosene were found connecting the areas which caught fire, suggesting that a more significant conflagration was intended. This reporter is reminded of the Bridgeville fire which devastated farmer Melson's lot two years ago. As of yet, no suspects have been named. In other news, we at the Satellite will soon be conducting interviews for an entry level correspondent. If you're interested, possess journalistic and moral integrity, and have no criminal record, please contact us via one of the following: --------------- If you'd like to critique the text, please read no further, at least until after you've written up your initial thoughts. The rest of this post contains major spoilers about what I was trying to accomplish. I'm trying to tell a story in the subtext. The tale is actually a crime mystery. If you'd like a challenge, although I honestly have no idea how fairly I've presented the puzzle, feel free to read it again with that in mind. Now I'm going to entirely spoil it by including my own intentions in line-edits. Excerpts from the Seaford Satellite [Most of the people/places/phantoms come from Seaford, DE.] Freak Farm Fire Friday, October 30, 1987 [All farms and fictionalized characters of interest existed at this time.] By Charlene Holmes [Performs a role similar to Sherlock Holmes. "Shirley" felt too obvious.] A fire broke out late last night on the Givens ranch. [Givens Farms, DE.] Mr. Givens says he was awakened around 12:30 by a commotion among his broilers. [Chicken farm.] When he went out to investigate, he saw multiple patches of scrub brush ablaze, and immediately called 911. [Multiple patches, implying separate points of ignition.] Fortunately, the Local 87 dispatched the flames before any significant damage was done to person or property. The cause of the fire is still unknown. [But the cause of the fire will become known.] Maggie on the Move? Saturday, October 31, 1987 [Halloween, the perfect time for a ghost story.] By Chuck C. Allen [Charles C. Allens have owned the Allen Farms poultry ranches, historically.] Many years ago, back when my grandfather was but a babe, a child was born to a girl named Margaret. [Mentioning grandfather Allen specifically, although that may not help in finding the familial relationship, just confirming it.] This child entered the world silently, though the room that heralded it was suffused with lament. It is said that this child was born with one foot gnarled like a hoof, tortuous ridges marring its brow, and a nubby, incessantly writhing protrusion above its hindquarters. One of its eyes was veiled in a lactic membrane of crimson. The other, lacking iris and pupil, glistened a slimy pitch. Neither strayed from the agonized visage of the woman who bore it. [Jazzing up some accounts of Seaford's traditional ghost.] Margaret, a penitent Christian girl, was distraught. Clearly this was the work of the Devil; punishment for her sole act of mortal weakness. There was only one thing to do. Concealing the child, which was simultaneously blessed and cursed with silence, Margaret stole away to the bridge south of the cemetery and cast the abomination into the creek. Even its splash made not a sound. [Roughly consistent with what I could gather of the local legends.] Nobody knows what next happened to Margaret, but she was never seen again as a creature of the flesh. [Continued on page 3.] [Give the reader a significant pause. Also implies the story was front page news.] For years now there have been stories of strange happenings at Maggie's Bridge -- ghostly lights, vehicular failures, and an oppressive sense of dread. Some claim they can see the silhouette of a weeping young woman, others hear the wail of a vengeful banshee. Certainly the number of automobile accidents in the immediate vicinity is unusually high. So it may come as a surprise that last night around midnight an anonymous resident of Blades reported an apparition. [Blades being a nearby town which is in the direction from Maggie's Bridge to Givens Farms.] "I stepped outside to clear my head," claims the citizen, "when I saw an angry young woman stalking off toward the forest. She was carrying a barn lantern and looked like she was searching for something. [Kerosene being what was used to start the fires.] I didn't think much of it until I saw her pass through a tree, literally right through it, then vanish. I hurried inside, but when I looked out the window all I could see was a smokey orange glow coming from across the highway." [Chuck inventing a witness to imply that a ghost started the previous night's fire.] The informant asked to remain anonymous in order to avoid a reputation as a fabulist. Still, he concluded our conversation with, "It was real. I swear it." [Evidence that Chuck is sloppy.] Could it be that Maggie is extending her sphere of influence? No longer content merely to haunt those who torment her, has she embarked upon some grievous quest to propagate her misery? [Again, Chuck trying to make the newspaper readers believe that a ghost might be starting fires.] Keep your eyes peeled for geists in the night and stick with the Satellite during the day for updates on this recent development. Fowl Fire Foul? Sunday, November 1, 1987 By Charlene Holmes Police are investigating the recent farm fire after an anonymous tipster indicated evidence of arson. [Charlene being that tipster.] Small amounts of kerosene were found connecting the areas which caught fire, suggesting that a more significant conflagration was intended. This reporter is reminded of the Bridgeville fire which devastated farmer Melson's lot two years ago. [Another poultry farm, the next town to the north.] As of yet, no suspects have been named. [But she could name one suspect.] In other news, we at the Satellite will soon be conducting interviews for an entry level correspondent. [She knows Chuck won't be working there much longer, either because he notices the subtext of her article or because she directly reports him.] If you're interested, possess journalistic and moral integrity, and have no criminal record, please contact us via one of the following: [She's taking a dig at Chuck as well as giving him a warning that she realizes he fabricated his eyewitness and started the fire.] So to summarize: Two years before the start of the story, a young Charles C. Allen sets fire to nearby Melson Farms, which competes with his family in the poultry business. Then he attempts to set fire to the nearer Givens Farms, but is unsuccessful. He brings up a local ghost story and fabricates a witness to imply that the recent fire may've been paranormal activity. Charlene spots this deception, investigates the Givens fire, and concludes that it was started by Chuck. She then warns him, through similarly misleading print tactics, that she knows what happened and that he needs to resign. Have at it.
|
# ? Jul 18, 2014 21:24 |
|
My advice to you as a new writer is to drop the gimmicks and try writing a straight story until you can pull it off, because this is just a bunch of newspaper snippets about a fire and nobody is seriously going to sit down and analyze your subtext in their free time. Your English is okay and you seem to proofread your stuff so I guess you could try a week of Thunderdome and see how it goes.
|
# ? Jul 18, 2014 22:56 |
|
I have to agree. I could tell there was supposed to be something going on between the three articles, but there was way too much information missing to piece things together. For instance, I, being completely unaware of the various aspects of raising chickens, was wondering what the hell the first farmer's broilers were. Also, there's nothing beyond that to say anything about these farms being chicken farms. Even the third headline mentions Fowl instead of poultry. Basically, the framing device is confusing as hell and I had no idea there was an actual story there until it was explained in spoilers. If someone is just reading that story, they're not going to have the explanation handy and I have no idea how they would figure it out from what's there.
|
# ? Jul 19, 2014 01:13 |
|
I was like "why did he submit several different stories?" and then i realized what you had done, and that they were newspaper snippets, and was like "these are the most boring newspaper snippets" and stopped reading. So that's probably about the mileage you can expect to get with that from your audience when you don't post it specifically in a writing critique thread.
|
# ? Jul 19, 2014 01:16 |
|
You have a good story somewhere in there, but your storytelling technique completely buries and obscures it. You're not making it fun for the reader to try and find the clues, there's not enough motivation created for us to care. You should rewrite it, using various different techniques. One that comes to mind is a dialogue, two characters discussing the story with a dynamic similar to Sherlock and Watson. One would point out the clues, to make the reader wonder and want to know, and the solution would only be revealed later. I feel that the newspaper article technique doesn't work, the way it's written here. You want it to be read as a riddle or a puzzle, but you don't give enough motivation for such an investment in your story. Rewriting in other styles might help you find new angles of approach. So, even if you decided to keep the article technique, you could rewrite it a more captivating way. Maybe you could add other sorts of info, excerpts from a diary, notes, letters...?
|
# ? Jul 19, 2014 02:19 |
|
I found that as I was starting out, I tried to wrap my stories in narrative gimmicks because I thought that would be more interesting, but I found out pretty quickly that it's tough to write a good story simultaneously while sticking with your gimmick. I wrote a story as a textbook chapter when I was just starting to write for serious, and it came out...as good as you'd expect that to. Narrative gimmicks can work. I remember one book I liked as a kid that told the story of a...water fountain, I think? It was all told through correspondence and clippings, everything was presented as a document. But the trick with narrative gimmicks is that you have to be able to write a good, solid story before you can write with gimmicks. Gimmicks on a good story can be interesting and creative, but on a bad story, they just become annoying. The best thing to do is just focus on telling simple, solid stories, then work your way up to the level of skill where you can pull off a story like that.
|
# ? Jul 19, 2014 06:41 |
|
Thanks for the feedback. It sounds like I ought to flesh this one out a bit as a personal exercise. I like the idea of two journalists having a private conflict over a public forum (their articles), but I'll try writing straight for the interstitials. As it stands the text is not interesting enough for anyone to bother noticing or caring that there might be a subtext. I think part of the problem is that I read far too much Gene Wolfe, who will write an entire novel as letters to various characters then drop a hint toward the end that they may not have been arranged in chronological order, meanwhile implying strongly that the primary narrator is a filthy liar. Really messes with one's head if they look too close, but it's also good fun. The difference being, he's still an enjoyable read even if you don't take the magnifying glass to him.
|
# ? Jul 19, 2014 20:13 |
|
Would love critique on my little story POWER OF SEX. It's a little longer so I'll link the thread. http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?threadid=3652051
|
# ? Jul 20, 2014 20:51 |
|
Ausmund posted:Would love critique on my little story POWER OF SEX. It's a little longer so I'll link the thread. This is an active-round TD story, so you should hold off on getting critiques until AFTER the judgement. Also you'll usually get 2-3 critiques from the judges, as well as more if you ask people nicely (and crit stuff in return).
|
# ? Jul 20, 2014 20:56 |
|
Ausmund posted:Would love critique on my little story POWER OF SEX. It's a little longer so I'll link the thread. So this is what insanity looks like. While you wait for the judges like the rest of us, might I suggest reading an actual book?
|
# ? Jul 20, 2014 22:09 |
|
Hammer Bro. posted:Thanks for the feedback. It sounds like I ought to flesh this one out a bit as a personal exercise. I like the idea of two journalists having a private conflict over a public forum (their articles), but I'll try writing straight for the interstitials. As it stands the text is not interesting enough for anyone to bother noticing or caring that there might be a subtext. Yes but he is Gene Wolfe. I'm a big fan of writing puzzle stories that you need to read multiple times to make sense of, and don't worry - you'll come back to them. But make sure you can write a clean clear story about people that I give a gently caress about, first.
|
# ? Jul 20, 2014 22:45 |
|
Is this description clear? I'm particularly concerned about the last sentence- what I'm trying to describe is that the character has a bandana tied around their head (not just their face, but like a sack fastened around their neck so that the entire head is obscured). I'd been going back and forth on the phrase "hangman's hood", because I don't want to drum up the image of an executioner's hood (this one is notably eyeless) but instead the kind of bag often put over the head of someone who is being executed.quote:A tall, broad-shouldered man stood transfixed in the light. The striker wore a miner’s coat, and in his gloved right hand he clutched a pick. It was what Roger might’ve expected, save one detail; he wore a red bandana over his head, concealing the entire thing in the fashion of a lynching hood.
|
# ? Jul 29, 2014 00:18 |
|
Anonymous Robot posted:Is this description clear? You've poisoned the well a little bit by saying what effect you were trying to achieve before pasting the passage. Even then, I don't quite visualize what you're after. I see: "he wore a red bandana over his head," (Guy wearing biker bandana over his scalp. Red with white patterns, because I never see monochromatic bandanas in real life.) "concealing the entire thing in the fashion of a lynching hood." (My mind slides the bandana downward to cover his face, like an upside-down bandito bandana. But the size of the bandana I originally pictured doesn't change, so now he just looks silly.) You might do a little better mentioning that the entire head was covered before mentioning something which I don't think is able to cover an entire head. Or use a word other than bandana, if it's not specifically important. ("his entire head was covered by a sightless red sack." The active "he wore" to me slightly implies that he deliberately put the thing on himself -- I'm not sure if that's what you're going for.)
|
# ? Jul 29, 2014 16:51 |
|
So I was hoping I could get some more feedback on my latest thunderdome entry. I should preface this by noting that every single time I've entered thunderdome I've struggled to varying degrees with the word length. For whatever reason I'm just not that good at coming up with stories that fit into 1,000 - 1,500 words. Time and again I end up producing stories that are clearly supposed to be longer, which leads to arbitrary cuts. This story is definitely no exception. I'd like to think it has some potential but it very clearly would need to be expanded. ---------------- Bioethics 1,190 words Writing the e-mail was the easy part. Two sentences, sent from a freshly registered gmail account. I know who sent you the e-mail, and I’m not sure if they were serious or not. His name is Greg Brentano. Hitting send was harder. ### Whenever he got angry, which happened a lot, Greg would leap off of his bed and pace around the room like a caged animal. His skin would flush and he’d breathe heavily, as though being angry required physical exertion. A month before the e-mail I’d been hanging out with Greg in his dorm room, watching him work through his latest set of frustrations. “It’s so loving stupid,” he said. “We’ve been digging this hole for fifty loving years and her solution? Dig faster.” “It’s a four page assignment,” I said as I set down my Xbox controller. “It’s a mandatory class! I’m trying to get into med school and they’re making me jump through hoops for some craggy old oval office from the philosophy department.” “Yeah, well, it is a bioethics class.” Greg gave me the kind of look you’d normally reserve for a kid who shits themselves after they’re supposed to be toilet trained. “That’s the point I’m trying to make. What the hell does some burned out old hippy slut know about ethics?” His breathing was a bit more even now, the flush was leaving his cheeks. Greg loved being angry, but not as much as he loved to hear himself talk. “Do you know what ethics is?” “Yeah. Doing the right thing.” “Conduct. Ethics is about conduct. It’s supposed to be about how you behave yourself, you know? It’s about values.” “Sure.” “And the essence of all that is self control. Restraint. Being able to mold yourself into the kind of person society needs you to be.” “Yeah,” I said, nodding. He was calming down, at least. “So do you see how that’s a contradiction? To be advocating abortion on demand in a loving ethics class?” “It’s a little bit off.” “It’s hosed is what it is,” he said, flopping back onto his bed. “It’s bad enough living in this worthless country, they want us praise what a good job they’re doing while they rape the corpse of Western civilization.” “You’re being a bit dramatic here don’t you think?” “Why do you think China builds all our poo poo now, holds all our debt? You think they hand out condoms in Chinese schools and tell their women to open their legs for every jock rear end in a top hat they can find? The Asians get it man. They reward hard work and discipline. They don’t let their kids gently caress around. And you know what really kills me? That used to be us. Fifty years ago? We’d probably be married already, and to real woman, not skanky whores. Women who could appreciate us and support us while we try to rebuild this shithole country.” That was the thing about Greg. It might start with the unfairness of life or the downfall of civilization, but it always ended up at sex. Especially the sex everyone around us seemed to be having. “Like, take that oval office Sarah,” Greg continued. “You’re smart, you’re driven. Five years from now you’ll be pulling six figures. But you don’t look like Brad Pitt, so she strings you along for one date and doesn’t call you back. What do you think happens to a civilization where the best and brightest get continually poo poo on like that?” I gave him a nod that I hoped was agreeable, and picked my controller back up. ### The first time I met Greg my vision was too blurry to properly make out his face. That had been eight years ago, and Matt Lisac, the terror of seventh grade gym class, had just finished making an example of me. Afterwards Greg was the only guy brave or stupid enough to come and help me look for the busted frame of my glasses. “Looks like he got you pretty good,” Greg said after helped me to my feet. “He hit me,” I mumbled, still shocked. I’d never exactly been popular, but at my old school you never got punched for saying somebody had bad acne. “You shouldn’t have provoked him. Especially not when Jessica is around.” “Who?” “That blonde who was laughing. They’re all bad but she’s the worst. Matt shows off for her.” He looked me over. “This is the poo poo you’ll need to know if you don’t wanna get your lights knocked out. I’m Greg, by the way.” “Alex.” “You like Nintendo, Alex?” ### Greg recognized me first. It had been five years since the end of eighth grade and the time had not been kind to him. It was the same voice, though, and the same nervous, twitchy hands. I’d already been in and out of my dorm room by then. I’d already seen the name Greg Brenanto on the door across from mine. Somehow that connection had escaped me. I hadn’t seen Greg since Eight Grade. I had promised myself that my arrival at college would be the start of a new era. The moment I saw Greg bounding across the quad to greet me a part of that ambition died. “Thank God for small mercies,” he said, a few weeks later. We were hunched in front of the plasma screen in his room, discussing the immensity of the coincidence that had thrown us back together, doing our best to ignore the pounding music and drunken shouts emanating from the common room down the hall. “I’d go crazy if you weren’t here.” “Is this what you thought it’d be like?” I asked him. “College, I mean.” “You mean the noise, the skanks, the in-your-face feminazi bullshit?” He didn’t wait for my response. “Pretty much, yeah. My high school was the same way. Whole fuckin country is like this now.” ### “You can always appeal the grade.” “Appeal? I should sue the bitch.” Greg was fuming. A week ago he’d been telling me how his bioethics paper was going to make waves. He hadn’t considered what that meant for his GPA. “That’s a bad idea.” “I know man, I know. It just gets to me. I spend my whole live slaving away to be a productive member of society. I don’t drink, I don’t chase shanks, I don’t do loving drugs. What’s my reward? A loving woman telling me I’m not good enough because I challenged her world-view.” “You could take a summer course to pull up your average.” I said. “No. I’m done being Mr. Nice Guy.” “Meaning?” “I'm going to communicate through the only language someone like her understands. Here, look.” He gestured toward his computer. I stopped reading halfway through. “Is this a joke?” “Liberals don’t know much, but they know how to be afraid. Nothing frightens a hedonist more than death.” “They’ll expel you.” “She won’t know who sent it. In fact, she won’t even report it. She’ll give everyone passing grades just like I told her to. She won’t risk finding out if I’m serious.” “No,” I told him. “If you send this, they’ll find you, and they’ll expel you.” ---------------- Obliterati gave me some helpful criticism in the Thunderdome thread but suggested I post this here as well. In the original version of this story I wanted to introduce several plot points that don't make it into the final draft. We would have had several more flashbacks to Alex and Greg's time together in middle school. I would have spent more time describing them being terrorized by bullies. I was also toying with the idea that they pulled some kind of stupid prank such as pulling the fire alarm, and that Greg ultimately took the full blame for what happened, which would perhaps set up why Alex feels conflicted about betraying him. I was also thinking of introducing a female romantic interest for Alex - someone who would have helped steer him away from Greg's influence, ultimately setting up his decision to report his friend. In particular though I'd be interested for feedback on Greg's character. I had to write this story pretty quickly and now that I'm rereading it I have to admit its got about as much subtly as a sledge hammer to the face. Did the characterizations here work? Did the characters, and Greg specifically, feel plausible? This character is largely based on real internet rants that I've seen on certain MRA and Incel forums, but rereading the story sometimes his speeches seem a little heavy handed.
|
# ? Jul 30, 2014 07:03 |
|
I don't feel like reading this whole thing, thinking a bunch about it, and formulating a crit so I'm just going to type reactions as I read.Helsing posted:So I was hoping I could get some more feedback on my latest thunderdome entry. I should preface this by noting that every single time I've entered thunderdome I've struggled to varying degrees with the word length. For whatever reason I'm just not that good at coming up with stories that fit into 1,000 - 1,500 words. Time and again I end up producing stories that are clearly supposed to be longer, which leads to arbitrary cuts. This story is definitely no exception. I'd like to think it has some potential but it very clearly would need to be expanded.
|
# ? Jul 30, 2014 13:44 |
|
I'm new here - and to writing fiction, actually. Please be gentle. I've been wanting to get into writing for a while; I've jotted down plenty of story/character ideas but, probably due to my fear of being shockingly bad, I've never really taken one of these ideas and put pen to paper, so to speak. Anyway, today I decided to start changing that, and I wrote just a few paragraphs to see if I had any existing skill (however minor) which I was unaware of. I'm looking more for critique of voice/form than story (this sliver of prose is far too small for that kinda thing). Here goes! quote:“When the cart comes, son, it doesn’t go away empty,” they told me. I didn’t want to leave them behind, my family, my friends, my neighbors, but adults often don’t care much for the wishes of children, especially during wars. We have to do as we are told. So, as I clambered off the packed train, and began to make my way down to the station’s exit, I knew that, whether I liked it or not, I’d have to get into the man’s cart and be ferried off to whichever family was generous enough to host me until things calmed down back home. Is there any hope for me? I know I have a lot of improvement to go before I start entering the Thunderdome or something.
|
# ? Jul 30, 2014 14:55 |
|
InMyHighCastle posted:I'm new here - and to writing fiction, actually. Please be gentle. I'm glad you're putting the pen to paper, and ready to improve your writing! Here's my advice: 1) The prose is verbose and redundant. Look at this: As I exited the station, leaving the more sheepish children behind, I saw it: the cart. A long wooden thing, accompanied by two intimidatingly large black horses who, I thought, looked like they could pull, or drag -- if their size was any indication -- the cart for miles without much effort, even if it was full of children That's 59 words. What's happens in those 59 words? He leaves the station and sees a wooden cart large enough to carry many children, pulled by two imposing horses. Use less words. Remove all the redundant "I thoughts" and "if their size was any indications" because narrators can state things without telling us that they're stating them. Avoid using adverbs when possible. There are several adjectives that mean "intimidatingly large". 2) I don't get a sense of the story's conflict yet. Of course, the kid's getting shipped off to a foster family, but the kid just goes along with it. There's the broken axle, but the narrator has nothing to do with it. He or she just watches men discuss it. Start with conflict. 3) The narrator stops sounding like a child after the first paragraph. Children speak with simple, direct voices, and most of the time, they are quite self-centered. 4) You spend a lot of words describing physical things. This is a problem I have, too. The man's hat is "wide-brimmed, gloomy and dark" Gloomy and dark even mean the same thing. If I had to describe his hat, I would use "wide-brimmed" because it gives a clear image. I can't even picture a gloomy hat, to be honest. Cut down on the adjectives, and don't describe everything, just things that matter. 5) Proofread. There's a "dark shifting dark figure" in paragraph three. PS: You use the word "dark" a lot. This made me think it was nighttime, but then when the guy put on tinted glasses, it made me think it was daytime. Don't overuse adjectives, because they can clash unexpectedly. Best of luck!
|
# ? Jul 30, 2014 15:45 |
|
The advice is much appreciated. I'll try my best to improve - I read a lot, but I don't write and that seems to be a shame. Personally, I feel that my biggest weakness is that I'm a bit too academic and dry. It's going to be hard to change that, but I suppose practice will help.
|
# ? Jul 30, 2014 16:20 |
|
InMyHighCastle posted:I know I have a lot of improvement to go before I start entering the Thunderdome or something. The logic's backward there -- you get that lot of improvement by participating in the Thunderdome. As with everything in life, this can be solved with discipline and practice. Thunderdome provides both of those, with a wonderful set of motivations: * Once you're In, you'll want to maintain the value of your word by not failing to submit a story. * The act of writing with restrictions will force you to hone your craft in a deliberate, directed way. * You'll be able to compare your response to the prompt with others', providing an excellent opportunity to analyze what you liked about theirs as opposed to yours. * You'll receive a shiny new avatar and a fiery passion in your belly to show them what for. You'll show them all. (Feel free to replace "you" with "I" in the above.) But seriously, dive in. It's like getting in a cold pool -- don't just dip your big toe and shiver; cannonball! You'll warm up after a bit and start that precious process of burning calories.
|
# ? Jul 30, 2014 23:11 |
|
I came to fiction advice just to browse and saw somebody mention TD. The first couple of times i did it I got pointed out to me all the horrible things I was doing and why they were horrible. I fixed most of those and now sometimes i write something interesting? you should try it. the worst thing that happens is you get an avatar change.
|
# ? Jul 31, 2014 02:51 |
|
crabrock posted:
|
# ? Jul 31, 2014 07:47 |
|
DoctorWhat posted:I'm taking a serious stab at writing a short story for pretty much the first time and I'm trying to establish a specific tone for it, and also find out if what I've written is any good so far. It's only about two pages long so far, so it shouldn't take more than five minutes to read through. I left some comments on the doc, so you can read them. I found a few awkward lines and a good amount of telling in the beginning. However, you get over that pretty quickly. Now for your questions DoctorWhat posted:Is the narrator relatable? Kind of. He just seems like an average joe with a personality that feels kind of generic. I don't really know how to describe him except wants to be hidden, likes Star Trek (maybe), and overreacts when he accidentally bumps into a woman. Also, gets really smug when people call soda pop for some reason. DoctorWhat posted:Do all the different "speakers" have distinct enough voices? Yeah, the only other speaker is really the girl, and she does feel different from the boy, but I don't really feel like she's a strong character since I don't really get to know her. DoctorWhat posted:Is there anything particularly stupid that I've done? Besides make a story based off of Doctor Who? That you added in news articles about something that doesn't add anything to the story. The big problem is that this story feels incomplete. Not that there's anything missing in one you presented, but just that it doesn't feel finished. Your articles hint at something more, and the events that happen don't really have a full narrative arc. There lies the problem with giving us a rough draft of a story not completed yet. I can't really critique it since I don't know what you're planning on it. From what I see, I enjoyed it, but I pray that you don't make it fanfic about Doctor Who, because that's an awful idea. DoctorWhat posted:I'm trying to get a vide going that's sort of like "The Truth" by Avi, mixed with some traits from John Hodgman's occasional forays into "normal" fiction. I have an idea of where the story is going, but obviously all the details are very much up in the air. I'm an uncultured swine and have never heard of those, so I can't tell you if you succeeded or not.
|
# ? Jul 31, 2014 20:40 |
|
Broenheim posted:I left some comments on the doc, so you can read them. I found a few awkward lines and a good amount of telling in the beginning. However, you get over that pretty quickly. It's very much unfinished. The story isn't about Doctor Who - and it's certainly not fan fiction. it's about a prominent fan and critic of the series who seems to have some kind of psychotic break. The news articles are meant to capture the reader's interest in terms of "what the hell happened in Brooklyn" but your critique has made me realize I need to make that question more compelling. When I have my next chunk, I'll post it here - I didn't at first, because it's already well over 1000 words and will get longer, but if this is the appropriate thread nonetheless I'll set up camp here. DoctorWhat fucked around with this message at 20:56 on Jul 31, 2014 |
# ? Jul 31, 2014 20:53 |
|
I'm entirely new to CC, but I figured I'd try my hand a crit and a submission. Here goes!:InMyHighCastle posted:“When the cart comes, son, it doesn’t go away empty,” they told me. I didn’t want to leave them behind, my family, my friends, my neighbors, This feels oddly general. Perhaps I'm just being nitpicky, but it's something anyone would say, and it lacks any specificity that would give the reader a clue as to what the narrator values. but adults often don’t care much for the wishes of children, especially during wars. We have to do as we are told. So, as I clambered off the packed train, and began to make my way down to the station’s exit, I knew that, whether I liked it or not, I’d have to get into the man’s cart and be ferried off to whichever family was generous enough to host me until things calmed down back home. This sentence goes on for quite a long time and, as a consequence, loses some of its impact of an anxious youngster. He sounds a little too calm and removed, in other words As you said you're looking for a critique of voice, what mainly jumps out at me is that I have no idea what to make of the narrator. We know that he's a child, and that's about it. I realize that this is a very short excerpt, but even then, I don't get a feel at all for what this character's responses are. In the first paragraph you say he doesn't want to leave his life behind, but then in the following one he leaves behind the "sheepish" children. It's hard to make out if your character is supposed to be stoic, remorseful, wise, or whatever, since lots of little bits of these states crop up, but not really coherently. I'm sorry if that sounded harsh, because it's not a bad piece by any means, I just think you need to hammer down more clearly defined traits and emotional states of the narrator. Anyway, here's my own contribution: Dress Up (718 words) I slide the shirt on and before I’ve even gotten to buttoning it up I look over to you still in your underwear (the fancy, lacy, look-but-don’t-really-look-too-long-‘cause-then-it’s-creepy kind) and you’re staring at me without making a word, not even forming the beginnings of one on your lips, and then I know we’re gonna be late. I mean, yeah, sure, fair point, there’s a red wine stain, right near the heart (it’s actually on the underside of my tit but I said that once and you said it sounded crass so now I just agree and say the heart as well) and you think that it’s a bad sign. Okay. But it’s my favourite shirt. I’ve had it since I was in high school, when I was looking at you from afar and wondering if you even knew I existed (you didn’t, obviously, since I was too busy hiding from you and peering around corners. Somehow I had never really clued in). And sometimes I like to even imagine that I was wearing this shirt the day you first said hi to me even though I know that’s a bit of creative license and I was actually probably wearing one of my gauche sweater vests that I used to think were the height of fashion. There are alternatives, you say factually. This is true. I don’t dispute it. But really? The white silk one? Is that how you see this relationship? Sometimes, I fear it is. And come on! Aside from that tiny, insignificant little stain that you can barely even see anyway ‘cause it’s a dark loving shirt, it’s the best one I own. The collar hasn’t wilted like some dying flower, and the sleeves stop at my wrist instead of hiding my fingers inside them like snakes in a can of fake nuts. I speak in similes which you think is simultaneously sweet and condescending, and so you just roll your eyes from the inertia. When it gets like this I want to sulk and cross my arms and say it doesn’t even really matter anyway, no one’s gonna care because it’s me and not them. At the very worst they’ll think I’m a bit clumsy when I’m holding a drink which is the truth anyway so better that they think that right off the bat. But I know it’s defeating to even try that. I just can’t understand why you hate that shirt so much. And you look sad and you say that it’s because it looks like I’m bleeding right through the cloth which is kind of ridiculous because whose blood is even that colour or consistency? I suppose that’s not the point, though. So now I’m sitting down and the shirt is still unbuttoned, and my tummy is peeking out unflatteringly from the cloth that’s really shoddily festooning it, and it’s like Schroedinger’s Dress Shirt now, where I’m both wearing it and not at the same time. But with the way I’m sitting now the cloth is wrinkled and it’s actually covering up the stain and I jump up and say see! See! It’s a perfectly fine shirt. When you look up at me it’s just so staggeringly lonely that I can barely stand it and you say that you’ll always know it’s there and that’s what ruins it for you. You’re still in your frilly underwear and nothing else and it’s getting dark now but it’s still bright in the room because the streetlights have come on outside like we needed the extra boost to help navigate our way. I am still slumped sitting on the bed and you come over, standing tall above me and I say how many times are we going to have this same goddamned argument and you don’t reply so I start to break down and cry, sobbing in the most embarrassing way, with deep breaths that just facilitate bigger and louder gasps because I know the answer and so I lie down and shut my eyes. After a while I feel the bed sink a bit as you sit down next to me on it, and then I feel your fingers followed by your head resting on my chest, listening without words to the origin of my sobs as they’re filtered through a thin sheen of fabric.
|
# ? Aug 3, 2014 21:22 |
|
Nice vignette. It feels like it would be too long if it had even a few more words, which is a sign you chose your incident well. It imbues the items of clothing with the qualities of the characters that wear them in a way that implies an array of past and future events without needing to describe them. Also: lots of good words. Now: write a story.
|
# ? Aug 4, 2014 10:08 |
|
So I was incredibly unhappy with how I had to post my story all naked without edits in order to avoid a failure, so I asked sebmojo to hold off on critting until I can post a finish product here. To the Heavens Words: 1989 Flash Rule: Character gives up something they care about “They’re holding our funeral today,” Babar muttered as he took a seat next to Eureka. “You going?” Eureka spat on the ground. Babar waited for her to launch into one of her legendary rants, but she kept quiet. “What do you think we’ll find up there?” Eureka tilted her head back and closed her eyes. “The sky,” she said dreamily. “I know, I just…” Babar searched for the best way put what he thought into words. “There’s still plenty of food. We won’t run out in our lifetimes. Let someone else go see if people can live on the surface.” “I can’t stay cooped up in here. If everyone waits for the next person to do something, nothing would be done.” “No one’s ever made it back,” Babar said, determined to be the negative Nancy. “Your grandpa never made it to the Grand Elevator. What makes you think we will?” “We’re not slobbering pussies.” *** Eureka stood at the front of the train car. She wore a leather coat and she breathed into her gas mask, ignoring the fog on the scratched lenses.“What do we want?” She shouted at her men. “To see the sky!” “When do we want it?” “We want it now!” Eureka scrunched her lips upward in an approving frown and nodded her head in response to her team’s fighting spirit. The only thing that felt right was to pump her fist in the air, screaming like an incoherent drunk distraught to reach the bottom of the last bottle of alcohol in the world. Most of her team reciprocated her call to arms. George, curiously enough, had hyped himself so much that he forgot how to breathe and promptly fainted. Babar was content on sitting and sulking. Caillou pretended his rifle was a rocket launcher and shot a round into the air, punching a hole through the ceiling and prematurely ending the celebration. Three unpleasant things followed that moment: everyone turned on Caillou with their weapons raised, there was a roar that rattled the windows and Caillou temporarily lost a struggle with his bladder. He staggered away from the windows, pointing to the one thing he did not want to see in the expedition. “Wyvern!” Eureka shouted. “Everyone outside!” If not for their predisposition to eat humans, Eureka could watch the silver wyverns snake their way through the air forever. “Don’t waste your bullets,” she called out to her men, “Wait until they’re in close range and then unload on their faces.” George snickered. He opened his mouth to deliver the most legendary of lines ever said in a life and death situation, but that dickface Caillou drowned his words out with gunfire. Caillou had a wide stance with a light machine gun in one hand and a belt of ammo draped over the other. “Come get some, you loving fairies!” The wyverns followed Caillour’s poignant advice and came to get some. One tucked its wings close and fell towards the train like a silver missile. Bullets ricocheted harmlessly off its thick exterior. It unfurled its wings and beat them against gravity to keep from slamming into the train. The tempest winds lifted Eureka off her feet and threw her backwards. She crashed into the guardrail with a metallic ping and bounced over it. She flung out her hands in an attempt to grab on to anything, found the base of the metal railing and clamped down. She shouted for help, but the sound of battle as well as the discordant screeches from the wyverns drowned her out. She looked down and immediately cursed herself. It wasn’t because she couldn’t see the bottom of the cavern (though she did make a mental note to scalp the descendants of those who built the drat thing so high off the ground). Her severe displeasure came from her being unable to command her legs to move. The altercation with the metal rail must have done more damage than she thought. Eureka struggled to pull her body back up to the platform. Her arms ached, she was out of breath and she could be crippled for the rest of her probable short life, but at least she had defiantly kept both middle fingers up taunting Death. Unfortunately for her, Death is a fussy rear end in a top hat when people cheat him. A wyvern landed on the last train car and the cabin crumpled under its massive weight. The wheels sparked as the train car bounced and rattled, making a valiant effort to stay on the rails. Eureka looked towards the front of the train and saw they were close to entering a tunnel. Thirty seconds was all she needed to reach the threshold where a derail won’t end in an impromptu flying lesson. Caillou ran past and jumped to the following car, followed by George. The train car lurched to the side and Eureka slid towards the edge, clawing at the ground in an attempt to stop herself from sailing to her death. Eureka saw her final hope sprinting past. “Babar! I need help!” She knew he heard her. He looked at her and then back towards safety, unable to make up his mind. Eureka reached toward him and called out his name again. The train car bucked off the rail and slid. A screech, like fingernails on a chalkboard, drew her attention to the rear of the train. The coupling that connected her car to the line of cars dangling off the side of the bridge snapped, releasing the extra weight to fall. The sudden loss of weight made the car Eureka was on to pop up, hurling her into the air. When she came down, she wrapped her arms over the railing, but the momentum made her slip and she slammed her chin on the metal. Dazed, her grip loosened and she slid off, but at the last moment she took ahold of something, and found herself once again hanging from the edge of the guard rail. She peered over the edge and something in her chest sunk when she realized Babar had abandoned her. So much for a decade of friendship. She screamed his name like a curse, yet still held on. The train car ran completely off the rails and dragging alongside the bridge. Up ahead was the tunnel and if the train car failed to kill her, the collision with earth would. Eureka started to make peace with her god until she heard a wyvern’s discordant cry. She looked down and saw a winged serpent passing under her. If she were to die, it might as well be when she was doing something extraordinarily dangerous and badass. She let go of the railing and fell towards the wyvern, unfastening a climbing axe from her side. With all the adrenaline-enhanced strength she could muster, she drove the point through the wyvern’s hide. The wyvern sliced through the air in a frenzy. Eureka had one hand on her axe and the other gripping the wyvern’s wing.When the wyvern stopped fighting her, every alarm in Eureka’s head rang. The wyvern was flying straight towards the train wreckage at the mouth of the tunnel. Bastard’s trying to scrape me off his back, Eureka thought. . She had one last thought before she flew into the smoke billowing at the mouth of the tunnel: This is gonna fuckin’ hurt. Eureka rolled to the side and hung against the wyvern’s flank seconds before a shower of rocks exploded above her. She was wrenched away from the wyvern and tumbled through the air, and crashed into the ground. She bounced along the rails until the sharp whack of flesh against an immovable surface knocked her out. *** The stab of overwhelming pain in the side jarred Eureka awake. She showed her displeasure by shouting, “Stop!” until whoever was moving her did. “Holy poo poo, she’s not dead.” She opened her eyes to find George and Caillou watching her. “Not even close, baby,” she said, chuckling. The pain came right back. She groaned and moved her hands to what felt like broken ribs. “How much farther we got until the Grand Elevator?” “gently caress’s sake, you’re in no condition-” “Shut it, Caillou! Where’s Babar?” Her words were venom-tipped. Caillou winced but he kept his composure. “He’s back at the wreckage trying to salvage whatever food he can.” “You made a wyvern your bitch!” George threw both hands in the air. “That was loving awesome!” “What was awesome?” Babar’s inflection flattened as he came around the corner pulling a dolly of food. “Good to see you alive, Eureka.” She reached for her pistol, but it wasn’t there. She wondered if she should be thankful she lacked the tools to punish Babar for his cowardice. “George, I need you to carry me. I can’t walk,” she said evenly. Two hours rolled by, every moment spent listening to George and Caillou arguing about who started the argument they were now having. “Am I the only one who hears something following us?” Babar asked. Everyone stopped. Caillou shrugged. “You must be imagining-” The unmistakable sounds of muffled footsteps from a very large creature echoed through the tunnel. Death was one fussy bastard. They ran hard. To Eureka, every jostle felt like a knife in her side. But when they reached the Grand Elevator, the pain seemed to be worth it. The elevator was massive. They could fit the entire train on the platform if they were set side by side. She looked up and marvelled at elevator shaft. It was at an angle instead of being straight up and down like others had told her. She saw a pinpoint of light at the very end. Almost there. “How do you work this drat thing?” Babar shouted, looking frantically around the edges of the platform. “Eureka!” Caillou cried. “How do we work this?” The wyvern was running now and getting closer. Eureka pointed to a small panel on the far side. “Switch. Flip,” she said, still out of sorts. Caillou relayed the information. “A switch! Flip the switch!” Babar strained against the switch, but he couldn’t move it. “Caillou, it’s rusted!” Caillou was beside him using his rifle as a lever. “This is why you should lift more than a food to your face, you little girl.” He pulled down and with their combined efforts the switch squealed all the way down to the on position. Red lights flared up and a siren wailed. The elevator shuddered violently until the gears rotated, taking them up a diagonal ascent. Curious, George looked over the edge of the platform. He then took several unsteady steps away. A giant claw appeared over the edge of the platform and with protest from the elevator, the wyvern pulled itself up. Blood seeped from deep cuts on its back and wings and it had a noticeable limp. It was also staring directly at Eureka. It flared its nostrils and charged. George forgot that Eureka couldn’t walk on her own and dropped her in his attempt to get out of the way. Eureka dragged herself away from the wyvern, but it was easily gaining on her. With a shout, Babar slammed the spike of his climbing axe into the wyvern’s eye. The serpent thrashed its head around and in a misstep, it tripped over the railing and fell below. “And stay the gently caress away!” Babar said. He reared his head back and spat. After a few seconds of awkward silence, George pipes up. “Did you just spit in your gas mask?” *** The elevator finally reached the top. The four of them looked above to the gray, cloudy sky through the steel wreckage of the Eiffel Tower. George carried Eureka to a shopping cart, and set her down in it.. “So, what’s next?” Babar asked. She looked at Babar, her hand going to her empty pistol holster. “Time to explore. And Babar?” “Yea?” “Thanks for growing a pair.”
|
# ? Aug 11, 2014 06:44 |
|
Even though I don't read a lot of sci-fi actiony stuff, I enjoyed your story a lot. I particularly liked the way that a lot of details suggested the world the story exists in without begging questions. As an example I was perfectly happy to accept that there was a greater meaning to their mission than just "seeing the sky" even though we knew little of it. I also thought the pacing was excellent, and the action was depicted in such a way that I could easily make sense of what was happening, which I think is very difficult. I don't have any higher level criticism to give you, but there were some phrases that didn;t seem quite right to me. "Babar was content on sitting and sulking." Should be "content to sit and sulk" or "content to continue sitting and sulking" "Most of her team reciprocated her call to arms." I don't think the word reciprocates is quite right here. There are simpler words that would be more effective (echo?) "death as a fussy bastard." I like the idea of this motif a lot, but fussy doesn't seem like the right word. I think a central phrase like this needs to work perfectly and this doesn't quite get there for me.
|
# ? Aug 31, 2014 01:35 |
|
newtestleper posted:Even though I don't read a lot of sci-fi actiony stuff, I enjoyed your story a lot. I particularly liked the way that a lot of details suggested the world the story exists in without begging questions. As an example I was perfectly happy to accept that there was a greater meaning to their mission than just "seeing the sky" even though we knew little of it. I also thought the pacing was excellent, and the action was depicted in such a way that I could easily make sense of what was happening, which I think is very difficult. Thank you for the crit!
|
# ? Aug 31, 2014 03:40 |
|
|
# ? Mar 29, 2024 01:35 |
|
My state has it's own standardized test and one part of it was a writing task. We got to keep drafting material after the test so I decided to toss up in a document. https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/u/111996868/2014-2/Stories/A%20brief%20overview%20of%20non-conformants.pdf There's also a local writing competition coming up soon and NO I'm not entering just because the prize could afford me a new GPU...
|
# ? Sep 8, 2014 11:27 |