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Personally, before investing a poo poo load of time into writing a novel, I would learn basic sentence structure; you have too many(more than 0) run on sentences. There's a link to an online grammar tutorial in the "Post Creative Resources" thread.
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Feb 15, 2013 18:49
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Blarggy posted:
You got some excellent line edits already ,so I'm just going to offer a few comments on the piece as a whole. I'd have to agree with the sentiment that you shouldn't start with the protagonist waking up or any earlier time-line wise then what you have already. If you have anything before this part that exists just to establish the setting, or background or whatever, ditch it. You can show those details later ,after you have hooked the reader, not before. Even in a novel, you need to get to the meat of the story quickly to hook a reader. There are exceptions, but unless your writing is sublime -I would read Chabon's or Vonnegut's grocery lists any day- then you need to give your readers a reason to turn the page. You have to elicit some kind of response. Be entertaining ,add a surprise ,or at least include a little dash of genuine suspense early on, etc. And the longer you delay getting to that part, the actual good stuff, the higher the chances are that you'll lose your readers. One way to do this, is think of what is the first really cool thing that is going to happen ,and then get right to it. Give us a reason to care right off the bat. In this case, as it's written, everything up to the woman entering the room could be cut. Because if any of that information is intriguing or important, you have done nothing to show that in the writing itself. As far as style goes, consider mixing up your sentences more. Add a few short sentences to mix in with the long and consider more interesting adjectives and comparisons. Also maybe consider getting us closer to the protagonist in voice, as it is the narration is a bit detached and bloodless. I don't feel like I have any stake in what's going on while reading this. In this case, I think my best advice is that you should think about utilizing the 10% rule. That is, Second Draft = First Draft - 10% of the words. No matter what. Doing this will destroy needless exposition, and get you to really think about what information you need and what information you don't. You should edit your work as if there is a dude in a suit behind you, slipping you a dollar every time you murder a word. Be ruthless. Bathe in their delicious blood. JuniperCake fucked around with this message at 20:09 on Feb 15, 2013 |
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Feb 15, 2013 19:30
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STONE OF MADNESS - new favorite CC poster.
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Feb 15, 2013 20:17
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Thought I'd drop in here and give you guys some fresh meat to chew on! From Between Sand and Sky [1000 words]: ------------------- A wall of sand and dust blotted out the sun. It roared across the wasteland, consuming everything in its path. Kalis pulled his makeshift tent down over the windward side of an outcropping. He could scarcely hear his own thoughts amidst the scream of that mighty gale. As the leading edge began to lash at him with waves of sand, even through his thick clothes, he finally managed to anchor down the last corner of the tent. With haste, he crawled through the opening, pulling his pack in behind him. The wind hit with its full fury, raking long, sharp claws across the thin fabric. It sought a hold, an entry, to tear away the tent and expose the soft flesh hidden within. Fine sand hammered against the exterior in endless waves, finding thin cracks and holes despite his best efforts to seal the shelter. Kalis curled up into a ball, holding one of the packs over his face. He'd been careless, had taken too long to find a suitable spot to erect his shelter, and had underestimated the power of this particular storm. These were the mistakes that cost men their lives. Yet even as the storm raged just inches away, his mind soon slid under the fabric and out into the storm, where it was tossed and turned by the winds, before finally breaking free and sailing out across leagues and leagues of open desert, past long, thin lines of wagons and horses, past low walls bristling with spears and the buildings that crouched sullenly behind them. Then at last to the sea, where it continued over white-capped waves and tall ships filled with the addictive spice, bound for The Archipelago, with its countless islands and warring states. That azure gleam that he so longed to see again, more beautiful than any gem could hope to be. His mind finally settled over a large island covered in thick forests. Peeking above the tops of the mighty cedars, he saw the castle, its blue banners snapping proudly in the wind that blew in from the ocean to the east, that castle he knew so well. He saw himself, years younger, standing atop the battlements, staring out over the trees at a town along the coast, where the great sailing ships were bringing in their cargoes. His mind moved on, down the ill-used stairs, along dusty, narrow corridors choked with cobwebs inside the hollow walls, used rarely even by the palace guards and servants, but a young prince's best friend. Through a short, wooden door and into the throne room, lit by a great, roaring fire inside a fireplace along one wall. His father sat on the throne of Syral, golden crown resting slightly askew and yellowed scroll held lightly in wrinkled, trembling hands. His father looked up, seeming to see him, but Kalis knew that his father was looking through him, towards the door. Two men entered the throne room, wearing long coats with blue fringes, diamond rings that glistened in the flickering light, and cruel arrogance. Duke Hildebrandt and Lord Elsberry. Seeing their faces again, even within the confines of his own mind, his own memories, rousted him from his half-sleep. The storm had passed, the world was returned to its silence. Two hours he had been lost in those visions of yesterday. Such storms rarely lasted longer, raging and screaming one minute and then gone the next. Kalis dug up the metal spikes holding the fabric in place and then pushed the makeshift tent aside. The air was clean, refreshing, scoured of all things dirty and impure. Kalis breathed deeply, filling his lungs. The sky above his head was clear, as blue as the pool in the hidden grotto along the coast, where he used to while away spring days in his youth. Even now he could still so clearly see the rays of sunlight filtering down through layers of broad, flat leaves, down through the small hole in the cave's roof, to gently caress the still waters. That was another memory he'd not thought about in too many years. Since even before his exile. Kalis let the memory fade as he brushed the sand from his cloak. It had gotten everywhere, in every fold and every crevice, turned his dark hair almost white. A bath was in order, but there was little opportunity for such a thing, not until he could locate the next city, at least, and that was still many days away. Kalis carefully folded and then tied the sheet of fabric he used for a shelter. Once it had been reattached to his pack, he slung the pack over his shoulder and continued on his way. The storm had been but a momentary delay, nothing more, though he'd been incredibly lucky this time. Down from the outcropping, less than a league out, Kalis spotted a tiny settlement of ragged tents strewn about near a rather pitiful oasis. That shimmering droplet of spittle couldn't have been more than ten paces across, barely enough to support the two ragged palms with their tattered leaves, savaged by the storm. He wasn't likely to come across anything useful there; it was doubtful that the people had much contact with the rest of the world. Kalis checked his canteens and found them all empty, save one. Hopefully, they had enough water to share and a willingness to do so. Kalis shifted his pack, relieving one shoulder at the expense of the other, and then came down from the outcropping, moving slowly along the exposed rock. It was well into the afternoon when he reached the village. By then, the inhabits had come out of their shelters and were milling about, seeming uncertain as to what they ought to be doing. Many of them cast sidelong glances in his direction, others ignored him entirely. None spoke. The creak of a wooden sign, painted in garish colors that were rapidly fading, drew him towards what roughly approximated the center of that rude village. ------------------- That's the first four pages, approximately.
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Feb 15, 2013 20:33
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I don't have much to add that hasn't already been mentioned, but I wanted to come back to this in particular:Blarggy posted:This scene was originally intended to be about twice or three times as long, as the first chapter in the book it would set the stage, the main character, etc, but not develop any characterization until he woke up later on. If I pick up a book and the entire first chapter contains no characterization, I'm putting that book down and never touching it again. The setting can be revealed throughout the story, but the character is going to be what gets the reader invested in the first place. I couldn't care less what the plot and setting are about if you can't make me care about the characters, and the first chapter is the first thing a reader will see when they pick up the book. It's fine to write whatever garbage you want for scene-setting in a first draft, but if it's not advancing character or action, throw it out before the second. Those are your hooks. Remember them. Martello already gave some good advice for your wordiness problem but I'd go farther than that, even - the first three paragraphs can be chopped or condensed to one line, the girl can be summed up in a couple sentences instead of paragraphs, and the explosion is what should matter. You also need to inject some personality in there. Giving his impressions of her beyond noticing how beautiful she is - which still sounds like the narrator talking, not the protag - would go a long way there. And this: quote:His brain did not have time to process exactly what was going on, other than a resounding roaring noise, and that the entire front of the city hall building, thick concrete pillars, stone floors and brick pavers, were now shattering like so much glass and flying through the air, mostly in his direction. That's sure processing a lot for not being able to process what's happening. quote:He didn't know what was going on, except for exactly what was going on, in detail, mostly in his direction. The guy's not going to be admiring how every little physical detail is happening, he's going to be freaking out because a building just exploded in front of him what the hell. Also get rid of that last clause. That's terrible. "He didn't have time to process it; in an instant the building burst toward him, noise and glass and concrete. He desperately flung his arms up but it wouldn't be enough..." Not great, but I hope you get the idea. Try writing using the least words possible instead of the most for a while. It's fun, I promise. *** Great Rumbler posted:From Between Sand and Sky [1000 words]: For the most part I like this. I'm already interested in what's going on, possibly because I'm a bit of a sucker for stories with displaced princes.  That said, the description of the sandstorm is very, uh, dry. A lot of short sentences, could be condensed down, made pithier. By contrast, later on there are a lot of compound sentences that form a repetitive flow that might be better broken up differently. Vary your sentence length and structure. I'd also suggest trying to avoid "had" and "then" when possible; they're often a sign of excess wordiness. For example: quote:He'd been careless, had taken too long to find a suitable spot to erect his shelter, and had underestimated the power of this particular storm. Sounds a bit run-on and disordered. Perhaps: quote:He'd been careless. He'd underestimated this storm, taken too long to find a suitable spot to erect his shelter. Also: quote:With haste, he crawled through the opening, pulling his pack in behind him. The comma there breaks it up, makes the mind pause, slows down what should be a quick action. Simply changing it to "He hastily crawled through the opening..." would flow better. Adverbs aren't always the enemy. Or find a quicker word than "crawled." And watch out for repetition: quote:Kalis breathed deeply, filling his lungs. Deep breaths do indeed tend to fill lungs. Don't need to be told that. There's also opportunity to show more character there through Kalis reacting to the storm. The flashback is better, but maybe has slightly more detail and drags on a bit more than necessary. As well, his mind being described as breaking free of the storm made me think he was scrying at first, but it turned out to be memories or dreaming. That description is probably unneeded. Overall, a bit rough, not bad. I like the oasis being described as a shimmering droplet of spittle. I wouldn't mind reading more of this.
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Feb 16, 2013 00:25
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Thanks for the feedback!quote:The comma there breaks it up, makes the mind pause, slows down what should be a quick action. Simply changing it to "He hastily crawled through the opening..." would flow better. Adverbs aren't always the enemy. Or find a quicker word than "crawled." How about something like: "He scrambled through the opening, dragging the heavy pack in behind him." A bit of a contrast there. Kalis is moving very quickly, but the pack is large and heavy and just slides slowly across the ground. Better? quote:Sounds a bit run-on and disordered. As for that one, I'm actually thinking about something completely different there. See what this does for you: "Careless, careless. Too long to find a suitable shelter, too slow to erect the tent. The storm hadn't seemed quite so powerful from afar." quote:As well, his mind being described as breaking free of the storm made me think he was scrying at first That thought came to me when I was getting everything set up to post. It kind of seems like he has psychic powers of some kind at first. I'm sure I could do something there to make it more clear that he's just remembering things/dreaming. quote:I like the oasis being described as a shimmering droplet of spittle. That actually came to me as I was getting this post set up. Originally, I just had "it" there rather than the more descriptive "shimmering droplet of spittle." Works much better, doesn't it? Great Rumbler fucked around with this message at 01:00 on Feb 16, 2013 |
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Feb 16, 2013 00:57
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Great Rumbler posted:Thanks for the feedback! How does someone scramble slowly? It's not so much a contrast as it is contradictory.
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Feb 16, 2013 05:24
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Maybe say that Kalis moved as quick as the heavy pack would allow him?
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Feb 16, 2013 05:43
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I Am Hydrogen posted:How does someone scramble slowly? I'm not sure what you mean. Wouldn't the wording and the context suggest that the pack is already on the ground? Kalis scrambles quickly into the tent, but can only slowly drag the pack in with him once he's inside. That's what I was going for there, but maybe it's not as obvious as the image I have in my head. Well anyway, I can rework that sentence.
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Feb 16, 2013 06:04
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I Am Hydrogen posted:How does someone scramble slowly? Scramble inside, turn around, drag it in. Maybe "scrambled through the opening and dragged the heavy pack..." Though the rewrite flowed okay to me. I could picture it. Great Rumbler: Those do sound better. Another quick skim reminded me of another more specific thing: First two paragraphs have the words "sand" and "hole" a lot. Try mixing that up. We already know a sandstorm will have sand. And another thing I'll pick on as a good example of something I don't think I got into much before: quote:The wind hit with its full fury, raking long, sharp claws across the thin fabric. It sought a hold, an entry, to tear away the tent and expose the soft flesh hidden within. Redundancy and wordiness. I notice it looks like you want to characterize the storm a bit, but it's buried to the point it slipped past me at first. quote:The wind hit with its full fury, raking its claws across the thin fabric, seeking to tear through and devour its fragile prey. Try coming up with ways to word things that keep the meaning and strip out any excess. It tends to give more impact. A good exercise is to set a number of words to chop, make a copy of the original file and whittle it down as much as possible. Even if you decide to put some of them back in later from the original, you'll start to see what's only dead weight.
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Feb 16, 2013 06:14
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Thanks, Echo Cian, you've really given me a lot to think about. I tend to retreat into my own little insular world sometimes, not that that's necessarily a bad thing, but bad habits do tend to creep back in when that happens. Alright, let me throw out the first two paragraphs again: ------------------------------ A wall of sand blotted out the sun. It roared across the wasteland, devouring all within its path. Kalis pulled his makeshift tent down over the windward side of a rocky outcropping. He could scarcely hear his own thoughts amidst the scream of that mighty gale. As the leading edge began to lash out at him, he finally managed to anchor down the last corner of the tent. Kalis scrambled through the opening and dragged the heavy pack in behind him. The wind hit with its full fury. Long, sharp claws raked across the thin fabric, seeking to tear through to the unprotected prey hidden within. It attacked with endless waves, invading through a hundred cracks and holes too small to even see. Nothing could be done about that. Kalis curled up into a ball, holding one of the packs over his face. Careless, careless! he berated himself. Too long to find a suitable haven, too slow to erect the tent. The storm hadn't appeared quite so powerful from afar. These were the mistakes that cost men their lives.
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Feb 16, 2013 15:42
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Great Rumbler posted:Alright, let me throw out the first two paragraphs again: "the unprotected prey hidden within" is still a bit wordy (we already know he's in the tent, and this might be personal preference but "unprotected" feels odd to me when the tent is his protection) but that reads much better. The whole piece will flow smoother if you go over it like that. If it starts feeling like you can't see ways to change things because you've been looking at it for so long, set it aside for a few days and come back to it with fresh eyes. --- I said I'd post this here when I'd revised it, so: (A note: This is part of a larger work. The setting isn't medieval.) Predator (1086 words) A branch snapped far back in the forest. I looked up from the rabbit spoor I'd been investigating at the base of a young tree. The noise was muffled in the snow, but something large definitely approached. I nocked an arrow to my bowstring and took a knee. My stomach rumbled at the thought of fresh deer meat. The last rabbit I'd caught seemed a very long time ago. In truth, it had been; Loth was a terrible month for hunting, and my traps had been empty for days. The noise got louder. I could almost taste venison - but as it neared, I had misgivings. A prey animal shouldn't be so loud. I raised my bow and took aim at the shape that lumbered into sight. Whatever it was, it certainly wasn't a deer. Its figure resolved through the falling snow and my gut sank. A body twice the size of a horse, knobbed and ridged - its head reptilian, like an ugly mockery of a true dragon. Wyrm. My breath caught in my throat. I had only seen one once, dead - but there were stories, oh were there stories. Faster than a horse, stronger than ten men, a hide that nothing short of a crossbow bolt or bullet could pierce. Were I standing, my head might reach its belly. Its teeth, when it paused and sniffed the air, were as long as my hand. And this was a small one. The one I'd seen was the size of a railcar and had taken two crossbow bolts to the chest to bring down - after it killed five men in the hunting party. I huddled in the brush, my heart pounding so hard it surely must hear it. This was impossible. They shouldn't be in this cold climate. Could I run? Was there any chance it could see movement and not think me prey? No. And it would scent me the moment the wind shifted. A short gust stirred the falling flakes and wafted a stench of rotten meat toward me. I choked down a cough and put arrow back to bow. I was a fool, to try to take this thing down alone - but then, I was always the fool. I raised the bow, took aim and a slow breath, and released. It gave a piercing screech as my arrow sank into its neck - barely deeper than the arrowhead, but it drew blood, which was better than I'd expected from the tales. My ears rang as I drew, nocked, fired again. Chest. This time it heard the bowstring snap and spotted me in the brush. Its slitted pupils dilated. Hellfire. I ran. It charged after me, smashing aside the tree I'd abandoned with a terrible crack. I jumped a log and broke hard right into a small copse, whirled with my blood pounding, another arrow raised. It barreled headlong past me, spun with a sinuous grace; scrabbled for traction in the snow and shrieked at my third arrow. Left flank. It crashed in after me and I dove out before it could snap me like the unfortunate trees it savaged in my wake. I chanced a glance over my shoulder. Our eyes locked, man and monster. I swallowed and ran with all I had. It certainly wasn't faster than a horse, at least in the forest, but three arrows didn't even slow it down. I needed cover. I needed broadheads, why hadn't I made broadheads? Damndamndamn. It was scarce seconds behind when I reached the bank. I threw myself over the edge and landed hard in snow with a crack of stream ice and a lance of pain through my shoulder. The wyrm overshot me and landed in the streambed, ice shattering beneath its bulk, my arrow driven deeper into its flank by the force of its impact. Its furious roar shook snow from the trees. I wrenched myself onto my knees. My fingers burned with the cold and my shoulder with pain but I drew the bowstring to my cheek and fired again. Right haunch; this one buried in halfway up the shaft. The wyrm stumbled as it tried to rise. I loosed another. Left hind leg. Then it was back on its feet, hissing in pain. I drew again- -gods- -it was on top of me. It batted me into the embankment like a toy. My bow jolted from my hand. The wyrm hissed again, louder, and I had the terrible feeling that it no longer only wanted to kill me. No, it wanted to kill me messily for the pain I'd caused it. Too close for the bow. I drew my sword. And, since I was a stupid fool, now I charged. It recoiled in surprise - only for an instant, but that was enough. It snapped at me but I twisted past teeth, past claws. It crouched to block my rush; I ducked under, faster, and drove my sword up into the soft flesh at the crook of its foreleg. It howled and jerked away. My sword went with it. Its tail whipped toward me; only my crouch saved me from broken ribs as I tucked and rolled with the impact. I felt something crack beneath me and grimaced. My bow hadn't been so fortunate. The wyrm limped away on three legs to examine the latest thorn. I dragged myself out of the snow for the third time and pulled out my boot knife. Hellfire, everything hurt. The wyrm kept a wary eye on me, but it now curled protectively around its leg. Blood spread in the snow, leaked into the stream. The water burbled over the beast's harsh breaths. We stared at each other for a long moment, the air tense as a bowstring. Then it faltered; stumbled, slipped on the ice, went down on its bad leg. Its screech as my sword drove in further sounded weaker. I moved in warily. It hissed and snapped, but the pain and blood loss had finally slowed it. I slammed the knife into its throat two-handed and darted away from its thrashing claws. The great beast gurgled and convulsed, but its movements slowed; and finally it slumped to the snow. Cold had begun to seep through my furs and into my bones by the time I checked to make sure it was dead. I yanked the knife out with shivering hands. But, despite the cold and the pain, I smiled. This would last much longer than a rabbit.
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Feb 16, 2013 20:14
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This is pretty solid. I'd forgotten that this was part of a bigger piece when I read it, so my major complaint was going to be that details like mentioning bullets and trains seemed superfluous, but now I want to read more about this world of guns and wyrms. I would say that you should watch your dashes and semicolons. You use them well enough, but I noticed them because there were moments where I thought a comma or slight restructuring of the phrase would serve just as well. Like quote:A body twice the size of a horse, knobbed and ridged - its head reptilian, like an ugly mockery of a true dragon Maybe something like "...knobbed and ridged, its reptilian head an ugly mockery of a true dragon." Could be that's a poo poo example, but it's a little distracting to see breaks like that every couple paragraphs. I say this as a person who loves dashes and semicolons. Commas just don't do it for me (though I hear stone of madness is into that kind of thing). My last nitpick would be this bit here: quote:Cold had begun to seep through my furs and into my bones by the time I checked to make sure it was dead "Cold had begun" bugs me here. I like this bit because you don't waste words telling us the protagonist stood around waiting to make sure the wyrm was dead. You move pretty much straight from action to resolution and don't mince words tying up the scene. Which is why I feel like "cold had begun" is a bit unwieldy. Maybe someone with a finer-toothed comb than me can give you more insight, but honestly I found this enjoyable and would be interested in reading more. My only other complaint is that I don't know much about the protagonist, but this was written as an action sequence so that makes sense. I'm intrigued.
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Feb 17, 2013 02:59
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I've been threatening to inflict myself upon this thread for weeks. Here's my reworked Thunderdome entry, though it's slightly over the word limit now. Tensegrity Kasey’s glance shot from his ruined bike to his watch and back. He was doing his best to keep it together but the plan was falling apart before it had even unfurled. All his thoughts ran together as he tried to cope. The minute hand moved forward a half-circle; he could see Claire’s train pulling in, the Customs officers hauling her off the platform. He’d be running, sweaty, covered in grit but still blocks away from where he had to be. Or maybe he’d be stuck in a crowded bus or getting maced by a cabbie after he stiffed the bill. There was no time to cut the locks on the other bikes. He didn’t even own a grinder. There was no time, period. He tightened the duffel bag across his shoulders, breathed in, and broke into a run. Claire tightened her grip on her handbag, hands clammy with sweat. Her molars ached: she’d been grinding her teeth. Her heel tapped the cardboard box beneath the seat. No. Can't draw attention to the box, can't even think about it. They'd see it in her face, they could see these things. Kasey’s words ran through her head as the train’s clatter slowed with every passing moment. “There are three parts to any good plan: the Ruse, the Swindle and the Exit.” Kasey had seemed so sure of himself. She would never have agreed otherwise. “They’ll never suspect you’re up to somethin’. You wear one of those sundresses a’yours, you get all nervous when they ask for your passport and you’ll be golden. You’re like so low on the watch list you’d get away with murder.” For the most part, he’d been right. No one at the station gave her any trouble. No one really seemed to care. Now, outside, the suburbs grew denser. The streets were getting busier, there was less green. They were cutting towards the heart of the city. She checked her watch. Kasey was four blocks in, still running. No more time for dicking around. He scanned the sidewalk trying to tie things together. Someone was plugging a parking meter, a beggar plucked at a guitar, a lady with a stroller looked into a boutique, some guy was about to chain his bike to a pole. Kasey could almost felt a plan fall into place. “Hey! That guy stole my wallet!” Heads turned; Kasey was already moving, using those few seconds of confusion to tackle the guy with the bike. Before the guy could pick himself up Kasey was already weaving through traffic. Everything was a blur now. He kept his eyes on the thin strip of pavement between the parked cars and the moving traffic. A rusted out Toyota veered in too close; he could feel the heat coming off the hood. He kicked at the fender and flipped them the bird; a costly mistake. Some old guy took the moment to open the door of his Lincoln just up ahead. Kasey pressed on the brakes. Nothing, they were shot. He’d never scrub enough speed. The old guy was leaning on the door, pulling himself out, his pace was glacial. There was nowhere to go. No free ‘crete anywhere but the sidewalks. Or maybe… “gently caress it!” Kasey pulled across the lane, hoping the Toyota was keeping back. Car horns went off all around as he hauled rear end down the median, bent over his bars like he was winning the Tour de gently caress. He blew through a fresh red at the next lights, car horns going off again. He counted blocks now, redrawing the route in his head. No time to check his watch, but he knew it was going to be close. Claire pressed herself against the window. He was supposed to be waiting on the other end of the bridge, and the locomotive was already disappearing into the arching steel latticework. Her mouth was dry, her heart was pounding. It had to work. She slid the window open and fished the yellow kerchief from her purse. He ditched the bike behind the sickly shrubs at the embankment’s base. The scream of steel on steel let him know the train had cleared the bridge and was pulling into the final curve that would bring it into the station. Claire had said her car was somewhere near the middle. He bolted up the grassy slope. Hanging onto a girder with one hand, he leaned in as close to the train as he could. The smell of hot grease and diesel made it hard to breathe. He tensed as the cars passed, each pocket of air almost knocking him off balance. There - a flash of yellow at the other end of the bridge. He blinked and it was gone. He fixated on that car. It was coming up fast. Everything seemed to stop as he kept his eyes locked on the one open window. Close now. So close. He leaned over as far as he could, one hand outstretched. He could touch the endless stream of steel and rivets if he wanted. There she was, leaning out, the box in her hands and an uncertain look on her face. His fingers connected with the box, sliding across its surface and missing the twine that kept it shut. She’d already let go. The box was in free fall, the heavy end making it tumble towards the tracks. Her hands reached down, swatting the empty air as the train took her away. He was still on it. He kicked off the girder, eyes locked on the small brown parcel. Arms outstretched, he grazed the sides of the box with his palms. He brought it in close, pressing it to his chest and taking the fall with his shoulder. The roar of steel on steel was deafening, his shoulder ached where he’d connected with the rail tie. He rolled off the bridge and slid down the embankment, the box tucked away in his duffel. He left the bike where it lay and started the walk home without a second glance. Back at his apartment Kasey cracked a cold one. Claire was asleep in his bed, and Mr. Whiskers had finally shaken off the sedatives. Well, enough to pull himself out of the box and over to a bowl of food, anyway.
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Feb 18, 2013 18:04
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Nubile Hillock posted:Tensegrity The writing is good. This is close to where you want it to be. There are lots of little things I could say about this, but I'd rather not inundate you with tiny points. I have one big point instead. You. are. too. fast. Like Stone pointed out in the 'dome with your latest story, your prose is white-hot and hard to handle. You aren't so much spoon feeding me the plot as ramming it down my throat at a thousand miles-per-hour. Chill. Your action sequences are already punchy and full of vitality. It feels like you're dropping whole chunks of pertinent info just so you can rush me on to the next exciting thing that is happening. Obviously that is part and parcel of this piece as it is all about being in a hurry. But it is a far better thing to occasionally lose your grip on the rollercoaster ride than it is to leave your readers guessing or lost. Having terse and quick-fire descriptions is a great thing and a skill you clearly possess. Not including descriptions that might be vital to your reader's understanding is less good. I went through this line-edit with this one idea in mind, trying to cut where I could while pointing out things that left me reeling or confused. Hope it is of some use.
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Feb 18, 2013 21:27
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Jeza posted:I have one big point instead. You. are. too. fast. Like Stone pointed out in the 'dome with your latest story, your prose is white-hot and hard to handle. You aren't so much spoon feeding me the plot as ramming it down my throat at a thousand miles-per-hour. Chill. This is like the nicest thing anyone's ever said 'bout my writing : ) A few things - the repetition is intentional, I was kind of trying to mimic the way panicked thoughts work. Kind of like a circular thinking thing. Not sure if it worked. I know the sweating is repetitive, but I wanted to show them reacting the same way to the situation. Where the fender-kicking happens and you say the transition doesn't work, I'm kind of in a tight spot. I was trying to imply that taking his eyes off the road and losing his focus are what caused him to miss the old guy. The "he stole my wallet" thing was supposed to show that the bike-locking guy turned around, giving Kasey enough time to tackle him. And the tour de gently caress thing is a Critical Mass joke http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hgCqz3l33kU The cat thing (and the terrible name) I added because I kind of want all the effort to seem pointless, almost trivial. The story spawned from a short story competition held by a band called Broken Social Scene. Their album 'You forgot it in the people' has a kind of weird serious-but-not-really vibe to it. Thanks so much for the time and crits, I'll be reworking this until it works. edit: would you prefer the cat to be awake through the ordeal? I'm fixing all the stuff you highlighted then giving it some more time. autism ZX spectrum fucked around with this message at 23:06 on Feb 18, 2013 |
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Feb 18, 2013 22:47
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Nubile Hillock posted:This is like the nicest thing anyone's ever said 'bout my writing : ) Yeah it was in my mind that it was intentional, but as a general rule I never give the benefit of the doubt when giving crits. Don't sweat it if some of my points are just white noise 'cos I don't get references/context that your intended audience will. Looking forward to seeing some more of your stuff bouncing around.
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Feb 18, 2013 22:57
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I think one of the biggest issues I'm having now is one of context. I used to be way too wordy, now it seems I expect everyone to know all the things I know, all the time. I'd really like my work to be accessible to, well, most people. It seems I can't find a good middle ground. Either I'm all exposition, all the time, or just enough nouns to convey an idea. I feel that since you don't have all the context, you're finding things other people wouldn't find. My reaction to a lot of the bolded stuff goes something like "What! You can't possibly have a bone to pick with that sentence/construction/turn of phrase" *waits five minutes, re-reads* "oh."
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Feb 18, 2013 23:12
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Echo Cian posted:Predator (1086 words) Most of my comments are just random, rambling thoughts, so don't think about them too hard.  Overall, it's a really good piece and I think it manages to say quite a lot without relying on lots of exposition, which is great. It's definitely something that I'd be interested in reading more of!
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Feb 18, 2013 23:35
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Sitting Here posted:"Cold had begun" bugs me here. I like this bit because you don't waste words telling us the protagonist stood around waiting to make sure the wyrm was dead. You move pretty much straight from action to resolution and don't mince words tying up the scene. Which is why I feel like "cold had begun" is a bit unwieldy. Good points, especially that one. How about "Cold was seeping through my furs by the time..." or is that still off? Great Rumbler posted:Most of my comments are just random, rambling thoughts, so don't think about them too hard. Some good points here too. Some of it has to do with being part of a larger work (hint: the wyrm's size is important to how it was killed so easily) and having to initially cut it down to fit 1000 words, but without word limit constraints I have more leeway than I used for the revision. The wyrm dying like that falls especially flat after the protag's thoughts that it's looking for revenge, now that I think about it. I'll see if I can make a more thrilling conclusion. Thanks, both of you. I do aim to have more from this setting up eventually. This scene in particular I want to expand to a short story at some point.
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Feb 19, 2013 06:31
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Echo Cian posted:Good points, especially that one. How about "Cold was seeping through my furs by the time..." or is that still off? Maybe you could say something like "My sweat had frozen by the time..." That kind of exertion and fear is bound to produce a lot of sweat, despite the cold. Afterwards, though, it's going to freeze right up.
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Feb 19, 2013 15:50
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Echo Cian posted:Good points, especially that one. How about "Cold was seeping through my furs by the time..." or is that still off? I think linkers like "by the time" are generally viewed as wordy and cliché. Can you do this in sort of a separate sentence and use a word other than cold like Great Rumbler suggested? You use the word cold like four or five times in a 1100 word story. Something like, "I stood still until the sweat froze to my skin" or even "I stayed in place until the heat escaped my furs." Even those seem a tad on the wordy side, you can probably some up with something better. It's not the kind of thing you lump into a paragraph with other sentences anyway, it's more the sort of thing you want to put as a one-line paragraph by itself so the reader gets a sense of distance and time because the phrase is just out there standing alone in a field of white, just like your protagonist. I feel like it'd be more effective with the minor visual offset. You should only use the verb "to be" in all its forms if it's absolutely necessary, even in non-fiction. It's just such an invisible word that it's a waste, and action verbs are more exciting and engaging. In this example, why would you say "Cold was seeping" instead of "Cold seeped?" You don't need two verbs in a row. It's the same way you wouldn't say, "Fred was mad" in a story, you'd say "Fred growled" or "Fred shouted" or "Fred swore and kicked the can across the room." Zack_Gochuck fucked around with this message at 17:18 on Feb 19, 2013 |
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Feb 19, 2013 16:50
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My questions are in bold but I think most people get that at this point. Admittedly, this is primarily from a readers perspective.Nubile Hillock posted:I've been threatening to inflict myself upon this thread for weeks. Here's my reworked Thunderdome entry, though it's slightly over the word limit now. Ok, I feel this is really harsh on a story I liked. Reading it the first time felt exciting, but the second, third time just felt like i had no idea what was going on. I'm more trying to give my thoughts as I go than trying to get you to change anything, because my first time through this just felt.. cool. If this was an action sequence in a novel, where I knew the plan going in, I would probably be more forgiving, bu right now I just feel like I'm missing too much to actually like it.
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Feb 20, 2013 05:52
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The input really helps. I'm having major, major issues with that last paragraph. I can't make the scene work like I want it. You're bang on with that. You are missing a few cycling references, and the prot is definitely a dick The sedatives part is twofold, I guess. One it implies they can get ketamine, and two...would you transport an animal like that if it was awake? I like that it made sense on first pass, though. It's kind of loose ends everywhere so you might be reading too much into it. I was trying to use Claire as a way to change scenes and push the plot/action forward in as few words as possible, but I'm not sure it worked. I'm really disappointed my attempt at introducing the box fell short, though. It's either way too ham-fisted or it's not there at all. I thought I was onto something with Customs Officers and what have you. Where you're saying it seems backwards also worries me. Could you possibly rearrange that in a way that makes sense to you? I'm not seeing it. oh snap! I forgot I did a thing. Check this: quote:Hand over hand, he pulled himself onto the bridge. Hanging off a girder, he leaned in as close to the train as he could. The smell of hot grease and diesel made it hard to breathe. He tensed as the cars passed, each pocket of air almost knocking him off balance. autism ZX spectrum fucked around with this message at 06:15 on Feb 20, 2013 |
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Feb 20, 2013 06:11
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Don't worry about the box introduction thing. It's right there in black and white (and, now, italics)quote:Her heel tapped the cardboard box beneath the seat. No. Can't draw attention to the box, Nothing wrong with that, and having already established that she might be pulled by Customs, you're doing well. One of the major probs. with this piece is that you're introducing chars. at the same time as explaining their motivations for some pretty complex actions that they're already doing. Hard to keep it fresh and concise in these circumstances. As with the ending, this story could benefit from some extra information at the outset - or, ideally, from occurring after a couple of chapters that set up the novel from which this could be taken. Doesn't stand alone too well (nor could it be expected to) and does leave us wondering more about Mr. Whiskers etc.
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Feb 20, 2013 07:21
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quote:Nothing wrong with that, and having already established that she might be pulled by Customs, you're doing well. Thank God 'cause that'd be a hell of a rework. So it's okay if I focus on keeping this action-oriented and keep the character stuff for another time? I understand the need for background information, but I lifted the setting from something entirely unrelated. I'm really more concerned with the clarity in the transitions and that the action makes sense. If it's any consolation I'll post the larger work when it's not a train wreck.
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Feb 20, 2013 13:52
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I've posted critiques in the past Fiction Farm threads, but this is the first time I've submitted a short. Any feedback is appreciated. The Place I Was Before (504 words) On the stove, White Cheddar Kraft Dinner bubbles next to a plate of sliced wieners. Priscilla’s cheek pushes into the embroidered Vancouver Giants patch while Derek forces a smile. His mother lets go, rubs her thumb along the logo stitching, asks him when he got this top, and he thinks back to shotgunning Kokanees with Mark in an East Hastings park before that game against Kamloops that had eight fighting majors and one half-remembered bout of concourse shoplifting. And he says, Long time ago. Priscilla starts saying sorry, I’m so sorry, and it sounds like a general sentiment at first. Then he realizes she’s spotted an unwrapped box of Anthon Berg chocolate liqueur bottles on the counter – a forgotten Christmas gift from the Dutch couple next door – and he tells her it’s okay, but she starts biting the heads off the foil-wrapped bottle necks and drips them down the sink one by one. Your father’s in the playhouse with Benny, she says. Got a surprise. Grass has gotten long while he’s been gone; the dew drops fall like beehives. He knocks on the small door built moons ago, which feels stupid, but Rick says come in. The playhouse is Benny’s now – old boy’s huddled in the corner, more folded laundry than basset hound at his age. Felt eyebrows lift like pinball flippers when he sees Derek, which finally feels like home. Rick’s in his bath robe, knees at his ears, doing Derek doesn’t know what. Metal plates, screws, batteries. The Gipsy Kings escape all tinny from a baby monitor on the table corner, the other monitor surely in Rick’s den next to the record player. Somewhere else: an unused iPod with the click wheel; another Christmas present, this time from a son. Hey boy. Rick slides over printed pages of a Wiki how-to website. Building a robot: not the expected welcome home. Page 1 of 12 has a monochrome picture of C-3P0, but instead they’re putting together a door wedge with wheels. Priscilla starts vacuuming over Hotel California, so Rick clicks it off and says, Remember that race car we made for Cub Scouts? The one with the Lego man on top? The men puzzle over servo motors and NiCad batteries until the thing’s built. Rick whips his son’s wrist with the remote control antenna as a joke, tells him to give it a test. It hits Derek that this is the only thing he’s allowed to drive now. The doorstop whirs past snoozing Benny, then jerks left, chips the wall. I pressed right, Derek says. Easy fix, Rick says. Rick turns the baby monitor back on. Bambeleo is quiet behind Priscilla’s phone call with her sister where she’s saying, I don’t know what we’re going to do, over and over until Derek switches it off, and that’s when his father tosses him an O’Doul’s and says, Tastes like piss, then, You’ll get used to it. Rick leaves barefoot. Derek turns to Benny, because someone’s got to ask the question: How’re you feeling, boy?
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Feb 21, 2013 21:20
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Just a small thing, but I want to thank Echo Clan for getting me back on track with my writing. I'm working on the parent story for the excerpt I posted earlier in this thread and I've really been buckling down on sentence structure and length. I'd forgotten how much fun that sort of thing could be and now I'm actually getting some good work done on it. Sometimes, you really do need that kick in the backside.
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Feb 21, 2013 21:37
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Hey, I really dig this but it's a little rough. I'm not following all of it and there are some sentences that could use a rework. Hope you don't mind if I do this: Mike Works posted:
It's all I've got time for right now, but if you want I can keep going once I'm at the computer again. In the meantime if you could rework it so that all your dialogue seems more like dialogue, I think it'd be a more solid starting point. Take everything with a grain of salt of course.
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Feb 22, 2013 00:41
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I'll go ahead and give my thoughts on this one too. Mike Works posted:I've posted critiques in the past Fiction Farm threads, but this is the first time I've submitted a short. Any feedback is appreciated. Despite all of my nit-picking, I like this piece. It does a good job of indicating things without needless exposition or excessive telling. It feels really genuine all the way through, which is pretty uncommon in such a short piece, I feel.
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Feb 22, 2013 03:39
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Nubile Hillock posted:Thank God 'cause that'd be a hell of a rework. Yeah, I think this is fair. Like I said, my biggest problems simply weren't there the first time I read it, it's only after I went back to try to find stuff that I really had problems. Also, I apparently completely missed the first time the box was introduced, but that's on me. It's definitely a good read, and as part of a larger piece I think any holes in it could be 100% closed.
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Feb 22, 2013 04:25
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Alright Mike Works, I have some time to sit down with your story. I agree with Honey Badger on your piece feeling really genuine, there are a few things you do that I really like. Your really specific capitalization and use of brand names is used really well for the most part. The biggest issue I have is a lack of frame of reference. It's all a series of dreamlike scenes (to me, at least) and I have real trouble getting a sort of continuity from it. I know it's a huge case of calling the kettle black, but I kind of get what you're trying to do (I think). Some ideas slid out of my brainus, and I'll smear them across your work. First off, what if you did something like opening it like this: quote:Sharpened steel and the crack of a stick hitting ice: the puck's heading for his face at fifty-five miles an hour. He's out cold. edit: I wanna say that I'm equal parts jealous and impressed at what you did with so few words. If you ditched some of the clumsy similes and added words to parts that count (like where you're describing the workshop and the robot), I feel you'd have a much stronger piece. Basically just tighten up! autism ZX spectrum fucked around with this message at 05:19 on Feb 22, 2013 |
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Feb 22, 2013 05:02
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I've never done a critique before, but I want to post my own first efforts so I'll give this a shot here for you. I really liked this story, Mike.Mike Works posted:I've posted critiques in the past Fiction Farm threads, but this is the first time I've submitted a short. Any feedback is appreciated. Like I said, I really like this. The slow, subtle writing definitely feels right for a homecoming like this. I read it as a sad, somewhat disgraced return. To me it seems a story about a pro/college sports player who makes a mistake, drink drives his way into an accident and is removed from the team, right? I assembled that from these bits: - Priscilla concerned over alchohol being present and throwing it out - Derek being reminded that he can't drive any more (lost license) - The mention of shoplifting hinting at other mistakes made/bad decisions I hope I didn't read too much into throwaway lines, but the style seems to place emphasis on subtle hints to me, so those bits stood out as important. edit: I didn't notice when I read it, but my Mum (reading over my shoulder) didn't know what O'Douls was (Australians here). Once we googled it she said the last bit made more sense. jizzy sillage fucked around with this message at 07:34 on Feb 22, 2013 |
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Feb 22, 2013 07:28
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Alright, I think I worked up enough nerve to post this. It's the opening scene of a novel I hope to write. I've not written creatively since high school, so I don't have high hopes. I really do want to improve though, so proper critique is welcomed. It'll be good to see where I stand and what I need to work on in the immediate future. Toben [734 words] A loud crack filled the air. Pain lanced through Toben and he shuffled, trying to shy away from the source. “No sleeping,” barked a slaver. He coiled his whip around his left forearm again. Toben forced himself to relax and open his eyes. It was safer to avoid drawing attention to yourself. He hung slackly from his bindings. The timber beam fixed to the slave cart held the wrists of seven more slaves, sitting back to back along its length. The grey haired slave beside him coughed up a wad of bloody phlegm onto the rough wooden platform and was swiftly whipped. Toben watched a new cut appear on the slaves’ chest, joining the mess of bruises, cuts and old scar tissue that marked the life of a man sold into slavery. He looked at his own chest, a fresh welt already rising above the rest, and slowly rubbed one foot with the other. It was a persistent itch. Metweed left an impression on those who touched it, and he had sprinted barefoot through a full stand of it without realising. The sickness had lasted a month, coating him to the throat with an itching purple rash that had only faded in the last week. A Vezrin slave on a cart further back had fallen flat into the same patch. He clawed his way down to his thigh bone before a slaver killed him. Nineteen open slave carts lined the forest road to Meridian. While slavery was legal in Terenia, a convoy this large was unusual. The road was paved for several leagues outside the capital, but the slavers used a dirt road that ran along its left side as a sign of respect. Tradition dictated that slavers be hated, so citizens hurled insults and stones at the procession. This meant the slavers and their guards wore a lopsided sort of uniform, armoured on the right side with metal strips to protect from the halfhearted tosses. Toben had retreated into his mind again. He was on the lee side of the cart, protected from the clatter of missiles by the slave behind him. A few heavy thuds and a vibrating impact between his wrists made him look up. A guard lay writhing, clutching at a crossbow bolt in his throat. Blood rapidly pooled around him, and he kicked his last. The cart stopped. A second volley of bolts slammed into the convoy, felling slavers and guards with brutal efficiency. Toben saw a thunderous charge of cavalry erupt from the forest. Wide eyed, he looked at his bonds and saw a bolt buried in the knot. He dragged a wrist free before undoing the other side and falling from the cart, a bolt snapping past his head. Behind the cart, citizens scattered. Screams and shouts filled his ears as he crawled along the ground, seeking safety. His arms and legs worked pitifully and he cursed them for not giving him the strength he needed. A shadow loomed over him. Toben grabbed a fallen blade and lunged upwards, burying it in the guts of a convoy guard. Both fell to the ground in a heap and Toben took rapid, ragged breaths as he slammed his fists into the guards face over and over. “He seems dead to me, lad,” said a gentle voice. Toben turned, stricken, from the shattered face his fists were buried in. A sob wracked his body, threatening to topple him. The voice came from a tall soldier in boiled leather armour and a dirty green tabard. In his right hand was a heavy bladed sword, wet with recent use. He had his left outstretched toward Toben. Tears streaming down his cheeks, Toben looked past the soldier. Other green soldiers moved around purposefully, mounted officers snapping off orders. Cavalry regrouped and pushed their way back through the trees. A few guards still held out and were cut down, most dropped their weapons and surrendered. Further down the convoy, slaves were cut free. Medics rushed many away into the forest. Every single slaver was dead, murdered without mercy. “Come now, lad, if that rash is new we need to get you to the medics as soon as possible,” said the soldier. “It’s n-not new,” said Toben. “It’s not an option, lad,” said the soldier as he cleaned his blade with a rag fetched from a pocket. Toben nodded, and staggered to his feet.
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Feb 22, 2013 13:25
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Mike Works posted:The Place I Was Before (504 words) I found this really opaque, largely because I don't know what "Kokanees" or "O’Doul’s" are. Someone is an alcoholic, is that right? Is it the mother or the son? Or the father? Also, the one thing that really stood out to me was the phrase "the dew drops fall like beehives" because I have no idea what that is supposed to mean. Plank posted:Toben [734 words] I was with you up until someone cut the ropes with an arrow. It's a bit too Men in Tights.
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Feb 22, 2013 15:05
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I hope you know the expression you've got to be cruel to be kind.Plank posted:Toben [734 words] There was more I could have got picky about, but that seems like enough for starters. For your first foray into creative writing this is by no means bad, but it isn't going to be winning any awards. For an opener it is cliché with not much that stands out. Really only the metweed and left-right stuff caught my attention in a good way. Grammatically speaking there weren't really many mistakes in this at all, so your next step is to ensure that you can deliver a clear and understandable picture to your reader. I would say your scene-setting was schizophrenic at best, it took me a while to actually figure out how the whole slave system worked. Even now, I'm not clear. They seem to be sitting down, as you describe 'back to back' and then getting whipped from the front for literally no reason which seems like pretty poor business practice for slavers. But in the first sentence you have him shuffle, as if he was standing. And you mention later that he walked through this metweed with another slave. So everything else in the story points to the fact they are actually walking, not sitting. Why else would they be getting whipped? For napping while sitting in a cart? To me it just makes no sense. Then afterwards we get no description of the roads, the forest etc. Just dry action. I don't feel like I'm getting pulled into the world at all. Once you can get into getting your vision across clearly, you then need to work on eliminating clunky turns of phrase and making your prose much tighter. P.S. For the love of Christ don't have gruff soldiers immediately launch into "gentle" and paternal 'lad'-calling. Between the arrow in the bindings as Tiggum said, 'leagues' and fantasy place names, you are painting a big red target on your story that says "I love fantasy books. Let me stick in all those things I like about fantasy books." Hope your self-esteem survives these thirty lashes and comes back with a more polished version.
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Feb 22, 2013 16:29
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I'm disappointed, but in the right way. I'll be back tomorrow when I've slashed and burned my way through it. Bingo on the fantasy books, by the way, I knew it would be obvious  edit: In terms of my creative process, I was too busy fretting over poor sentence structure and grammar to notice that I'd failed to describe the scene accurately enough. It's perfectly clear in my mind, so when re-reading it, everything made sense to me. I spent the whole time while writing panicking that I'd been too cliche, had a run-on sentence, was taking too much time describing unnecessary details etc. edit2: Is it normal to feel buoyant about a piece after it's been shredded by someone? jizzy sillage fucked around with this message at 17:08 on Feb 22, 2013 |
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Feb 22, 2013 16:57
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Plank posted:edit2: Is it normal to feel buoyant about a piece after it's been shredded by someone? Should be, it means you know how to make it better.
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Feb 22, 2013 17:28
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Mike Works posted:The Place I Was Before (504 words) Overall, not bad. I already talked about your lack of dialogue tags, but in general the flow of your story isn't good and I think it's because you're trying some experimental "literary" style instead of just sticking to established conventions that enable the reader to get into your story instead of the way it's written. You never want your writing to get in the way of the story, and that's what's happening here. That third sentence, the long-as-gently caress run-on, literally stopped me cold the first time I tried to read this and I didn't come back to it until today even though I wanted to both read it and critique it.
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Feb 22, 2013 18:07
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Toben, take two. 752 words “No sleeping,” barked a slaver. He coiled his whip around his forearm again. Toben forced himself to open his eyes. He hung slackly from his bindings and tried not to draw attention. The cart the slaves sat on was a simple platform on wheels, pulled by an Ox. Eight slaves were bound back to back, their wrists tied to a beam above their heads. A grey haired slave coughed up a wad of bloody phlegm and was swiftly whipped. A new cut appeared on the slave’s chest, joining a mess of bruises, welts and old scar tissue. Partially obscured by them was a brand, a simple circle that marked a life of slavery. He looked at his own chest, the bloody brand still painful. Tears welled up, he was damaged. He would never be a citizen. He wiped his tears with his shoulders, and slowly rubbed one foot with the other. It was a persistent itch. Metweed left an impression on those who touched it, and in attempting escape he had sprinted barefoot through a patch of it without realising. The sickness had lasted a month, coating him to the throat with an itching purple rash that had only faded in the last week. A slave on a cart further back had fallen flat into the same patch. He clawed his way down to his thigh bone before a slaver killed him. It was a humid, cloudy day on the South Forest Road. Massive trees and thick brush marked the edge of the forest twenty metres from the road. Open slave carts lined the road, each escorted by a slaver and assorted mercenary guards. While slavery was legal, a convoy this large was unusual. The road was paved for several kilometres outside the capital, but the slavers used a dirt road that ran along its west side as a sign of respect. Tradition dictated that they be hated, so citizens hurled insults and stones at the procession. This meant the slavers and their guards wore a lopsided sort of uniform, armoured on the right side with metal plates to protect from the halfhearted tosses. The mercenaries were paid well to lower themselves to the task, but several threw foul insults in return. They grey haired slave hacked and coughed again and the slaver grinned as he raised his whip. Motion caught his eye. He turned as a bolt punched through his skull, spattering blood across the cart. A slave clutched at a bolt buried in his throat. Blood poured over his chest in a torrent. The cart stopped with a jolt. A second volley of bolts slammed into the convoy, felling slavers and guards with brutal efficiency. A thunderous cavalry charge erupted from the forest, driving into the convoy and scattering the mercenaries. A horse reared, throwing its rider to the ground before crashing into Toben’s cart. Wood splintered and the cart collapsed. Toben grunted as he righted himself and dragged the loop of his bonds off the shattered beam. Agonised screaming filled his ears as he crawled away from the wreckage, seeking safety. His arms and legs worked pitifully and he cursed them for not giving him the strength he needed. A shadow loomed over him. He grabbed a fallen blade and lunged upwards, burying it in the guts of a convoy guard. Both fell to the ground in a heap and Toben took rapid, ragged breaths as he slammed his bound fists into the guards face over and over. “He seems dead to me, lad,” said a rough voice. Toben turned, stricken, from the shattered face his fists were buried in. A sob wracked his body. He looked up. The voice had come from a tall soldier in mail and dirty green tabard. He held a heavy broadsword, wet with recent use. Toben struggled to rise, and the soldier hauled him up. Tears streaming down his cheeks, Toben looked past him. Other soldiers moved around purposefully, mounted officers snapping off orders. Cavalry regrouped and pushed their way back through the trees. A few mercenaries still held out and were cut down, most dropped their weapons and surrendered. Further down the convoy, slaves were cut free. Healers rushed many away into the forest. “Come. If that rash is new we need to get you to the apothecary,” said the soldier as he cleaned his blade with a rag. “It’s n-not new,” said Toben. “Then the healers, for the brand,” said the soldier, and he marched Toben away from the carnage. -- Hopefully the situation is clearer, now. Yes, it's bad business practice for the slavers to whip the slaves for no reason. It's revealed later that these slavers + mercenaries are actually rear end in a top hat bandits who are raiding villages, capturing the populace, then bribing an official to have them marked as slaves. Slavery is only legal if the slaves are proven criminals, so that's why the convoy is 'unusually large'. edit: My friend says it reads flat, doesn't really grab him. I agree, but I don't know what the problem is? edit2: I think I figured it out a bit. I still haven't described the place in enough detail, no smells or sounds, the citizens are blank faced ghosts, and the forest is dead. The road is just 'a paved road in a forest' and has no defining details. Plus I noticed a fun fuckup where a slave is clutching at a bolt in his throat with nonexistent hands. I'm gonna do a full rewrite from a blank page. The scene is solid in my mind so I won't lose anything, and hopefully I'll feel freer to spend more time filling the world with 'senses'. I'll leave this here for posterity, though. jizzy sillage fucked around with this message at 06:15 on Feb 23, 2013 |
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Feb 23, 2013 05:02
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