- Sithsaber
- Apr 8, 2014
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by Ion Helmet
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Aughhh, Ahwhhhh! Eurahhhhhhhhh!
There’s something coming up from under the bed. oh God there’s something coming!
This can’t be real. This has to be a night terror brought on by a childish fear of the dark. I'll get drowsy in a minute and it'll go away. But oh God, I fear this isn’t a phobia. Something’s materializing, and it’s tired of leering at me from the other side of the room.
This has to be a trick of the light. I knew I shouldn’t have condoned that woman’s vanity when I bought her all these damned mirrors. The reflections must be being subliminally focused on the relative brightness of the open doorway; that or my conflicting desires to sleep and escape are projecting themselves as an entity whose function is to deny me an exit.
Oh great, now the mirrors are filling me with dread. I feel like they’re losing their solidity and becoming portals to another room that just happens to look like my own. This new fear of being dragged off might not be a bad thing. Doesn’t this prove that what I’m sensing is psychosomatic? The fear got worse because I shifted my focus; all of this must be a fantasy run amuck!
I think I’ll just get up and turn on the light. Let’s just ignore how I’m being watched and the looming mass that has been lurking forward inch by inch since I first took notice of it. That grating buzz issuing from its unseen maw must be me crafting noise from the night’s silence. Just ignore it: it’ll stop in a second.
(Flick)
Oh GOD WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?! It’s screaming and I’m throwing up within a second of illumination. The Aberration’s flat and multicolored, as if it’s a lightshow projection of a hell beast whose hide has deliberately evolved to strike terror into our species' limited mind frame. Why isn’t it eating me? WHY ISN’T IT EATING ME? The lightbulb should have already been shattered by the ultrahigh pitch of that excruciating wail, but it continues to shine with a magnitude I can barely register over my mortal terror and puking my guts out all over the floor.
I close and open my eyes one last time, and expect my consciousness to linger on being torn apart for the rest of my empty afterlife. But when I reopen my eyes…there’s nothing there. I’m all alone with a mountain of hurl and a persistent ringing in my ears.
It’s Thursday and I still need to go to sleep.
Sithsaber fucked around with this message at 22:44 on Jul 10, 2014
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Jul 10, 2014 19:21
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Apr 29, 2024 17:34
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- Sithsaber
- Apr 8, 2014
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by Ion Helmet
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Snippet # 2
Killing the kid wouldn't be a problem; I’d have no interest in whether he felt pain or fear after I gutted him like the pig he made himself out to be. Petty notions of morality were also out of the equation; I’d let Christ or whatever dumbfuck in charge of arrogant pricks like him decide the repercussions for what I was planning to do. Nobody would even miss him; I’d heard enough of his family disputes to know that he was the black sheep of the (degenerate) family.
No, my problem was the obvious one: how to dispose of the body. The neighborhood had been quite enough before his kind, and I was pretty sure no one would catch what I did on camera. They’d probably even congratulate me if they ever found out I was the one to do that miserable punk in. I had seen enough tv to know that my best bet was to melt the bastard, but I was nowhere near a chemist, and googling “how to decompose a body” right before a murder tends to raise eyebrows if looked into. I’d have to eat ‘im. Oh well, an upset stomach is better than a annoyed stroke.
After a little bit of prep I was ready. I waited for an excuse and he gave me one; the gently caress presented himself with his reliably condescending smile and I pulled out my knife…
__________________________________________________
Having to kill the old man wouldn’t be a problem; he’d instigate an ordeal and my conscience would be clean. I had lived in this shithole of a neighborhood my whole life, and I’d be damned if someone other than me decided when the sidewalk was off limits. I’d had enough of being told what to do, and I was sick and tired of being the guy who stepped out of the way for others who were walking. Who cared if people called me crazy for running around at midnight? If I wanted to I could summersault my way through the cul-de-sac in nothing but short shorts and there would be nothing they could do about it.
After tolerating a decade of worsening affronts I had finally graduated into the real world. No more morons were pushing me around: I didn’t stand for it. I had actually come to enjoy the neighbors’ unease, and if they wanted some they could come and get it. The old man was the worst of them; his stares felt like a mix between the glare of a judgmental uncle and an overbearing school-yard bully. I knew he wanted to hurt me, and I could be obliged to give him a try.
At this point I was just asking for trouble. I would go out of my way to exercise when his kind were out. I’d smoke a cigarette and make the punks look weak in front of their girls, and I would never break eye contact with someone until they did it for me. I see the old man by his car; I can easily walk the other way. But why should I? The pavement is public property: gently caress him. Before I know it something sharp flashes in his hand, finally allowing me to pull out something sharp of my own. If I go down he goes down with me.
___
If I go down, he goes with me.
Sithsaber fucked around with this message at 23:19 on Jul 10, 2014
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Jul 10, 2014 19:23
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- Sithsaber
- Apr 8, 2014
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by Ion Helmet
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He basically is schizophrenic. The character is a little bitch 20something year old who's still afraid of the dark, As you probably know, being afraid of the dark is essentially caused by our imaginations not shutting the gently caress up.(which is why he tried to ignore it)
2. Will change the second night to dark.
3. Train of thought of someone trying to man up instead of pulling a blanket over his head.
4. I had fun with this.
5. I added one sentence for you.
Sithsaber fucked around with this message at 22:47 on Jul 10, 2014
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Jul 10, 2014 22:29
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- Sithsaber
- Apr 8, 2014
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by Ion Helmet
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What the hell is happening in your story? So, protag kills a kid, decides he has to eat the body, and then there’s an old man on the sidewalk and he pulls out a knife? What just happened? None of it makes sense. And please, don't reply back to this with excuses or explaining what happened. If your story doesn't make sense, then fix it. The time you spend replying back to me could be time spent making your story more clear.
Worse of all, nothing actually happened. We’re just told protag kills a kid and eats the body. Or does he eat the body, I'm not even sure. Then, he’s about to fight the old man, and story ends. We’re just told things happen and we just watch the aftermath, or get the build up to the climax without any payoff.
I feel like there should be some scene transitions, but I can’t tell where one scene ends and another starts. For all I know, it's one big scene.
Your protagonist was nothing. I don’t know who he is, why he is doing this, and why I should care. This story could be much more interesting if you showed us how he got to be a crazy murderer who is willing to kill an old man just for standing in his way. But all you do is tell us that he had trouble (“After tolerating a decade of worsening affronts”). I don't care about your protagonist, so I don't care about your story.
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.
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.
Sithsaber fucked around with this message at 23:57 on Jul 10, 2014
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Jul 10, 2014 23:13
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- Sithsaber
- Apr 8, 2014
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by Ion Helmet
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quote:
But good on you for getting work out there. That's , and it's more than most manage.
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.
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Jul 11, 2014 04:27
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- Sithsaber
- Apr 8, 2014
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by Ion Helmet
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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.
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.
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.
please don't
infodumping is a plague unto man for the love of the book gods no
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?
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Jul 12, 2014 21:30
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- Sithsaber
- Apr 8, 2014
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by Ion Helmet
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quote:
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.
No, the boy grew worse. He grew worse and the people loved him for it. They loved the little prince far more than they had ever loved his elder. They loved that Vanity defiled the temples as Pride stood in prayer before gods who rewarded those who paid no more than lip service to their binding creeds. The people delighted in how Vanity cursed the seas as it gave them her bounty while Pride sweated and toiled to feed them every night. They even smiled while their young were deflowered and their old dishonored by the boy's scheming tricks. They knew that Pride's little brother used them, and still they adored him as he fed on their attention and became more and more of a parasite. They loved him because he was one of them.
And Pride was not. Pride hated them and all like them. He hated them yet did all he could to treat them as he would like to be treated, but his actions meant nothing to all the people who knew that. They saw the disgust in Pride’s eyes as he showered them with every courtesy, and they returned it in kind. Everyone knew that they hated him and that he hated them. Only decorum, necessity and fear kept them from ever coming to blows with their provider. Unfortunately, Pride's brother had none of these qualities.
Pride wasn't jealous of his brother; he just hated that someone like him was allowed to exist. The boy lacked restraint - a trait that was both a blessing and a curse depending on the circumstances. Vanity took what he wanted without even a thought of how his actions would affect those around him. Pride's brother didn't know how to stop, and would continue a conflict until his adversary had to either let himself lose to maintain sanity or face mutual annihilation.
Vanity was smart. He strutted when there was an audience and withdrew when the two siblings were alone. At times they had even successfully coexisted, tending and defending what they had made theirs. But the brother did not have self-control, and little by little Pride sensed being supplanted. The little Prince wanted to be a King, and Pride wouldn't stand submitting to a adolescent. Pride tolerated many things, but there was one thing he could not allow: disrespect.
When Pride asked his brother for help in the field, it took the usual period of supplication and bribery before Vanity acquiesced. Pride inwardly fumed at having to beg for help in harvesting what they would both eat, but he felt that he could tolerate the brat's haughtiness for a little while. As they strolled the older brother's emotions began to cool. He remembered what it was like when they were young and when innocence blinded them from the darker things of the world. He remembered those times and smiled.
Then his brother spoke. Pride didn't remember what his brother said, nor when he started smashing a stone into his brother’s forehead until his brains were bashed and the ground was soaked with blood. Pride struck and struck until the rock chipped and his knuckles broke, and only then did he realize his mistake.
His brother was dead. His brother was dead and the hate remained, hate now turned within as it had previously been turned without. He instantly regretted what he had done, but not because of any sense of grief. Pride could never return home; the others would hunt him for as long as they could to avenge the loss of their beloved.
But perhaps there was still hope. Pride grew frantic; he shook the corpse, entreating it with rage and tears to get up and put this trivial conflict behind them. He grew more desperate: he kicked the body until its ribs broke, than the balls until they popped. Eventually he had to stop beating the corpse when its chest caved in. He prayed to the gods and begged for a response; he begged for any way out of what he had just condemned himself to. He begged until he could beg no longer, and than he sat in the dust and waited for a response.
For hours he waited, until his eyes became vacant and his mind unaware. Pride's name would fall into disgrace when the boy was found dead. After a while the body stirred: Pride's despondency turned to impossible hope, and his hope to incomprehensible terror as his “brother” rose up and stood over his would be killer. Pride was enraged and petrified at the same time. Although most of his features had become unrecognizable, Vanity retained the feature Pride hated the most: his intolerable smile. One word faded out from Vanity’s mangled mouth before madness took them both; a subtle echo that would ring for the rest of the brothers’ hellish eternity. He whispered “finally”.
The flood gates broke: Pride’s screech of terror became a scream of hate and Vanity returned it in kind. They collided like a tidal wave upon a mountain, they tore like beings possessed and before long both were reduced to strips of flesh stitched together by the essence of all that could be despised. First gave way sight, than sound and sensation, until all that was left was living destruction set free.
War had been unleashed: there would be no turning back.
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
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Jul 13, 2014 00:43
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- Sithsaber
- Apr 8, 2014
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by Ion Helmet
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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.
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.
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Jul 13, 2014 01:56
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- Sithsaber
- Apr 8, 2014
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by Ion Helmet
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 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.
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
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Jul 13, 2014 03:31
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Apr 29, 2024 17:34
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- Sithsaber
- Apr 8, 2014
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by Ion Helmet
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Although this one's been done pretty thoroughly already (and kudos, Djeser, for the general advice), I did have a few impressions.
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.
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
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Jul 18, 2014 01:18
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Jul 10, 2014 19:21
