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In. Subprompt please.
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Jan 12, 2022 06:22
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Gimme a  on all crits.
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Jan 15, 2022 04:11
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Subprompt: They looked at each other with sparkly feelings, like two spitezabbling, solid snakes eating at a very grateful wedding, which had flute music playing in the background and two cute uncles walking to the beat. Don’t Forget to get a To-Go Plate Words: 1100 The Afterlife is ending tonight. It was supposed to have ended last night, but Roda Diamant booked, and paid (she specifically enunciated the word) for her wedding hundreds of years ago. Roda is having her wedding, tonight (also enunciated slowly and pointedly). So now, only the Venue remains open on this final night. The Usher and the Planner are both patient but annoyed. “I am not starting the ceremony until everyone is here, especially the photographer,” Roda says. “I didn’t spend centuries on the waiting list for you to cancel it now.” “But Miss,” the Usher says. He pulls back a beautiful red velvet curtain, showing an empty void just beyond the small block the Venue exists on. “It’s all closing down.” “We are staying open, and it will wait,” Roda says. Joe, the husband-to-be, walks up, somewhat sweaty, and not wearing his suit jacket. “I think I’ve bought us enough time; your mom is busy with the decorations. Everyone’s here, and I had them just open the bar early,” Joe says. “Good thinking, thank you.” She kisses Joe on the cheek. “The Photographer?” “Straight to voicemail,” he says with a sigh. “It’s going to be okay. The Photographer will be here. I put a deposit, we’re gonna get photos,” Roda says. The Planner walks up. There is a problem with the kegerator, but they are resolving it, she promises. “Hey, Joeby, the heat lamps out on the garden patio, and your mother made me come and let you know,” Joe’s step-father says. Joe closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “Okay, I gotta go take care of this. Are you good here, Roro?” Roda nods. “Don’t forget to tell the Chef to pack us a to go plate, I haven’t had anything to eat and I’m starving,” Joe says. “We spent too much money to not eat at our wedding, you better believe we’re getting leftovers,” Roda smirks. Joe kisses Roda and trots off with his step-father. “Like two little spitezabblings,” Grandma Gama says from behind her. “Spitezabbling?” Roda asks. “Oh, you know, cat dog, Baptist Jew, oil vinegar, peanut butter bacon,” she says. “Things that shouldn’t get along but do.” “Bubbe, I know I’ve said this before. Joe is Protestant, and that’s not the same. Wait, what did you say?” Grandma Gama closes her eyes and puts a finger to her lips before she walks back out to the banquet hall. Gama is a short woman from the old country, and she is the quietest person Roda has ever met. The old woman is wearing the nicest shawl she owns, a gift from her own grandmother, and Roda knows it was one of the very few things Gama was able to secret away. “Miss, we must start the ceremony, the Venue has to close,” the Usher says. “We are missing too many pieces,” Roda says. “Your band isn’t here yet. We can’t even start until they’ve set up.” “Excuse me ma’am,” a voice says. Behind her stands a group of teens, wearing ill-fitting double-breasted suits, and skeleton makeup over their faces. There are at least 8 of them, and they are carrying instrument cases. “I’m sorry this is the Diamant – Bulger Wedding. Halloween…Homecoming…was a few months ago,” Roda says. “We’re the house band,” the Singer says. Roda looks at the Planner. The Planner shrugs. The Drummer rolls a bass drum by. The letters ZSBF have been written with crude masking tape on it. “They’re the backup,” the Planner says. “The backup?” “We are supposed to be closed,” the Planner says. “What does ZSBF stand for?” Roda asks. “Zoot Suit Boner Flute,” says the Singer. “Zoot Suit Boner Flute?” Roda repeats. The Flautist holds up a pan flute made of bone. “We came in third in the talent show!” says the Drummer. Roda takes a deep breath. Right now, in her mind, she is eating wedding cake. Joe is not the kind of person to smash cake in her face, and she loves that about him. Cake is meant for eating and enjoying on the inside. In her mind, they are so full of food and wine that she feels like a great giant serpent, having eaten the whole world and now ready to sleep. She and her husband (as they have already performed the ceremony and in truth arranged for the legal details quite some time ago, but they would never tell their parents) are not wasteful people, but they are indulgent. And then she is back again, in the moment. “Okay, here’s the playlist, we’re coming out to this song, and the family dance is this one,” Roda shows the Singer. The Singer tugs at his collar a little. “Just keep it upbeat, is that okay?” “Can do Miss!” The Trumpeter says from the middle of the pack. “If my mother asks, please don’t tell her what your band is called!” Roda calls after the troupe. Roda’s father, who has been quietly watching, picks his way across the white and black herringbone dance floor of the banquet hall. Roda hasn’t spoken to him in what feels like years, and it all comes crashing in on her. She knows to keep it together; absentee Photographer be damned. “You’ve done a really great job, I’m so proud of you,” he says. “I didn’t have to do a thing.” “That’s okay, Dad, you did enough already,” she says. There’s a tear screaming to get out of her eye, but she has had most of her adult life to learn how to dab just surreptitiously enough. “I better go help fix that heat lamp,” he says. Roda nods. As he steps across the dance floor, he isn’t as tall as she remembers, but he has lost weight, and she wonders if that’s why. “Miss, we must start the ceremony, the Venue has to close,” the Usher says, again. Over the Usher’s shoulder, Roda sees Joe inspecting decorations with Roda’s mother. He smiles at Roda deeply, even though Roda knows that her mother is telling him that ‘he’ll do better next time’. She smiles back at him. Two spitezabblings squeezing the most out of every moment. Around the room, a boy in skeleton makeup and an oversized suit teaches two uncle-in-laws how to skank. The heat lamps on the outdoor patio are still being stared at by the bridal fathers, they are sipping frothy beer and enjoying the silence. Circling the block looking for parking is a photographer with a dead battery. “Just a few minutes more, I promise,” Roda smiles and lies.
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Jan 17, 2022 03:45
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Crits part 1. Part 2 tomorrow. TDW 493 Crits OrganBurner: Royce at the end of the world Does it satisfy the prompt? No. Does it satisfy the sub-prompt? No. The story only sets the trappings, what does Royce do while existing in a void? Is the school important? Is his relationship with the Principal important? Is anything important to Royce beyond not being bullied? Stripping this story down to its base elements, you have a young wizard who has gotten himself and everyone he knows in a real bind. That’s it. To match the prompt, what happens next would be the story. If you want to improve what you have currently written, align the tone of the events with the thrust of your story, identify your narrative voice and stick to it, cut extraneous details, and provide either stakes or characterization or wants. Examples to the previous suggestions: Tone: Royce is presented as a hapless victim, but he also makes very poor choices, and this is a regularity. The Harry Potter-esque nature of children being exposed to mortal danger muddies cause and effect. Royce is bullied, but whole and hale, and his bullies are eviscerated by trolls. Narrative Voice: What you choose to describe matters. “The principal, Aaron Grundwisser, was a hot shot young wizard only in his 30's yet he had somehow gotten this post in a rural wizarding high school.” This is an opinion, who’s opinion? “…but it wasn't as if Royce was bad. Just clumsy.” This is also an opinion. But then you lose this voice. There is no more contextualization of what’s happening in the world. Be more consistent. Cut Extraneous Details: There are too many instances without a line crit, but here is one. “The principal continued with a forced calmness. Royce could tell the principal was angry.” Those two sentences say the same thing. If your audience can tell the principal is angry, and its not a relevant whether Royce knows or does not know, do not repeat yourself for the sake of in-story acknowledgment. Stakes/Character/Wants: Royce never made a meaningful choice. The choices he made were in absence of knowing their repercussions. He attempted to fix his own mistakes, but learned nothing of them or of honesty. In fact, Royce seems perfectly content to exist in this void, but at the same time, why as a reader should we feel anything else? Is Royce a petulant tyrant? Currently, his actions have doomed an entire boarding school of people, in the very least, the murder of bullies. He is unrepentant and relieved. Ceighk: Johan Joah Does it satisfy the prompt? Yes. Does it satisfy the sub-prompt? Yes. This is an interesting take on the story within a story, and personally I’m not sure it entirely works. Your characterization does work for a pompous royal, but you do lose the bombastic prose from time to time, such as “but your murderous intent was hot enough that I could overlook your cheesy delivery.” This is a contemporary-esque phrasing, which is not similar to the rest of the writing. The story makes use of the bed-time story quality in the subprompt, otherwise though, this is quite stilted. It does require the subprompt to inform the reader of the tone when you subvert the structure of the bed time story of heroes and villains. Where you do fall flat are the expectations you set up in the opening paragraphs, with the delivery of the final paragraphs. The opening paragraphs indicate that this is a re-telling from a distant future, but the end indicates that perhaps only two days have passed? If that is not your intent, you falter at the ending because there is no indication that Johan continues to try to murder the Spymaster. “Johan, those were the days! … When I never knew if you wanted me alone so you could kiss me or kill me or both.” What this describes never happens. Johan only attempts to kill her the entire time, or he has become her confidant and lover. Never both. You are not utilizing the format of story within a story effectively. The benefit to this format is that you can sacrifice showing by telling for the ability to move through time and space very quickly. You spend a lot of time describing things happening in real time action, and they happen right after each other sequence. To really get the most out of both the opening set up, and the structure of the story, kick all those attempted poisonings and assassinations out to separate events. Staggy: The Monument Does it satisfy the prompt? Yes. This is very good. Criticisms lay in potentially a line edit, and a little subjectively. I’m the kind of person who does not believe ‘toenails can ring.’ I understand what you were going for, and this not a universal opinion. The expectation that if an ark is being built, then it is not just a monument, but a vehicle for salvation, but I’m not certain that this is the case? The ark certainly satisfies the kind of collaborative, togetherness required for thematic symbolism, but I think it goes a little astray in the aftermath. Is there something beyond an ark that more succinctly encapsulates a monument? I don’t know, but as said before, not much can be worked on here. SurreptitiousMuffin: To Those Who Came After Does it satisfy the prompt? Yes. Does it satisfy the subprompt? Yes. This is a difficult one to crit. It is good. It tells you immediately that there is no possibility of hope, but also maintains just enough to allow you to think there might be some small victory, a semblance of hope, a sprouted orange tree, but the answer is known. The story delivers on the premise. MySharkWaifu: Goblin-Mother Does it satisfy the prompt? No. Does it satisfy the subprompt? No. Griselda is loosely a goblin protector, but I don’t actually know why. I don’t think this satisfies the main prompt due to a lack of urgency and gravitas. I don’t know that the goblins will be wiped out, I don’t know that goblins are worthy of saving, as you have not characterized the goblins. Why is a witch the one saving goblins, why is a goblin not saving goblins? “if she could add more evidence…” this is the part where you add this information, but you have not. In fact, the adventurers have more compelling reasons for why the goblins should be exterminated. I also do not think this satisfies the subprompt beyond the inclusion of a goblin. Is there any begrudging walking? Are there any whispers? Are there any warts? You have a prompt that can do a lot of things, but instead its just a story that leans on comedic fantasy tropes. It is missing stakes, characterization, and impact. Albatrossy_Rodent: The Sea Turtle and Octopus Does it satisfy the prompt? Kind of. Does it satisfy the subprompt? No. Sea turtles lay their eggs at night  . This does not satisfy the prompt because there is no effort shown in the story that the turtle has done anything other than a standard biological process. You have told me she went on a quest, but you have not shown me. To what relevancy is the octopus? Are there only male turtles left? The other problem is that your story directly counters the importance of the turtle. The octopus says that green is not death, but life, and that other things may live on, just not turtles. So why are the turtles important? This also does not satisfy the subprompt because you have a prime opportunity to have the octopus attempt to shield himself from the sun with his tentacles. Why is this ignored? I’m not especially hopeful at the end of this story.Idle Amalgam – Super Crypto Bros Does this satisfy the prompt? No. Does this satisfy the subprompt? No. This isn’t a story. Mechanically and narratively this is not a story and it is not interesting. Did you stop adding time stamps because you ran out of words? This has so much more potential to be a compelling story of a person who has made poor decisions based on fallacies and panic that negatively impacts themselves and others, instead you write the equivalent of a twitter feed. Grandma Party – Priorities Does this satisfy the prompt? I’m unconvinced. This is a fine story. There’s not too much to really critique, but it’s missing some soul. I’m unconvinced it satisfies the prompt because the story presents an exit. Why is Davis’ duty so crucial to him as a character? Where is the hope here? Where’s the hope beyond hope, the absurdity of hope? Where are the deserters who have been punished? This needs chopping so you can free up space to infuse the heart to the characters. For example: “Staring at the watchful eyes of enemy campfires…” this is where you start your story. You burn near 200 words setting this up, when your first two sentences take care of it. You spend a lot of time explaining the concept of a siege, general politicking, background, but that’s not especially relevant to the story because it doesn’t mean anything to Davis. Why is Wenland named by the city is not? Why is Wenland more important than the city Davis is protecting? These details are what keep Davis from having that narrative gravitas. Why is Slow Hand convincing Davis to flee? Where is the rapport? What’s the difference between Slow Hand slitting his throat, tossing him over the wall, and lowering the rope himself? I think you have the reasons, but you have not shown them. Show the reasons, and if you’ve run out of room, trust the reader to make some leaps, but show the good stuff, the meat of the human condition. You spend 350 words starting at ““Do you know what this war is about, boy?” and ending at “It’s a war. Find some rope, hook it off the side, rappel down, I’ll pull it up after you. And none of my boys will care.” But what real crucial details were in that entire exchange that couldn’t have been cut, or the story wouldn’t have made sense? Chernobyl Princess – Paper Hearts Does it satisfy the prompt? I suppose. Does it satisfy the subprompt? Yes? This is fine enough of a story, but I don’t think it satisfies the prompt too entirely. The paper dolls are not at the end of anything, in fact they when they noticed their peril, they solved it fairly quickly. What does it mean to be a paper doll? Not mechanically, we already know that (and you spend too many words explaining how a paper doll works, different kinds of birds, and others). What’s so integral to the story that they be paper dolls? This is not a criticism of making a story based on paper dolls, it is a criticism of how you have presented them. They function essentially like humans, so why are they not humans? The dolls also have not changed their behavior despite their god abandoning them 6 years ago. Why is it only just now they’re trying to figure out what happens next, and why is it important to the story? Why is it important that she might be dead, but she isn’t? Give me the real narrative weight of this story, especially because it appears as though there is ample supplies to keep the village going indefinitely. Tyrannosaurus - in front of a funky green sky, a banjo player gets some bad news Does it satisfy the prompt? I don’t think so. Does it satisfy the subprompt? Yes. I’m missing the stakes and the existential threat the prompt is asking for. Carl appears perfectly at ease with the end of his life, despite the absence of a companion. Iosefa is not faced with finality, only the illusion of it. Its quirky, cute, competently written, but the “Do you think you’re getting nervous because you’re approaching this nebulous self-defined deadline for success and you feel like you haven’t succeeded enough to justify your father’s faith in you and are self-sabotaging because you are worried that you actually don’t deserve to be here?” crux of the story is not followed up. You’ve said it, so now what? I don’t think that question gets answered.
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Jan 18, 2022 04:57
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In.
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Jan 18, 2022 17:16
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crits part 2. Antivehicular – The Ride Along Does this satisfy the Prompt? Yes. Does this satisfy the subprompt? Yes. I enjoyed this, but the thing I think I’m missing is Dee’s hesitancy to try again? Is there a deeper fear that we just aren’t seeing, we as in me. I enjoy her power, but why is it so outlandish that she stay, or that someone offers her the place to stay? I love there is the underlying element that Dee will get your car (her relationships, life, anything) where it needs to go, but there is no guarantee of what condition it will be in when it arrives, and if it is worth salvaging afterwards. I want to see more of that. Thranguy – The Basilisk Score Does this satisfy the prompt? Unsure. Does this satisfy the subprompt? I don’t think so. I don’t believe this is the end of everything, so much that for R, time is flat and compressed, or at least Jack has been in Hell for a very long time, but I don’t think that’s the case. It’s an interesting premise, but this is 100% set up, which means you don’t have to execute and I don’t like that. I’m unsure of what is hopeful about the situation, or why Jack has to do anything? Is it the reference to boredom being the real hell? Also, I don’t think the scenario agrees with itself. If R can recreate Jack from the origination of the universe, R can also perpetually recreate someone to torture them for however long it takes to break someone, throw them out and do it again. You’ve got the opening constraints of a heist, but you do not have a story unfortunately. The Man Called M – How Andy Became a Man I do not like this sitcom-y narrator explaining to me basic concepts such as what it means to ‘become a man’. Your job is to show me why Andy feels its necessary to succeed in sports. Its your job to show that the young men of Colorado view success in sports and masculine and a rite of passage. Then apply this to every paragraph from here out. Yeah Ok Ok Yeah – Deep Rich I get the format of a message board lets you play with the presentation of the story but I don’t think its adding anything to the story. There’s parts you over-explain, and parts you underexplain, and also break the conceit of the story. Why would anyone know what a faberge egg is in the apocalypse? Why not just an egg? The entire explanation of what a Class-S model is totally unnecessary, where as the final portion of the story barely explains what has happened to everyone. You also tell us how the machine is feeling, but you don’t really show us. There’s a little bit of play/humor in the playing of the .wav but even that is a relic of our contemporary recreation of things. Why does in the future of AI and Class-S models, are they using .wavs? I want to see impact. Why is it so important to find life, and if a robot finds potentially dangerous life, how does it approach resolving this scenario? A Classy Ghost – The Dead City Marches On It’s cute, and a great imagery, if a little over-explained. Tonally, I’m not sure why I’m worried about Nimothy’s sick brother. Everything that dies can get brought back it seems, so that downplays the stakes, and also everything but that is comedic. I guess I would have liked to see a little more in the transition, or, really I think you could have started the story from break, and then what happens now that Nimothy is the sole provider of pillocks. Wouldn’t that make him quite the target? I think what would benefit this the most is a critical line edit, and really trim here and there. Its fun, its fine. CaligulaKangaroo – Final Exam Does this satisfy the prompt? No. Does this satisfy the subprompt? No. This story clearly ended with the passing of a test, not started. The story itself is fine, but it doesn’t give itself room to breath. Why is Gray completing a test when imminent death is on its way? You’re almost there with why Gray wants to do the test, but in the current scenario, it comes across as a little farcical. Is Gray resigning themselves to death? I don’t think the story sets that up, as they have clearly risked a substantial amount to procure an escape route. Also, no Wikipedia Augments? I don’t believe that someone practically part cyborg should have trouble on general education tests. Perhaps let them ‘challenge’ themselves to do it without a crutch. Crabrock – Liebrary gently caress that AI. It was a dick. Flerp – To The Reclaimers It’s a little navel-gazy and admonishing for me. I think its also a sentiment most people have already. I mean, me too. This place sucks, but here we are, arent’ we. What else can you say about it? What does it mean to the protagonist, what choices do they make? I think you can do it, and you touch on it oh so briefly. Running from wolves, climbing to the top of buildings, chasing raccoons. I want to live in those moments, not be told about them. Noah fucked around with this message at 07:24 on Jan 20, 2022 |
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Jan 20, 2022 07:22
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they see patterns in the smoke, possibilities, past and present and future all in the roiling haze, what do they do when the world is afire? Ashen Lives Words: 900 After performing his divination at the bordertown, Limmy the Smoke Speaker, again saw the end of his days. He had seen his death, his only death, since childhood. In his mother’s cookstove, in the Andrussian Festival bonfire, in the pyre the witch hunters had set for his mother. From smoke he beheld love, passion, and truth; thus, to fire he must eventually go. But now his bones were brittle, and full of holes, as if moths had been living inside his skin his whole life. They may as well have been living in his heart too. Chains, no matter the length and sheen, are still chains. “There will be a great conflagration,” Limmy said. A burnt skull sat in front of Limmy, and wisps of smoke drifted lazily from the eye sockets. Limmy’s handler, a masked woman known only as the Master of Lies, nodded to the captain of the retinue. His armored retinue cheered and whooped. The villagers cast side glances and secretly gestured warding signs of the old gods. He had been told it was a skull of a duke’s son, or some such relation to the country the vanguard had been piercing. He sprinkled an ointment over his ritual circle, and the soldiers lined up to receive a blessing of the same. “The seer has spoken! The Fire Who Leaps be praised! Prepare the forward camp!” The convoy that carried the command tent hurriedly brought the fabrics and tentpoles to Limmy for blessing. It had been a habit one or two of the conscripts started, true devotees of the Fire Who Leaps. The success of the campaign had now converted hundreds more, and Limmy had found himself something of an apostle, garnering almost equal fervor as their beloved lord. And with that, scrutiny. Each forward camp was a brick laid on a muddy road. To glory it led. But glory had no end for the Fire Who Leaps. The royal procession would catch up to Limmy and the vanguard, and once strategic plans would be laid, they would consult the Smoke Speaker again. It might be in a poor sod’s barn, it might be in a dilapidated watch tower still stinking with blood, but fate would choose tonight for the Fire Who Leaps. In this village on the crest of a hill, Limmy could see the next city to be cleansed. In brilliant armor, the Fire Who Leaps strode into the camp, and locked eyes with Limmy. Bent and crooked now, Limmy had not always been so mismatched in stature. There had been a time when Limmy stared deep into the coals that were the conqueror’s eyes. He saw the smoke of the flames that burned in the lord’s heart. Limmy winced reflexively, despite the Fire Who Leaps making not a move. Limmy broke away first, and the Fire Who Leaps continued toward the command tent without saying a word. The Master of Lies followed, but kept her eyes to the Smoke Speaker. The ignition was a simple affair. The longevity of his efforts was meticulous. The outcome was pre-ordained. The fire spread, devouring the supply line, leaping from cart to carriage, through the line of mounted knights and archers, through the forward camps and villages housing reinforcements. The flame would trace all the way back to Andruss, along every checkpoint and waystop they had allowed Limmy to perform his rituals. The command tent expelled billowing clouds of smoke. The stars framed the plume, allowing him to see the beautiful silhouettes like a shadow puppet theater. There was laughing and crying. His mother was dancing, dying, old and happy. The Andrussian Festival ended with a stolen kiss, not premonitions of cremation. There was no witch pyre, but, there was again. A charlatan who was not his mother burnt to ashes and affected him differently. He was in a lavish spire, divining wheat harvests through censer fumes, his choices leading to famine in a neighboring kingdom. There was nothing but the void of infinite actions and inactions cascading and branching like a map of stars, with a hundred astrologers disagreeing on the constellations. The Master of Lies dragged herself from the command tent. She was smoldering, her mask falling away from charred skin. The tent collapsed, and no one moved from inside. “You did this,” she said. “Blame fate. I have done nothing,” Limmy said. “What of Andrussel, and those left behind,” the Master of Lies asked. “What is a person to destiny? It will be as it always has been. They will suffer. They will prosper. Some will find joy; some will find despair. No one is burnt by the same fire twice.” Limmy doused her with ointment, reigniting the vestments. The Master of Lies, still ablaze, lunged and embraced the Smoke Speaker. Limmy was not content, but he also was not disappointed. He did not struggle, and as his own robes flared up, he saw a life in which Andruss and the Fire Who Leaps chose someone else. A different life birthed from the agency of another. The flames grew around him and now the visions were gone. All that remained was a life of choices, his choices, and, in the finality of the flames did he truly know the measure of his mettle.
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Jan 24, 2022 06:40
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Line crit for OrganBurner Prompt was: golden oldie who was once the most famous musician in all the land but they are being HUNTED, oh no! The unmaking of the song 1 198 words There was a lot of commotion around Gustavo as his senses returned to him. This sentence isn’t relevant, and you haven’t told me anything. Cut it. A crossbow bolt was sticking out of his shoulder This is the start of your story. Change this to an active sentence. Gustavo had been shot in the shoulder by a crossbow bolt. Right now, the bolt ‘sticking’ is doing the action. Boring. and it looked like a poisoned tip. The crossbow bolt cannot look like it has a poison tip. The crossbow bolt is inside him, he cannot see it. Gustavo can FEEL like it has a poison tip, but if that is the case, show me what Gustavo feels, how would he know that? He had been performing the one hit he had "My last love" and though he knew some didn't like it a crossbow bolt was uncalled for. In the commotion and fights breaking out, no one had come to check on him, so he escaped out the back to his horse and just started riding home. Trim this, and adjust the focus. ‘No one had come to check on him, so he escaped’ why would he need to escape from someone checking on him? That’s a positive thing. ‘In the commotion, no one pursued him, and he escaped out the back.’ justifies escaping. "My last love" felt like the only song he ever performed anymore and he had done it for over thirthy thirthy years at this point. Nothing else of his material had stuck, but this was an ear worm many loved and many hated, most of all Gustavo himself. Does it feel? How does it feel? You can state facts. “My Last Love” was the only song requested anymore. Nothing else of his material had stuck, love or hate. Gustavo hated it the most. Some would say it was the song that had made him, but he would say it destroyed him. Some would say, but why not have someone say it? Can you instead show this? This also lets Gustavo get some characterization/mannerism in dialogue. After riding non stop for three days, Gustavos body was numb from the poison. He hadn't dared remove the bolt fearing it would further spread the poison. He had finally reached the house his father had built. Horses cannot ride 3 days nonstop. Why three? What’s happening here that is important? Only keep that. Carefully he slid of the horse, led it to the stable and saw it was fed and watered. He removed the saddlebags and stumbled inside. He took a slab of fire wood and with only one good hand tried to shave off some of it with an axe for tinder. It felt like it took an eternity before he finally had the start of a fire built. Same as above. Does it matter the audience knew he put his horse away? Here’s another thing, you cannot simultaneously tell me stakes are high (due to a poisoned bolt) and also explain he takes his time putting away his horse, removed the saddlebags, and shaved firewood. ‘felt like it took an eternity’ is too cliché of a sentence, either tell me how long it did take, or show me struggle. He checked that the flue was closed and lit the fire. "I TOLD YOU SONSOFBITCHES IF YOU DON'T OPEN THE FLUE WE'RE ALL GOING TO CHOKE TO DEATH IN OUR SLEEP!" no caps. And give an attribution. You reveal who said it in the very next sentence, so this isn’t a cliffhanger. "Hey dad." Gustavo muttered. Abel, his father, had been the first to light the fireplace in the house and after his passing became the house spirit. The easiest way to summon him was to do something that would anger him. okay, now we’re off. This needs substantial more set up, or at least you need to rearrange the way facts are presented. Your emphasis is that Abel was the first to light the fireplace. That’s not the important part, that’s a detail. The important part is that Abel is a spirit, and was summoned. "You being the old village healer, can you tell me how to cure this poison?" Unnecessary exposition. Why is Gustavo announcing that his father was the old village healer? Abel knows that. Gustavo knows that. If you need to communicate this to the reader (do you?) just state it. Don’t inject it into dialogue. The spirit tasted the poison and thought for a bit, "Vhoacka frog from down south. Slow way to die, but not the worst. Diluted Vhoacka poison is a very good pain killer and muscle relaxant. How does a spirit taste the poison? Is the bolt still in his shoulder? You would know this if you hadn't become some stupid... Bard." That was his fathers way of talking, even when trying to help there had to be an insult or complaint thrown in. You are using dialogue to explain again. That’s now how people talk. ‘You’ve forgotten your lessons again.” We already know Gustavo is a bard. Additionally, if you characterize the father well enough in the dialogue, you then don’t need the following explanation. "Just shame it out, you do remember how to shame poison?" This need an attribution, because otherwise it implies that Gustavo is saying it. Gustavo considered the origin of frogs. The frog spawns in water, the domain of the sea serpent. He started to conjure up a song: Unnecessary. Trim this to ‘Gustavo considered frogs.’ "Oh poison that courses through my veins, to you I do proclaim, made for survival, now used for hate, leave or the serpent will decide your fate." Shamed, the poison sprayed out of the wound. The spirit looked down at Gustavo disapprovingly. "Clumsy, I would have thought a bard could do better." Without the numbing effect of the poison the pain of the bolt and the long ride slowly seeped into the bones. Gustavo keeled over on his good shoulder and gasped. Drop the dialogue to after the action. It lets Abel see the entire sequence. "How do I deal with the bolt?" he managed to bleat out. He bleats or he does not. And does he really? If he is only able to manage to do something, a gasp qualifies that. Find places to use the right word. "Well son, what's the bolt made of?" "The tip is steel." "And it being steel made for killing it can't be shamed, but only the shaft is in you now." "Which comes from the mother of all roots who promised protection and warmth." Gustavo was starting to recall some of the lessons from before he left and drew in a deep breath and started to sing: Again, let dialogue inform the reader he’s recalling the lesson. ‘Which comes from then mother of all roots, who promised protection and warmth, I know, I know’. Also, ‘before he left’, left what? Home? School? Lessons? For the show that night? You don’t even need to state this, or that he drew in a deep breath. Just start singing, let the reader figure that out.[/i] "Oh wood so hatefully lodged in my shoulder, promise me you'll soon smolder, burn my flesh, seal my wound, or I betray you to the mother of wood." The shaft of the bolt was incinerated in a white hot flame. Abel was frowning in disappointment at the rhymes. Frowning already indicates disappointment. All you have to say is “Abel was frowning.” Gustavo spent the night eating dried meat and bread while drinking an unwise amount of wine to dull the pain. Waking up the next day he felt like his hangover was worse than the bolt through the shoulder ever was. Walking out to the main room he found a woman in her thirties sitting and chatting with Abel. what’s relevant here? Do we need to know he spent the night eating dried meat, bread, wine, or that he is hungover? Trim. “Gustavo succumbed to exhaustion, and woke the next day to find he was not alone.” 60 words down to 15. There was a crossbow and a sword on the table. The woman noticed Gustavo. "So this is the Great Gustavo Abelsson? I was hoping the poison would slow you down more than it did." For a killer she seemed remarkably calm. The dialogue already implies the woman notices Gustavo. Cut it. Also, is she a killer? So far, she hasn’t killed anyone. Is there any reason why she shouldn’t be calm? What importance does it have to the story? Also, if she’s his would be assassin, she already knows who he is. The dialogue implies she has never seen him before. "What do you want with me?" Gustavo asked, trying to think of an escape route. Show, or don’t do anything more than ‘said’. "I was cursed to hear your 'Song' until you died. I can't take it anymore. It's so saccharine, repetitive, juvenile it's just garbage and I can't stop hearing it!" "Dad, do you have any input on this? You used to be a healer." Is Gustavo asking if his dad put the assassin up to it? I’m unsure of what this implies. Why is he also explaining, again, to his father (and us) that he used to be a healer? "And you should have followed in my footsteps boy! I've discussed the issue with Agatha here and the curse can only be lifted by the death of the song or the singer." Why are they repeating themselves? We already know the father thinks about his profession. "How do you kill a song?" Gustavo asked while eyeing the sword. "It's not easy, you need to shame yourself into forgetting the song. I convinced Agatha to give it a try rather than kill you." don’t understand this part at all. Why would Agatha do that? She already has the resolve to kill him, she poisoned him, that she expected would have been more effective. Why is Gustavo alive? Gustavo lunged for the sword on the table. He didn't get far before Agatha had slashed him with a dagger she'd kept hidden. "Too slow, old man. How did you think this would play out?" The wound wasn't deep but it was painful, "Death or shame, make your choice" she continued while Gustavo was gripping the wound. "I suppose we can try the shaming." Why wouldn’t Gustavo attempt this? He hates the song. Is there something else? Is it because its his only hit song, in X number of years being a bard? Because if that’s the case, you have shown nothing in the text that warrants the song being important. The only thing you have shown is that he hates the song. Abel threw him a wineskin. "Drink up, boy." Gustavo began drinking but the taste was horrible, "Great Mother what is this?" "Just drink it up son." He finished the drink and things suddenly got strange as if he could feel what objects around him could feel. The world was dissolving around him. Suddenly Abel and Agatha came running at him from nowhere. Cut this. What is it adding? "Put him in the oven!" Abel shouted. "In the oven!" Agatha agreed. Gustavo tried to fight back but was too weak. They dragged him for what felt like miles until they shoved him in the oven. Something compelled him to crawl deeper. "Sing the song!" Abels voice called from outside. "Yeah the sing the song!" Agatha shouted. Gustavo took a deep breath of the hot air, feeling it singe his lungs but he had to sing. "My love runs deep, but it can not keep, on the table no meat, buy honey so sweet... Wait how did it go?" The fire was burning him badly. "Keep singing!" Abel called out. "I have to leave, find bread and mead..." But the words were gone. "SING!" Agatha commanded. "I can't! I don't know the words!" Gustavo could feel himself succumbing to the flames. "SING OR YOU DIE!" Abel shouted. But Gustavo couldn't sing anymore. He lost consciousness. Waking up was a surprise to Gustavo as he was convinced he had died. Agatha had left, curse lifted. With the song dead, Gustavo had to find a new career and so he started to train healers with his fathers help. This entire sequence is baffling. Why an oven? Where is the oven? I don’t understand what’s happening here at all. You kind of show how shaming works, but this song doesn’t conform to that same convention. Do YOU know how shaming works? Do we even know if the curse was broken? We know he isn’t dead, and she left, but why would we know the curse is gone? You do not explain why Gustavo has to find a new career, nor why he would become a healer? His song is gone, sure, but he’s been doing this for many years already, why can’t he still be a bard? Why would he be a healer? Why are you even explaining what he does next, proper characterization would have implied what his possibilities were next, and leave it at that. The end of this feels very rushed. What am I supposed to feel now that this is over? Are we sad his song is gone? Because the story implies that healer is a nobler profession. Are we glad he finally gave up his barding? How does Gustavo feel? This is better than your previous entry but still leaves unresolved issues, and unnecessary explanations. Keep refining, and keep writing.
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Jan 25, 2022 17:59
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In.
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Jan 27, 2022 00:53
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The Gnawed Words: 1500 Vulac slept in an austere, earthen basement. The pallet of straw that made for a bed had taken on rot. Rain drippings infiltrated the basement from the abandoned and dilapidated temple above, and Vulac had to preserve his writings above all else. It was here, at his scavenged clapboard desk, that a tinnitus had overtaken his ability to finish his sermon. The splintered and rough edges of the desk bit into his thin forearms. He scratched at his hair and placed his hands over his ears in vain. It was a tinnitus he always carried. ”Survivor, we must feed. Survivor. Survivor…” Vulac, a priest of no god, had many names; the famished, the orphan, the malformed. There was one name, survivor, that only one used. Dangling lifeless from Vulac’s chest, below the heart, was Bray. A desiccated and wiry thing, Bray had no teeth, no tongue, and no eyes, just darkened concaves and empty limbs where living organs should be. Consumed in the womb, the vanishing twin produced an incessant tone punctuated by hoarse whispers that plagued the emaciated priest’s brain. “Soon, brother, after they leave.” One, small hair grew from the limp mound of Bray. Vulac would trim this one strand more fastidiously than his own. It was not unlike a mole with a thick black tendril reaching out to feel the cool cellar air. He caressed and stroked the hair to sooth the tinnitus, and the sermon went unfinished. *** “And you will exit these shadowed paths, these treacherous serpentines, you will see that your path is not of pain, but of endurance. Your path is not of toil, but of struggle. You are hungry, and gnawed. You are tired, and asleep. You are imprisoned in flesh, but you will be free in soul and in death. When you are ready, your endurance is all that remains. Remember, in your despair, your endurance is beside you. With you. It must, for despair must have a mirror…” Vulac lectured. *** The congregants, ragged and rapt, had left. Vulac spent time on the second floor, it was sturdy enough, watching the sunset. The roof of the temple had suffered a fire, leaving holes that let in rain, sunset and stars in equal measure. He took care unwrapping his robes and sackcloths, allowing Bray fresh air. There was a knock, and the slip of flesh onto the wood. Vulac lurched, drawing the robes to his chest, eyes widened. “I knew the moment I saw you,” the young man said. “The shape. The outline.” The speaker was new to the congregation, Vulac recognized. He was tender, like milkbread, and Vulac knew tragedy had reached him only recently. Fate, the cruel bastard, had yet to mete its full rewards. “Please, do not be ashamed, we’re not so different,” a young man said. Vulac squinted through the din of a fresh tinnitus. ”Mocker. Shamer.” The man drew a hand from the long sleeve of his robe. The robe was elaborately crafted, and Vulac’s mind drifted momentarily to his rotten straw bed. The hand was bandaged into a fist, but beneath the wraps were unshapely valleys and peaks. Unraveled, Vulac saw mangled digits, splayed in chaotic patterns. Vulac placed his hands over the crushed fist and looked in the young man’s eyes. They were full of soft, understanding light. “Tailor. You can call me Tailor, if you wish,” he said. “They had put my hand in a press, and I tried to fight, I thought, perhaps my fist could withstand. It broke all the same, and now, it has seized. Useless. Worthless.” “Who did this to you?” “A lord. I was his personal seamster. I would work all throughout the night on whims and fancies he had seen during his days. I loved it though. I loved it. To have your garments be seen by queens? By kings? It was thrilling. Last winter, he went traveling, and returned having gained an incredible amount of weight. There was a gala the next day that he returned for and demanded alterations. I worked as feverishly as I could, but each stitch I made, he found fault. The fabric had reached its limits, and in a pique, turned on me, as though I had conspired against him. He sought to punish me,” Tailor said. Tailor departed after they had exchanged words of reassurance and perseverance. To endure, Vulac thought as he made supper. The congee bubbled and sputtered in the battered cookpot, but Vulac continued stirring. It was not hot enough yet. “Hush now, Bray, soon.” ”Sycophant. Idolator.” The tinnitus grew. Vulac, plucking the wooden spoon from the congee, slurped the boiling liquid. It scalded his tongue, re-callousing old scars, and he let the porridge burn the insides of his cheeks. The skin of his cheeks and tongue cracked and peeled, sloughing off nerves and taste buds. Smiling, he drew a deep breath in through his nostrils and let an exhalation cool the meal in his mouth. Only a second spoonful was necessary before the heat was no detriment at all. ”Parasite. Leech." “Shut up! Shut up!” Vulac threw the bowl of congee, splattering the ground and sending the spoon skittering. He pounded his skull with his fists, before he realized that the tinnitus had taken on a mewling, pitiful tone. Looking down, he saw some of the rice porridge had splattered on Bray, and panicked. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Vulac wailed. He nearly toppled his meager basin as he wetted a rag to dab his brother off. Vulac fell into his straw bed and slumped against a corner, stroking Bray with the wet cloth until his tears and pounding eardrums gave way to exhaustion. Tailor had returned to the congregation several times more, but suddenly he had stopped. Vulac had not talked with him since last, but still, he felt responsible and at fault. One night, while he stared at the stars, he heard the familiar sound of flesh on the wooden landing. Tailor knelt, holding out a silk wrap of fabric. Vulac held out a hand hesitantly, and Tailor nodded. Vulac had never felt something so soft. It was so smooth it was cold. It shivered him. “May I?” Tailor asked. Vulac nodded, and raised his arms as best he could. He wrapped it around Vulac and swaddled Bray. “Where did you get this?” Vulac asked. “I must show you.” They weaved their ways through alleys and shops, Vulac’s bare feet and bony legs staggering to keep up. “The lord, the lord I told you of. He came back, begging forgiveness,” Tailor said. “He fell out of favor from not attending the gala. And he begged for repentance, and I spoke of you, and your faith.” “How could you,” Vulac started. “But he.” Tailor ignored him. “I convinced him. Let me show you.” They arrived at a bathhouse, beyond an alley Vulac had ever traveled before. He could hear sounds of proclivities and entertainment on the other side of the clay walls. The bathhouse was slick from steam and vapor, perfumed and aggravating to Vulac’s lungs. Naked bodies writhed in the shadows, idly drinking goblets and eating honeyed fruit. A man, clothed in hairshirt, carried a tray with several vials of a viscous tincture. The waiter would attend each cluster of revelers, rotate around the bathhouse, returning with more. “Cormyr, this is Vulac,” Tailor said. Tailor turned to Vulac. “My lord.” A porcine man lounged naked on a sofa, cheeses and fruit detritus strewn around him. He rose to sit, sizing up Vulac with a gaze. The waiter in the hairshirt arrived and Cormyr plucked a tincture. “They will love it, forgiveness in endurance. The binge, and the purge, and the binge, and the purge. Who would not want to be saved?” the lord said. “They will love me for bringing it to them.” Cormyr drank the tincture and hurtled toward a trough on the other side of the room. Vomit sprayed out Cormyr’s mouth, but he did not stop. “You look the part. Perfect partners. You will be my savior.” ”Charlatans. Heretics. As the lord leaned over to spew into the trough again, Vulac hobbled to him and levied a swift kick right to the throat. Vomit spurted from the man’s mouth as the kick sent his chin rattling against the upper jaw. The sick dribbled from Cormyr’s nostrils as he clutched his neck. Vulac heard wet, gurgling sounds as the lord aspirated bile, wine, and undigested food into his lungs. His plump, stubby fingers found no purchase on the slick tiles, and before he finally stopped wriggling, he looked up and did not see Vulac. He did not see the eyes that shown with exuberance, or the skeletal frame seething in exhilaration. He saw the unraveled clothes and silk ribbons, and saw the hollowed concaves of Bray, and the bottomless darkness as it engulfed his vision. Tailor sobbed and fell to his knees. "Feed, survivor, feed.”
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Jan 31, 2022 10:14
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Mar 30, 2022 00:09
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Corn Words: 350 Out the winda, Adam been lookin' at the bad corn. The cahbs were rotten. The fields fallow and dry as his father’s semen. In the reflechin’ he traced the jagged scah from his temple down to his collarbun and more. The corn marked him as soon as he done had the leg enough to outrun the belt. Sharp stalks, heavy with dew, cut him from face to nip, etching their history together. Them scars chased him longer into grownedup than his father’s belt could. Adam was a corn man, like his daddy, and the corn would outlast him like it outlasted his father. So, he had thought. The fields his brother done, the drat miracle child, were green, soft, unspoilt. Their kernels were gems polished t’a shine under the rough, sandy winds. Adam been an only child most his life. Born to absorb all the rage of a corn man. Born so it could grow wings and find a new home. Born too early. Born a corn man. Daniel been born too late. Been born to be not but a vessel for the wisdom and sudden regretful kindness of an old man. He ain’t been born a corn man but a corn man he came. April stood in the dir. The wife been gone for three days. Left a note saying she’d be back, but ain’t when. In her hands was a maneela envelope. Adam knew there were divorce papers in it. “Will ye finally ask yer brother?” she said. “I’m askin’ ya.” He looked at her and wondered this all stagecraft? She either never truly understood him, and good riddance, or this were just one final cruelty she would visit upon him before she left. The answer need not be said. She placed the envelope on a stack of unopened, registered mail and left. Adam looked out the winda, not to her but to the corn. He was a corn man, and if it was fixin’ to take everything, it was gonna to have to take him too.
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Jul 26, 2022 07:10
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In. Omega. #spin. I also don't understand whats going on.
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Aug 2, 2022 02:04
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Wizard please.
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Aug 7, 2022 14:55
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Omega Prompts 1 & 2 & 3 & 4Prompts posted:
Everyone Loves Dogs Words: 250 On the tile floor, two colors were mixing. A woman had taken a spill, opening her head on the corner of an end table. She had been holding a bottle of wine when she came in the door. Two dogs, who had precipitated the fall, watched the colors combine and argued over its provenance. Mauve, the striped dog was convinced the color was. The other dog, a spotted dog, disagreed. Only one dog knew what mauve was, despite them both seeing the same pale gray yellow in front of them. Just tell me what you really want. It could be anything you ever wanted. We could get away. The striped dog got angry. He was angry often. He would have intrusive thoughts. Thoughts about accidentally lighting the shed on fire. About the color mauve, he had seen it before. About maybe they could get away. About how good it would be if they were dogs. Everyone loves a dog. A gnawing feeling about being sure of who you are this whole time. He knew what mauve was, but all he could see was yellow. Why wouldn’t you want to be a dog? Don’t you wish we were dogs? Everyone loves dogs. It was mauve, the striped dog insisted. The other dog only knew he needed to disagree. The door was open. The striped dog looked outside. A car drove by. He looked back at the woman mixing yellow. He knew it was mauve. He could get away.
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Aug 8, 2022 06:20
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| # ¿ Apr 26, 2024 23:46 |
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In. Give me something weird you want me to ruin.
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Aug 9, 2022 04:08
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