Writer's dump. Where people come to post snippets for others to critique.

[Andrew Gilfellon]

Because the official and blatant self promotion thread was hijacked by critiques of another man's work, I thought it would be prudent to add a thread specifically designed for work critique. The OFFICIAL AND BLATANT SELF PROMOTION THREAD will be for promoting self published works, or even officially published works. The BORDERS WRITING THREAD will be for general talk about novel writing, like ideas and how work is coming along. The WRITER'S DUMP, will be where people can post a piece for honest and professional critique that can be a simple yey or nay, or more detailed help in regards to helping a person decide which tense is better.

Sounds good?

[Richard Writhen]

[JGP]

I think it's a great idea, and only fair. I mean, Rychard took a bit of a beating and while some may disapprove how he responded, to so publicly display one's intellectual property without confidence of a positive reception takes courage. I wonder how many share the same. 

To the subject, in my opinion, some guidelines should be discussed and once some kind of consensus is reached-- approval required from the Powers That Be so it won't be shut down and sent packing elsewhere.  

[Darth Richard II]

Do they not do this in the boarders writing thread?

Real question, I don't actually go in there.

[Andrew Gilfellon]

15 minutes ago, Darth Richard II said:

Do they not do this in the boarders writing thread?

Real question, I don't actually go in there.

No. Just discuss plots and such. This is for the nitty gritty.

Guidelines I think should be included are.

Critiques must be positive in that you CANNOT refer to someone's work as SHIT or some other word.

Critiques should be more helpful than. "Oh that's cool, although if you add that you like it and can't really say anything bad about it because you like it so much, that's fine." It shouldn't be mindless praise but rather what worked and what didn't.

Writers posting their work agree not to throw a Stanek if someone does not like their work or points out ways in which it could be, in his or her opinion, improved.

Critiques should always be honest. No one gets better with mindless praise.

 

 

This is a place of love and love is honest no matter how brutal it may seem.

 

 

 

[Spockydog]

Just now, Andrew Gilfellon said:

No. Just discuss plots and such. This is for the nitty gritty.

Guidelines I think should be included are.

Critiques must be positive in that you CANNOT refer to someone's work as SHIT or some other word.

Critiques should be more helpful than. "Oh that's cool, although if you add that you like it and can't really say anything bad about it because you like it so much, that's fine."

Writers posting their work agree not to throw a Stanek if someone does not like their work or points out ways in which it could be, in his or her opinion, improved.

Critiques should always be honest. No one gets better with mindless praise.

This is a place of love and love is honest no matter how brutal it may seem.

Sounds good to me. 

Given my shameful role in The Wrythen Affair, I perhaps feel some moral responsibility to post some of my own shit. But given that it's never been out in the wild, it's something I'll have to chew on.

[Spockydog]

Just now, Let's Get Kraken said:

Indeed. 

[JGP]

edit: sorry, this was in response to the boarder's writing thread you commented upon

 

Mmn... sort of, Kraken. What's Andrew's proposing seems more formal to me, more along the lines of a writing group and I think the guidelines pending forum/board approval should reflect that. Submissions should be orderly, conforming to some kind of agreed to sequence else the thread could [though not necessarily] get flooded with submissions which would be counterproductive to the return of critiques. As well, Ran, Linda and the forum Mods might want to weigh in on the actual length of submission-- one page snippet, two, a chapter... as I suspect there's also bandwidth to consider.   

[Muwhahaha]

Here's an excerpt from one of my short stories; critique away.

 

I wasn’t scared, so much as resigned, convinced that death was the inevitable outcome of the crazieness precluding this.  My two guides, Curls with canes, tuxedoes, and the combined intelligence of a toddler, steered our little pole-boat in opposing pushes that nearly dunked us many times.  The water reflected the ceiling with phosphoresenct fish and plants in the depths, lighting the lake bottom like a lost night drowned in the caves beneath this lost city.  Fucking Curls are so stupid.  At one point, they quit poling and had a little staff fight.  Not kidding.  That’s how fucking stupid they are.

Oh, the poling and the depths, I’m sure you’re wondering how the hell that worked.  There were pillars about four feet under the lake’s surface, not everywhere, I don’t think, cause all the boat traffic I saw was lined up like on a road of a sorts.  Anyway, just wanted to clear that cause it had me scratching my head at the time.

Anyway, there was traffic all about us, hundreds of pilgrims boating to an island in the middle of the lake.  There were other islands about but they were like peas on a plate with an orange.  The other boats were mostly polled by Curls and I could make out pole fights in the distance between neighboring boats.  The riders were mostly Kivati with their hair spiked and curled like the other main passengers who were Hartians with their antlers wildly tangled or sculpted into masks like dark-aged helmets.  

They all had the intense look like they were deciphering a code or solving an imaginary maze that I’d come to associate with saappies, what we call meld or chii, some nodding like they were doped on bless or fall.  Again music was everywhere, permeating the entirety of the enormous space even the lines of light on the impossible ceiling flashed in time and tempo.  Hell, I felt like my heart was beating to the rhythm and my blood flowing to a sound.  

The other boaters hummed, snapped, clapped, and whistled in a cacophoness flood of sound that echod and rebounded, bouncing back to meet and blend with its caster into a symphony of sound that was intoxicating as much as the drugs which I’d heavily partook of. 

 

 

Okay.  It's definitely rough (it's a first draft), but I want to see what y'all think in general.

 

 

[Spockydog]

56 minutes ago, Let's Get Kraken said:

Ah, fuck it. Have at it.

 

Spoiler

 

The Legend of the Silver Hand

Chapter One

 

An exchange of goods, that’s all it is.

As Hamish Young approached the jump-off point, somewhere deep in the wilds of Dartmoor, his late father’s words echoed in the back of his mind and he thought he was going to be sick. Grimacing, he swallowed the water in his mouth. It tasted like metal. Like iron. Up ahead, the car park entrance came into view, and the fist in the pit of his stomach gave his guts another twist. His legs began to shake. The urge to drive straight past became almost too strong to resist.

But then what?

If even half of what he’d read in his father’s journal was true, he may as well just drive up to the North Devon coast, where he’d have little trouble finding a nice, high cliff from which to launch his Lexus into the sea. Instead, he pulled into the deserted car park, killed the engine, and told himself to calm down. He told himself that everything would be fine, that there was nothing to worry about. He had the goods, after all. He had done his job.

He tries not to think of the consequences had he not.

For a moment he just sat there, his head in his hands, wishing he had never been born. Already dangerously behind schedule, he knew that if he was to have any chance of making the rendezvous, he needed to move. Now. But the trials and trauma of the past few hours had left him feeling drained and exhausted, his nerves shredded. He couldn’t even summon the energy to reach for another cigarette, let alone the hike up to the stones.

If his dealings with the Bakers had taught him anything, it was that leaving the collection until the day of the exchange was one day likely to get him killed.

Things had started smoothly enough. He’d arrived at the Bakers’ tiny stinking council house just after noon—plenty of time to seal the deal and return home to change—and despite a little trouble with some of the pronunciations, the formalities had been completed in next to no time. Indeed, no sooner had Hamish logged onto the Bank of Barbuda’s website to confirm the transfer of funds than George Baker’s eyes turned into saucers, and he couldn’t get him out of the house quickly enough.

As they shook hands on the pavement, Baker’s remark that Hamish should bear him in mind for any future transactions had made him want to punch the junkie in his drug-addled face. Perhaps he would have, were it not for the piercing shriek that had suddenly risen up from within the house.

Seeing as George Baker had already pulled every trick in the book during a tedious, cack-handed campaign to extort an increase to what was already a sizeable fee, Hamish could have been forgiven for dismissing the shrill, anguished cry as nothing more than the opening note in yet another greed-inspired song and dance routine. But when Siobhan Baker had burst from her front door, wide-eyed and screaming, screaming that she’d changed her mind, a blind man could have seen that it wasn’t about the money.

With the cargo safely stowed in the back of the car, Baker had urged Hamish to go, assured him he’d deal with his distraught wife. But his instructions were clear, and Hamish knew he had little choice but to gently coax Siobhan back inside the house, and somehow persuade her to change her mind all over again. It had taken over five hours, all his powers of persuasion, as well as ten milligrams of Xorox and half a bottle of Smirnoff before he could get her to say the words again.

But she said them. So help him God, she said them in the end.

There was a quiet rustling behind him, and his eyes were drawn to the rearview mirror, to the cargo on the backseat. With a heavy sigh, Hamish checked his Rolex and got out of the car.

Carved into the granite, high on the southern slopes of Hunter’s Tor, the tiny hillside car park offered spectacular views across the moor, but little in the way of shelter from the late September wind. The chill, unforgiving breeze sent his clothes flapping and his hair whipping about his face, whilst overhead, clouds the colour of molten lead tumbled towards the nebulous aura of a sunset so vivid, so colourful, it looked like a painting in the sky.

He did not stop to admire the view. The vibrant vista served only to remind him that his deadline would soon be upon him, and, if Nistra was to be believed, the penalties for late-delivery would be no less severe than those for non-delivery. Clutching his lapels to his chest, he hurried to the rear of the car and opened the boot.

As he rummaged through the contents, looking for something, anything that might prove useful on the climb, an image of the brand-new hiking gear and box-fresh Timberlands that he’d laid out in his bedroom that morning popped into his head, and he cursed himself for his own stupidity.

Dressed as he was, in his finely-tailored suit and soft Italian shoes, he had no business going up on the moor. The path up to the stones was treacherous to say the least, and even if the weather held, his footwear could be the death of him. One false step could mean a twisted or broken ankle, followed by a slow, lingering death on the hillside that really would be in nobody’s interest.

But what choice did he have?

Hamish’s exploration of the boot had yielded nothing but a half-empty bottle of Evian and a battered old Maglite that appeared to be running on fumes. Muttering and cursing to himself, he stuffed them into his jacket pockets and slammed the boot.

A heartbeat later he heard a muffled cry.

Hamish walked round to the side of the car and peered in the window.

Ah, shit.

The child began to wail the moment he opened the door. He quickly slammed it shut again. How could something so small make so much noise? She sounded hungry, but there was nothing Hamish could do about that. Reaching into his inside pocket, he pulled out a tiny glass jar. He unscrewed the cap and scooped a generous amount of the sweet-smelling salve onto the tip of his thumb. He paused. Nistra had insisted it be used sparingly, though it had never needed replenishing. Having already administered a somewhat liberal dose earlier today, was it even safe to give her more?

Deciding it would be safer for them both if she remained a calm and passive passenger for the journey ahead, Hamish opened the door and leaned inside.

Whatever lies in store for her, perhaps she’ll sleep right through it.

 

 

 

[Muwhahaha]

1 minute ago, Spockydog said:

Ah, fuck it. Have at it.

 

  Hide contents

 

The Legend of the Silver Hand

Chapter One

 

An exchange of goods, that’s all it is.

 

As Hamish Young approached the jump-off point, somewhere deep in the wilds of Dartmoor, his late father’s words echoed in the back of his mind and he thought he was going to be sick. Grimacing, he swallowed the water in his mouth. It tasted like metal. Like iron. Up ahead, the car park entrance came into view, and the fist in the pit of his stomach gave his guts another twist. His legs began to shake. The urge to drive straight past became almost too strong to resist.

 

But then what?

 

If even half of what he’d read in his father’s journal was true, he may as well just drive up to the North Devon coast, where he’d have little trouble finding a nice, high cliff from which to launch his Lexus into the sea. Instead, he pulled into the deserted car park, killed the engine, and told himself to calm down. He told himself that everything would be fine, that there was nothing to worry about. He had the goods, after all. He had done his job.

 

He tries not to think of the consequences had he not.  AWKWARD - TRIED?

 

For a moment he just sat there, his head in his hands, wishing he had never been born. Already dangerously behind schedule, he knew that if he was to have any chance of making the rendezvous, he needed to move. Now. But the trials and trauma of the past few hours had left him feeling drained and exhausted, his nerves shredded. He couldn’t even summon the energy to reach for another cigarette, let alone the hike up to the stones.

 

If his dealings with the Bakers had taught him anything, it was that leaving the collection until the day of the exchange was one day likely to get him killed.

 

Things had started smoothly enough. He’d arrived at the Bakers’ tiny stinking council house just after noon—plenty of time to seal the deal and return home to change—and despite a little trouble with some of the pronunciations, the formalities had been completed in next to no time. Indeed, no sooner had Hamish logged onto the bank's website to confirm the transfer of funds than George Baker’s eyes turned into saucers, and he couldn’t get him out of the house quickly enough.

 

As they shook hands on the pavement, Baker’s remark that Hamish should bear him in mind for any future transactions had made him want to punch the junkie in his drug-addled face. Perhaps he would have, were it not for the piercing shriek that had suddenly risen up from within the house.

 

Seeing as George Baker had already pulled every trick in the book during a tedious, cack-handed campaign to extort an increase to what was already a sizeable fee, Hamish could have been forgiven for dismissing the shrill, anguished cry as nothing more than the opening note in yet another greed-inspired song and dance routine. But when Siobhan Baker had burst from her front door, wide-eyed and screaming, screaming that she’d changed her mind, a blind man could have seen that it wasn’t about the money.

 

With the cargo safely stowed in the back of the car, Baker had urged Hamish to go, assured him he’d deal with his distraught wife. But his instructions were clear, and Hamish knew he had little choice but to gently coax Siobhan back inside the house, and somehow persuade her to change her mind all over again. It had taken over five hours, all his powers of persuasion, as well as ten milligrams of Xorox and half a bottle of Smirnoff before he could get her to say the words again.

 

But she said them. So help him God, she said them in the end.

 

There was a quiet rustling behind him, and his eyes were drawn to the rearview mirror, to the cargo on the backseat. With a heavy sigh, Hamish checked his Rolex and got out of the car.

 

Carved into the granite, high on the southern slopes of Hunter’s Tor, the tiny hillside car park offered spectacular views across the moor, but little in the way of shelter from the late September wind. The chill, unforgiving breeze sent his clothes flapping and his hair whipping about his face, whilst overhead, clouds the colour of molten lead tumbled towards the nebulous aura of a sunset so vivid, so colourful, it looked like a painting in the sky.

 

He did not stop to admire the view. The vibrant vista served only to remind him that his deadline would soon be upon him, and, if Nistra was to be believed, the penalties for late-delivery would be no less severe than those for non-delivery. Clutching his lapels to his chest, he hurried to the rear of the car and opened the boot.

 

As he rummaged through the contents, looking for something, anything that might prove useful on the climb, an image of the brand-new hiking gear and box-fresh Timberlands that he’d laid out in his bedroom that morning popped into his head, and he cursed himself for his own stupidity.

 

Dressed as he was, in his finely-tailored suit and soft Italian shoes, he had no business going up on the moor. The path up to the stones was treacherous to say the least, and even if the weather held, his footwear could be the death of him. One false step could mean a twisted or broken ankle, followed by a slow, lingering death on the hillside that really would be in nobody’s interest.  

 

But what choice did he have?

 

Hamish’s exploration of the boot had yielded nothing but a half-empty bottle of Evian and a battered old Maglite that appeared to be running on fumes. Muttering and cursing to himself, he stuffed them into his jacket pockets and slammed the boot.

 

A heartbeat later he heard a muffled cry.

 

Hamish walked round to the side of the car and peered in the window.

 

Ah, shit.

The child began to wail the moment he opened the door. He quickly slammed it shut again. How could something so small make so much noise? She sounded hungry, but there was nothing Hamish could do about that. Reaching into his inside pocket, he pulled out a tiny glass jar. He unscrewed the cap and scooped a generous amount of the sweet-smelling salve onto the tip of his thumb. He paused. Nistra had insisted it be used sparingly, though it had never needed replenishing. Having already administered a somewhat liberal dose earlier today, was it even safe to give her more?

 

Deciding it would be safer for them both if she remained a calm and passive passenger for the journey ahead, Hamish opened the door and leaned inside.

 

Whatever lies in store for her, perhaps she’ll sleep right through it.

 

Overall, I think it's really well polished.  Not a whole lot happens but then again, I didn't get the sense that a whole lot was supposed to. The use of his name, Hamish, seemed too repetitive - he's the only subject so I thinks using 'he' most of the time would be alright.  There were a couple instances of flowery prose that I noticed but I actually like that.  However, I've been told (especially about my stuff) that if the prose is noticeable (i.e. draws attention to itself) then it needs to be cut.  And the stuff he gave the baby, is it supposed to be teething cream or is it something mysterious that I'm supposed to wonder if he gave her too much?

Overall, it well written.  And I would continue reading, which is the most important thing.  Disclaimer: I'm not the best editor by any means so take everything I say with a shaker of salt.

 

 

1 minute ago, Spockydog said:

 

 

 

[Magnar of Skagos]

I'm trying to convince myself to submit an excerpt from one of my chapters to see what you guys think, bit nervous though.

[Muwhahaha]

Do it.  It's worth finding out what other people think versus how it stacks up against how you think of it.

Every time I've posted stuff, it's been torn to shreds.  Purple would be the one word that people use to describe my writing.  Luckily, I have a job that I'm good at so nothing's riding on it.  But, I love to write.  I have a great story that I'm enjoying creating.  And maybe one day, I'll be published.  If not, no big deal.  However, the one thing, more than anything, that's really helped me is people critiquing my stuff and giving me actual feedback and pointers.

 So I say, go for it.  It's only when you tell everyone that critiques your stuff honestly that they're stupid and have no taste that things go bad.

 

[The Glad King]

Hello fellow forum lurkers. So, for English class, I need to write a short story. It is due in about a week, and I have just finished my first draft. The story is essentially about how corrupt, imperialistic war leaders will often brainwash the masses into hating an enemy, to create the facade that their cause is righteous. They then sit back in luxury while brave, misguided men do the fighting for them.

Now, if you must, tear my whole story apart and tell me it's shit. I trust that most people on this forum will be able to give me a helpful and well thought-out critique. I am not even sure if anybody will care to read it, so I would be very grateful if just one of you lovely people took a few minutes of your day (which you are already wasting anyways, being on this forum and all) to read it. It's less than 1.5k words long too.  Anyways, enough with the rambling... here it is! 

*** Note: Don't put too much energy into checking my grammar, as I am not in that stage of editing yet. It is more the content and use of language I want feedback on for now. 

 

 

 

“What are you doing? Don’t be a pussy and just jump!” The jumpmaster ordered.

“Yes Sir!”

John stared down at the city, and noticed how tiny and fragile the buildings looked from there. This was his first deployment, so he desperately wanted to make his country proud. Here is my chance to destroy them. I will spare the world from all those evil lives. Without further hesitation, he leaped off the plane, and started his descent towards the city.

   It was a beautiful day, with the crisp spring air making him feel invigorated. As he accelerated, he pulled the string to deploy the parachute. John sighed with relief as it immediately expanded, allowed him to glide through the clear sky. With the sunlight unobstructed, the whole landscape was illuminated with vibrant colors, giving John a serene feeling. Shortly after, he approached the garden of Platrios and readied himself to land. He felt no nervousness, as he had practiced his landings a few dozen successful times. As expected, it went smoothly, and he needed less than twenty strides to recover after reaching the garden.

   As he arrived, he noticed a crowd frantically fleeing from the attackers. The pack was then flattened as the shrapnel poured onto them like a mighty storm. Since this garden was a sacred place for the partisans of Platrios, John knew that all those here were worshipers of the evil god, and that it was a noble action to rid the world of these wicked heretics.

   The garden was a beautiful location, renowned worldwide as one of the great man made wonders. A sparkling stream gently cascaded through the colorful assortment of the flora, accompanied by the soft harmonious choir of nightingales. It’s a shame that such a nice place is wasted on such an evil country and evil gods. As he had been told, it was a perfect example of the seductive beauty of evil that attracts the lesser minds. This was chosen as the landing center to ensure that the first thing they will do is destroy the shrine for the evil god.

 

   “Form up!” a commander cried. John hurried through the mayhem to reach the front line. The host crowded the garden, and trampled over the vegetation with complete disregard. When the offensive line was ready, the infantries waited like a single soulless entity for the order to advance.

   “And March!” As they departed, the rear made sure to set fire to the whole area, to create a great pyre to herald the justice that will soon be given. Although the surroundings were still, John felt a clamor in his head. What if I get hurt? What if I never see Rebecca or the kids ever again? he dreaded. However, he remembered that his serving his country is the most important of all things and that his own desires are insignificant. John advanced with the others, unsure whether it was even himself controlling his legs. By now, it was certain that the leaders of the immoral had received word of the attack, and that they would soon join battle. John had trained enough, and was confident in his abilities to take them down. As they passed rows of houses, the men in both flanks put each of them to the torch, leaving a fiery inferno in their wake. John wondered how many lives the fire would indiscriminately consume.

   “ARGH!” There was a sudden commotion within the vanguard. Less than ten feet from John, a fellow soldier was lying in a contorted position, with the grass greedily drinking the blood flowing out of the hole in his chest. John looked up to no avail to attempt to locate the sniper. Being a good, disciplined soldier like all the men beside him, he put aside his dismay and fear, and kept marching with a single-minded determination.

   Then, the distant shape of the enemy marching to join battle against the attackers was noticed by the slaughterers. Like a collective weapon, the whole unit sporadically placed gunshots into the air, somehow in perfect synchronicity, and, like an insignificant component of the weapon, John joined in without a second thought. There was then a joint primal scream, with the hunters hot with bloodlust on the scent of their prey. What John felt now could no longer be described as fear. It was a sudden vitality, a fire inside him that seemed to be only extinguishable by destroying the enemy, but would actually merely grow with each carcass it consumed. His riffle was no more just a gun, but his manhood. KILL! KILL!  

   When each side were within two hundred meters of each other, the explosives and shrapnel began to fall back and forth, creating a dark cloud to the sparkling blue sky. A cacophony of gun shots, inaudible commands and cries of both anguish from dying soldiers and brutishness from the living ones drowned out all other sounds. It was a sweet clamor for John; the sound of the annihilation of the enemy and of brave sacrifice by the righteous. Like all the others, he lustily shot fired into the air, adding a few additional raindrops to the storm.

     “GET THE FUCK DOWN!” a comrade cried, too late. John felt nothing immediately, but suddenly collapsed when he tried to move his left leg forward. He saw a pool of blood form around him on the ground.  He groped around frantically to try to find the source of the fluid. When he touched his left tight, an overwhelming pain enveloped him without warning. A bullet was lodged deep into his flesh, and a torrential river of blood was cascaded out of the hole, feeding the swelling lake on the ground.

   “Help me!” he cried in vain. He doubted anybody even heard him. All strength had left his body, and even yelling was too exerting. A heard then trampled over John as if he were a discarded piece of meat. It’s going to be over right here he realized with regret. I hope that I will be remembered. I wish that I could see Rebecca and the kids on last time. Before he could lament any further, his body broke into a nauseating convulsion. His vision of the bright day then started darkening, and he fought with all his will for every inhalation and exhalation of air. Soon, the whole world blackened, and he lost his awareness from all his senses.   

   -----------------------------------------------

The warmongers sat on embroidered silk covered chairs around a polished table with elegant jewel encrusted legs. In the center, there were silver chalices beside a bottle of exquisite aged wine and a platter of ripe fruit. The room was well furnished, being the supreme commander’s own chamber inside the enclosed palace in the capital. There was a disquieting silence, no one daring to speak before the discussion was initiated, by their dictator. Slowly, the leader began.

   “The victory was key to our efforts to expand the reach of our dominion. With the city sacked for its resources, the railway destroyed and the civilians and their homes incinerated, the country won’t have the morale nor the supplies to further their effort against us. Plus, the burning of their shrine to their precious imaginary god will surely make them lose will, while our men are as exploitably spirited about theirs as ever. And to do that, we only needed to give up the lives of less than 5000 plebeian scum. We must now decide whether we shall ask for their allegiance, or decimate them further.”

   He paused, leaning back in his chair and observed his officers contemplatively. It was known that he was inviting them to share their thoughts. The men each studied the others, all the while putting significant effort into looking pensive. If they suggested offering dominion, would they appear to be pragmatic, with the fact that the enemy would surely be willing to surrender now? However, it is also very important to appear ruthless, so would suggesting destroying them be the better choice? Finally, someone broke the silence.

  “Commander sir, I believe that we must continue to destroy them. It will show our strength, and will show the other states what we are capable of before they decide to fight back.”

  The dictator regarded him while stroking his grizzled beard. His eyes were austere, but a flicker of amusement was seen in his lips.

“Yes, well said.” He responded. “Does anybody have any objections to that course of action?”

There was then an inevitable tension in the room, everybody antsy to see if someone will object. However, they all nodded along like trained animals, to the approving look of their leader.

“Very well” the supreme commander continued. “I believe that this great victory deserves a celebration. Go on and pour yourselves a glass, and let’s have a toast to our prosperity.”

The each took a goblet, and poured themselves a glass in a slow and deliberate manner. Before long, they were all intoxicated, in equal parts from the wine and their lust for power.

 

*** If you made it this far, high five bro! I appreciate it a lot.

[Howdyphillip]

There should be a separate paragraph in your post starting with the sentence "Now, if you must, tear my whole story apart and tell me it's shit". 

PM me your story, and I will read it, but I do not believe that I am "wasting my time" on this forum.

[The Glad King]

7 minutes ago, Howdyphillip said:

There should be a separate paragraph in your post starting with the sentence "Now, if you must, tear my whole story apart and tell me it's shit". 

PM me your story, and I will read it, but I do not believe that I am "wasting my time" on this forum.

Maybe you posted that before I added the story in, but it's with my post now.

[JGP]

I've been working on something, off and on for quite some time now. I had to cut one of the arcs for the sake of the story [a few, actually] but every now and then I'd return to this one in particular and try to find a way to make it work. Still haven't figured it out. Maybe I won't. Whatever. Anyway, during a few of those revisits I also tried compressing it into a short story-- which butchered it, frankly, but at this point it's a semi-chronic itch. I haven't scratched at it for a few or more months now, excepting a little buff before posting. It's just a snip [didn't want to exceed that] but since a few of you have tossed in your ante, figured I should pony up so Rychard could enact some justice, should he so choose.  

I'll also be putting my hand to critiquing what's been posted over the next few days.

 

Spoiler

 

 

No word from the neighbors.

A numb blur, Gostyata strode the slushy banks of the river svol. Studied her make believe castle on the dolmened fringe of a sandbar. No sign of recent fire, just a sobering grey draft of ashen snow between brooding stone and winter lichen.

Maybe she took a far ride without telling anyone, to clear her head. She’d done it before. Never for three nights though. He paused to slowly trace Breca’s charcoal drawings upon a menhir. They were fading. We did this. Took her too far from where she could find herself.

Uchelfar had to weigh in. Perhaps they’d give Breca till morning.

The candles were burning at home, but Uchelfar met him at the door with a raised voice. ‘You two and your arguments!’

Gostyata’s mouth dropped open. ‘How did we even… I wasn’t expecting that!’

‘Look,’ Uchelfar thrust an empty fist in his face, her anger fierce. ‘This should be full of notes of worth.’

‘Why did we keep those anyway?’ Can’t leave anything behind you carry with you. Gostyata faced the fire. ‘So here’s the price to pay for easy. We’re too close to home. If she was serious, that’s what we need to decide, right now. And what to do.’

‘What to do, Gostyata? You go get your horse and you fucking find her!’

‘She could be up on the plateau with Suma and Bazoul,’ he snapped, immediately regretting it. The apology caught in his chest as Uchelfar grabbed him, moving on.

‘You’ll find her. I’ll pack some things. You take Saqr and two of the brood raptors. Send word.’

But Gostyata was only partially listening-- another part fixated on signs he shouldn’t have missed. ‘Suma and Bazoul. Always with the names, every godsdamned pet she ever had. How didn’t I see this?’ His teeth ground. ‘She wouldn’t have been as exposed to it all, if we’d gone out further into the reaches of the Inuusiq. She might never have heard anything.’

‘Gostyata. Listen.’ Uchelfar was grave. ‘She’s had her run of the pantry, has taken Suma and that damn goose, and has enough credit to see her well into Teremnon if she’s permitted passage the wending way.’

Their argument. Breca’s accusation and no matter how he equivocated, the stark certainty in her eyes. She knew. And the siege at Hammerung Fall. He hadn’t even known until she told him. Gostyata crumpled into his chair, stared far eyed into flames until he actually heard what Uchelfar had said. No. ‘She would not.’

‘That’s why!’ Uchelfar threw her hands into the air, ushered him to the door. ‘Don’t bother chasing around for her trail, you know where she’s gone. And I have to stay with little Bean.” She’d kept talking even as she violently rammed foodstuffs into his pack, but that last seemed to soften her. She took a deep breath. ‘I’ll try to sort things and follow as soon as I can. If I can. And if you ride hard we can relay the birds at the peak, use the skytale at Summit Hall. I’ll send up. Send word back.’  

Gostyata stood before the threshold, glanced across the shadowed laths of the ceiling. Uchelfar stood on her toes to touch her nose to his. He pulled her close with his good arm. The other he slowly held out. It was withered and shrunken, a lean garrote of ghostly white. The long fingers flexed, incongruent knuckles cracking loudly.

Uchelfar grabbed his face. Her hands smelled like lavender. His gaze fixated on his wife’s chin until she lifted his regard. Gostyata’s voice cracked when he met her dark eyes. ‘If she’s gone the wending way… ’

‘I know.’ She kissed him before he crumbled.

While Uchelfar went into the cold cellar, he grabbed the hides of his two old hounds, fell and faithful, missing them now more than ever. He’d never been able to shake the habit of having his kit ready, nor the need to recheck it even when none had touched it. As he did so Uchelfar returned, bearing the hjörr.

From beneath its dusty and mummified wrap of glyphic runes, the shortsword trilled a keen kind of smug.

Over a decade and he took it up with only the slightest hesitation, slung its baldric over his shoulder. Its proximity made his ghost arm ache. Gostyata ignored that and grabbed his great round shield, braced his legs to test its heft, but when he looked up something in Uchelfar’s face seized him.  

On the deck came a fretful goodbye of gentle touches, love and reassurance, but distraction made it a sorrowful thing of quiet words and silent promise.

 

###

 

Hard they rode, up into the mountains toward the wending way. Branches broke about them, before them, across her face and shoulders-- each blow a rebuke. Breca leaned into the neck of her horse to wipe both the sting and salt from her face, but Suma was salty too. At least he was warm.

Tears frozen or forgotten, she eventually nodded off, in and out of dream. Mother picking her up and brushing her off, her infectious laughter the best kind of wash for hurt. Father joining in, bent over his knees in laughter so hard he couldn’t breathe. Then him again, and when confronted his lying right to her face, despite the olives incised into the surface of his shield, despite his deformed arm. But when she looked away, Breca saw it was her own reflection she didn’t recognize anymore. All of that against a background, the reverberating beat of Hammerung Fall and the long throated reeds of the hollow dead. 

She startled awake, nearly flailed out of her seat, but it was just Bazoul rooting for the bag of seed at her waist. Downy and reassuring, she hugged the bird fiercely as the three of them rode on. Breca was shaking and the grey goose honked irritably.    

‘Soon,’ she said, and it was sooner than she thought. Grain for Suma and Bazoul, while she mulled over hard bread and harder cheese. Would he be fooled? He may not be who she'd thought he was, but that wasn’t the all of him either. He was still her father, and him… him she knew.

Yes. He’d refuse to believe it, determine to wait her out. He and mother would fight. Delay. Breca’s imagination ran wild with purpose.  

Three nights!

 

 

 

 

 

[peterbound]

13 hours ago, The Glad King said:

Hello fellow forum lurkers. So, for English class, I need to write a short story. It is due in about a week, and I have just finished my first draft. The story is essentially about how corrupt, imperialistic war leaders will often brainwash the masses into hating an enemy, to create the facade that their cause is righteous. They then sit back in luxury while brave, misguided men do the fighting for them.

Now, if you must, tear my whole story apart and tell me it's shit. I trust that most people on this forum will be able to give me a helpful and well thought-out critique. I am not even sure if anybody will care to read it, so I would be very grateful if just one of you lovely people took a few minutes of your day (which you are already wasting anyways, being on this forum and all) to read it. It's less than 1.5k words long too.  Anyways, enough with the rambling... here it is! 

*** Note: Don't put too much energy into checking my grammar, as I am not in that stage of editing yet. It is more the content and use of language I want feedback on for now. 

 

 

 

“What are you doing? Don’t be a pussy and just jump!”

“Yes Commander!”

John stared down at the city, and noticed how tiny and fragile the buildings looked from there. This was his first deployment, so he desperately wanted to make his country proud. Here is my chance to destroy them. I will spare the world from all those evil lives. Without further hesitation, he leaped off the plane, and started his descent towards the city.

   It was a beautiful day, with the crisp spring air making him feel invigorated. As he accelerated, he pulled the string to deploy the parachute. John sighed with relief as it immediately expanded, allowed him to glide through the clear sky. With the sunlight unobstructed, the whole landscape was illuminated with vibrant colors, giving John a serene feeling. Shortly after, he approached the garden of Platrios and readied himself to land. He felt no nervousness, as he had practiced his landings a few dozen successful times. As expected, it went smoothly, and he needed less than twenty strides to recover after reaching the garden.

   As he arrived, he noticed a crowd frantically fleeing from the attackers. The pack was then flattened as the shrapnel poured onto them like a mighty storm. Since this garden was a sacred place for the partisans of Platrios, John knew that all those here were worshipers of the evil god, and that it was a noble action to rid the world of these wicked heretics.

   The garden was a beautiful location, renowned worldwide as one of the great man made wonders. A sparkling stream gently cascaded through the colorful assortment of the flora, accompanied by the soft harmonious choir of nightingales. It’s a shame that such a nice place is wasted on such an evil country and evil gods. As he had been told, it was a perfect example of the seductive beauty of evil that attracts the lesser minds. This was chosen as the landing center to ensure that the first thing they will do is destroy the shrine for the evil god.

 

   “Form up!” a commander cried. John hurried through the mayhem to reach the front line. The host crowded the garden, and trampled over the vegetation with complete disregard. When the offensive line was ready, the infantries waited like a single soulless entity for the order to advance.

   “And March!” As they departed, the rear made sure to set fire to the whole area, to create a great pyre to herald the justice that will soon be given. Although the surroundings were still, John felt a clamor in his head. What if I get hurt? What if I never see Rebecca or the kids ever again? he dreaded. However, he remembered that his serving his country is the most important of all things and that his own desires are insignificant. John advanced with the others, unsure whether it was even himself controlling his legs. By now, it was certain that the leaders of the immoral had received word of the attack, and that they would soon join battle. John had trained enough, and was confident in his abilities to take them down. As they passed rows of houses, the men in both flanks put each of them to the torch, leaving a fiery inferno in their wake. John wondered how many lives the fire would indiscriminately consume.

   “ARGH!” There was a sudden commotion within the vanguard. Less than ten feet from John, a fellow soldier was lying in a contorted position, with the grass greedily drinking the blood flowing out of the hole in his chest. John looked up to no avail to attempt to locate the sniper. Being a good, disciplined soldier like all the men beside him, he put aside his dismay and fear, and kept marching with a single-minded determination.

   Then, the distant shape of the enemy marching to join battle against the attackers was noticed by the slaughterers. Like a collective weapon, the whole unit sporadically placed gunshots into the air, somehow in perfect synchronicity, and, like an insignificant component of the weapon, John joined in without a second thought. There was then a joint primal scream, with the hunters hot with bloodlust on the scent of their prey. What John felt now could no longer be described as fear. It was a sudden vitality, a fire inside him that seemed to be only extinguishable by destroying the enemy, but would actually merely grow with each carcass it consumed. His riffle was no more just a gun, but his manhood. KILL! KILL!  

   When each side were within two hundred meters of each other, the explosives and shrapnel began to fall back and forth, creating a dark cloud to the sparkling blue sky. A cacophony of gun shots, inaudible commands and cries of both anguish from dying soldiers and brutishness from the living ones drowned out all other sounds. It was a sweet clamor for John; the sound of the annihilation of the enemy and of brave sacrifice by the righteous. Like all the others, he lustily shot fired into the air, adding a few additional raindrops to the storm.

     “GET THE FUCK DOWN!” a comrade cried, too late. John felt nothing immediately, but suddenly collapsed when he tried to move his left leg forward. He saw a pool of blood form around him on the ground.  He groped around frantically to try to find the source of the fluid. When he touched his left tight, an overwhelming pain enveloped him without warning. A bullet was lodged deep into his flesh, and a torrential river of blood was cascaded out of the hole, feeding the swelling lake on the ground.

   “Help me!” he cried in vain. He doubted anybody even heard him. All strength had left his body, and even yelling was too exerting. A heard then trampled over John as if he were a discarded piece of meat. It’s going to be over right here he realized with regret. I hope that I will be remembered. I wish that I could see Rebecca and the kids on last time. Before he could lament any further, his body broke into a nauseating convulsion. His vision of the bright day then started darkening, and he fought with all his will for every inhalation and exhalation of air. Soon, the whole world blackened, and he lost his awareness from all his senses.   

   -----------------------------------------------

The warmongers sat on embroidered silk covered chairs around a polished table with elegant jewel encrusted legs. In the center, there were silver chalices beside a bottle of exquisite aged wine and a platter of ripe fruit. The room was well furnished, being the supreme commander’s own chamber inside the enclosed palace in the capital. There was a disquieting silence, no one daring to speak before the discussion was initiated, by their dictator. Slowly, the leader began.

   “The victory was key to our efforts to expand the reach of our dominion. With the city sacked for its resources, the railway destroyed and the civilians and their homes incinerated, the country won’t have the morale nor the supplies to further their effort against us. Plus, the burning of their shrine to their precious imaginary god will surely make them lose will, while our men are as exploitably spirited about theirs as ever. And to do that, we only needed to give up the lives of less than 5000 plebeian scum. We must now decide whether we shall ask for their allegiance, or decimate them further.”

   He paused, leaning back in his chair and observed his officers contemplatively. It was known that he was inviting them to share their thoughts. The men each studied the others, all the while putting significant effort into looking pensive. If they suggested offering dominion, would they appear to be pragmatic, with the fact that the enemy would surely be willing to surrender now? However, it is also very important to appear ruthless, so would suggesting destroying them be the better choice? Finally, someone broke the silence.

  “Commander sir, I believe that we must continue to destroy them. It will show our strength, and will show the other states what we are capable of before they decide to fight back.”

  The dictator regarded him while stroking his grizzled beard. His eyes were austere, but a flicker of amusement was seen in his lips.

“Yes, well said.” He responded. “Does anybody have any objections to that course of action?”

There was then an inevitable tension in the room, everybody antsy to see if someone will object. However, they all nodded along like trained animals, to the approving look of their leader.

“Very well” the supreme commander continued. “I believe that this great victory deserves a celebration. Go on and pour yourselves a glass, and let’s have a toast to our prosperity.”

The each took a goblet, and poured themselves a glass in a slow and deliberate manner. Before long, they were all intoxicated, in equal parts from the wine and their lust for power.

 

*** If you made it this far, high five bro! I appreciate it a lot.

I'm not going to comment on the story, but rather the use of terms.  A commander wouldn't be pushing you out of a plane (unless we are totally rewriting the whole military structure in your world), it would be an NCO/Jumpmaster.  A commander also wouldn't be forming them up, again, an NCO.  That's always bothered me about SciFi/Fantasy, they give the officers a lot bigger role than they really have.  The NCO's really make all that shit happen, and the Officers try not t get you killed.  

[The Glad King]

34 minutes ago, peterbound said:

I'm not going to comment on the story, but rather the use of terms.  A commander wouldn't be pushing you out of a plane (unless we are totally rewriting the whole military structure in your world), it would be an NCO/Jumpmaster.  A commander also wouldn't be forming them up, again, an NCO.  That's always bothered me about SciFi/Fantasy, they give the officers a lot bigger role than they really have.  The NCO's really make all that shit happen, and the Officers try not t get you killed.  

Okay, thanks for the correction. I'll admit, I am very ill-informed on war hierarchy /formations, and I generally more interested about the political aspect of it when I read history. I'll go change that right away. 

[JGP]

Ok, Muwha: 

Spoiler

I wasn’t scared, so much as resigned, convinced that death was the inevitable outcome of the crazieness precluding this.  My two guides, Curls with canes, tuxedoes, and the combined intelligence of a toddler, steered our little pole-boat in opposing pushes that nearly dunked us many times.  The water reflected the ceiling with phosphoresenct fish and plants in the depths, lighting the lake bottom like a lost night drowned in the caves beneath this lost city.  Fucking *Curls are so stupid.  At one point, they quit poling and had a little staff fight.  Not kidding.  That’s how fucking stupid they are.

 

The bolded sentence seems a little clunky. I mean, all the pieces are there but maybe I’d try configuring them in a different way. Then again, you said it’s a first draft so you can address on second. Also, from the tone of the piece it feels like you’re trying to go with whimsical—so pass on boatmen wearing tuxedoes.

 

Oh, the poling and the depths, I’m sure you’re wondering how the hell that worked.  There were pillars about four feet under the lake’s surface, not everywhere, I don’t think, cause all the boat traffic I saw was lined up like on a road of a sorts.  Anyway, just wanted to clear that cause it had me scratching my head at the time.

 

Anyway, there was traffic all about us, hundreds of pilgrims boating to an island in the middle of the lake.  There were other islands about but they were like peas on a plate with an orange.  The other boats were mostly polled by Curls and I could make out pole fights in the distance between neighboring boats.  The riders were mostly Kivati with their hair spiked and curled like the other main passengers who were Hartians with their antlers wildly tangled or sculpted into masks like dark-aged helmets.

 

Neat idea with the submerged pillars for poling. I was pulled out of the story a little by the Curls, and the two races that apparently have curly hair. I see it’s a good handle for one, or maybe the other, but for both Kivati and Hartians it muddles things a bit. Presumably the PoV is neither. Unclear. 

 

They all had the intense look like they were deciphering a code or solving an imaginary maze that I’d come to associate with saappies, what we call meld or chii, some nodding like they were doped on bless or fall.  Again music was everywhere, permeating the entirety of the enormous space even the lines of light on the impossible ceiling flashed in time and tempo.  Hell, I felt like my heart was beating to the rhythm and my blood flowing to a sound.

 

This one was a little weird, until I read the following paragraph. Dude’s high, Ok.   

 

The other boaters hummed, snapped, clapped, and whistled in a cacophoness flood of sound that echod and rebounded, bouncing back to meet and blend with its caster into a symphony of sound that was intoxicating as much as the drugs which I’d heavily partook of. 

 

A good start, maybe. Hard to judge without some context. Couple things. There’s no real hook and/or direction so far, and while you haven’t written much I’d expect a little forward plot momentum-- unless this is a short stream of consciousness type piece.

 

Write or post more more.

 

edited for formatting