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NeoGAF Creative Writing Challenge #3 - "weighless, breathless"
- Thread starter Aaron
- Start date
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Mike Works
Member
:lolIceman said:
Cauliflower of Love
Banned
Mike Works said:
Not sure what you mean
RevenantKioku
PEINS PEINS PEINS PEINS PEINS PEINS PEINS PEINS PEINS PEINS PEINS PEINS oh god i am drowning in them
I don't think anyone would date anyone if we really knew everything that was going through people's heads.Aaron said:
ronito said he was a bit confused, and yeah that was kinda what I was going for. My inspiration was from Friday when my car slipped off the side of the road and I couldn't get it unstuck. During the next few moments my mind was a complete blur and kept deriving into thoughts that were unnecessary.
I'm not sure if I successfully captured that feeling, but that's what I was shooting for.
I usually write from the ending up but I decided to go without my original last line.
The original last line was just simply "Goodbye." But I thought the rapid fire questioning more covered the panic state that she was going through.
A jackalope sat in front of his computer, pondering.RumpledForeskin said:
"I've got it!" says he, "I'll write about space! There's no air and no gravity, that's perfect."
He started typing away, but it hadn't been more than a few minutes when he lifted his head, thinking aloud.
"No. Everyone's going to do outer space, that's too obvious. Underwater! There's no air, and you're kind of weightless!"
Again he began writing, and again, he lifted his head, his eyebrows raised doubtfully.
"Still too obvious. But wait! When you hang yourself, you can't breathe, and the noose is holding you up. Perfect!"
He bent his head and began to type. This time, no doubts arose, and the story leapt onto the screen. Whence and thence, who can say?
I did pretty much the same thing, except I took a 90 degree turn just after underwater.
Cauliflower of Love
Banned
Cyan said:
Eh, I went straight to the hanging actually, I threw in the water/surfing to get a visual of a kid balancing himself on a chair as if he was just goofing off. Same with the space, just to get a slight visual. First thing I thought of with the theme was the sadness of an outcast. The hanging being more of a literal connection. Maybe I shouldn't have done a "short" one and tried to expound on that.
This being my third writing thing, I realized I tend to try and connect the theme with emotions/relationships.
fake edit: lol I just realized what you meant by jackalope. :lol
Western Fried Spaghetti (895)
The Mysterious Man was tired. It had been a long daytoo long, like a tie that goes down way past your belt buckle, and your wife says it makes you look like an idiot and then you yell at each other until your daughter starts crying.
His cowboy clothes were disheveled. His straw-colored hair pointed in every direction under his large cowboy hat, and his dark brown eyes squinted painfully in the late afternoon sunlight, because cowboy sunglasses hadnt been invented yet.
He looked like hell. At least, he looked like hell would look if it were a mysterious cowboy with straw-colored hair and brown eyes. His face was red and damp. Sweat poured down the back of his neck, pooling under his shirt and making him itchy, really itchy, the way your nose gets when youre supposed to be relaxing and breathing and not moving at some stupid hippie "anger management" course.
The Mysterious Man had been on the run for days. He looked behind him, along the cliff-side. He didn't know how Mad Dog and his gang had finally tracked him down. But he did know that there was only one way out of Dead Man's Precipiceso named because it was a useful foreshadowing deviceand that was through them.
Mad Dog, he called out, his voice echoing and booming like a loud voice at the top of a cliff. I dont have your money. I never set foot on that there train.
The sun was just beginning to set, and colors smeared across the sky like a box of Crayola crayonsthe old ones, where they still had colors like Indian Red and Jaundice Yellow.
Mad Dog smirked, the expression making him look like an angry badger. I dont believe you, friend. You stole that there money, and we aim to get it back. He brandished his gun menacingly, waving it about like the baton of a conductor of a middle-school band that you really dont want to have to watch because it will be terrible, but your wife makes you go because your daughter is going to try to play the flute for you and you had damn well better pretend that its the most brilliant performance youve ever seen or youre going to hear about it later.
A breath of wind passed along the cliff-top, and a weed tumbled along it, passing between the Mysterious Man and Mad Dogs gangnot a tumbleweed, just a regular weed that happened to be tumbling along, as though a guy with a leaf-blower were there blowing it along a sidewalk way too early in the morning for no good reason.
Everything was still.
The gang fired as one. Bullets flew in every direction, but this gang hadnt exactly been recruited for their aim, and they all missed by huge margins, as off the mark as your mother-in-law telling you to get a real job. The Mysterious Man gave Mad Dog a look, that steel-eyed, stone-faced look that can really only be given by mysterious cowboys played by Clint Eastwood or John Wayne.
In the distance, a hawk cried.
He and Mad Dog glared at one another. As if in accord, both fired simultaneously at the same time.
The bullet hit him mid-thigh, and time seemed to slow down, the way it does in a movie when an important principal character gets shot at the top of a cliff. But there was nobody there to shout Nooooooooo! and grab his hand, so he stumbled slowly backwards, tripped, and fell over the edge.
For a moment, he felt weightless. At the same time, he couldnt breathe. It was almost like he was simultaneously weightless and breathless.
Then the crushing weight of memory was upon him, and time stood still as his life flashed slowly before his eyes, accompanied by a softly soothing yet melancholy soundtrack.
He had never been married, because he was too smart for that, but he wished he could see Anna againher striking reddish-blonde hair, her flashing sea-blue eyes, the creamy white arch of her back. Or Rosafiery, tempestuous Rosa. Or Geraldine, or Roberta, or Jo. Or any of the innumerable sheriffs daughters over the years who had been really impressed by mysterious cowboys passing through town, impressed to the point where he always seemed to end up fleeing an angry mob carrying lots of rope. If there was one thing that was in plentiful supply out here in the West, it was rope. But never when you needed it.
For a moment, he hung there in the sky.
Only for a moment.
Then the ground leapt up to meet him like a kid holding a saxophone who jumps up to perform his stupid solo and knocks over your daughter with her flute, and your wife tries to hold you back from going after his asshole dad who laughed, and you end up getting thrown out of there and your daughter is mad at you for embarrassing her.
But it was all right, because up there on the cliff-top Mad Dog had been hit too, and was breathing out his last ugly evil breath. So really it was all worth it, certainly more worth it than the surprising amount of trouble you can get in for landing just one punch on someone who deserved it.
The Mysterious Man was tired. It had been a long daytoo long, like a tie that goes down way past your belt buckle, and your wife says it makes you look like an idiot and then you yell at each other until your daughter starts crying.
His cowboy clothes were disheveled. His straw-colored hair pointed in every direction under his large cowboy hat, and his dark brown eyes squinted painfully in the late afternoon sunlight, because cowboy sunglasses hadnt been invented yet.
He looked like hell. At least, he looked like hell would look if it were a mysterious cowboy with straw-colored hair and brown eyes. His face was red and damp. Sweat poured down the back of his neck, pooling under his shirt and making him itchy, really itchy, the way your nose gets when youre supposed to be relaxing and breathing and not moving at some stupid hippie "anger management" course.
The Mysterious Man had been on the run for days. He looked behind him, along the cliff-side. He didn't know how Mad Dog and his gang had finally tracked him down. But he did know that there was only one way out of Dead Man's Precipiceso named because it was a useful foreshadowing deviceand that was through them.
Mad Dog, he called out, his voice echoing and booming like a loud voice at the top of a cliff. I dont have your money. I never set foot on that there train.
The sun was just beginning to set, and colors smeared across the sky like a box of Crayola crayonsthe old ones, where they still had colors like Indian Red and Jaundice Yellow.
Mad Dog smirked, the expression making him look like an angry badger. I dont believe you, friend. You stole that there money, and we aim to get it back. He brandished his gun menacingly, waving it about like the baton of a conductor of a middle-school band that you really dont want to have to watch because it will be terrible, but your wife makes you go because your daughter is going to try to play the flute for you and you had damn well better pretend that its the most brilliant performance youve ever seen or youre going to hear about it later.
A breath of wind passed along the cliff-top, and a weed tumbled along it, passing between the Mysterious Man and Mad Dogs gangnot a tumbleweed, just a regular weed that happened to be tumbling along, as though a guy with a leaf-blower were there blowing it along a sidewalk way too early in the morning for no good reason.
Everything was still.
The gang fired as one. Bullets flew in every direction, but this gang hadnt exactly been recruited for their aim, and they all missed by huge margins, as off the mark as your mother-in-law telling you to get a real job. The Mysterious Man gave Mad Dog a look, that steel-eyed, stone-faced look that can really only be given by mysterious cowboys played by Clint Eastwood or John Wayne.
In the distance, a hawk cried.
He and Mad Dog glared at one another. As if in accord, both fired simultaneously at the same time.
The bullet hit him mid-thigh, and time seemed to slow down, the way it does in a movie when an important principal character gets shot at the top of a cliff. But there was nobody there to shout Nooooooooo! and grab his hand, so he stumbled slowly backwards, tripped, and fell over the edge.
For a moment, he felt weightless. At the same time, he couldnt breathe. It was almost like he was simultaneously weightless and breathless.
Then the crushing weight of memory was upon him, and time stood still as his life flashed slowly before his eyes, accompanied by a softly soothing yet melancholy soundtrack.
He had never been married, because he was too smart for that, but he wished he could see Anna againher striking reddish-blonde hair, her flashing sea-blue eyes, the creamy white arch of her back. Or Rosafiery, tempestuous Rosa. Or Geraldine, or Roberta, or Jo. Or any of the innumerable sheriffs daughters over the years who had been really impressed by mysterious cowboys passing through town, impressed to the point where he always seemed to end up fleeing an angry mob carrying lots of rope. If there was one thing that was in plentiful supply out here in the West, it was rope. But never when you needed it.
For a moment, he hung there in the sky.
Only for a moment.
Then the ground leapt up to meet him like a kid holding a saxophone who jumps up to perform his stupid solo and knocks over your daughter with her flute, and your wife tries to hold you back from going after his asshole dad who laughed, and you end up getting thrown out of there and your daughter is mad at you for embarrassing her.
But it was all right, because up there on the cliff-top Mad Dog had been hit too, and was breathing out his last ugly evil breath. So really it was all worth it, certainly more worth it than the surprising amount of trouble you can get in for landing just one punch on someone who deserved it.
I think I killed the thread. Well, here's some critique.
The only real negative here is that I can tell you wrote this in a hurry. You missed a few grammatical errors. Not enough to hurt the story, but enough to make it feel slightly incomplete, like a not-quite-final draft. Also in one or two places the perspective wavers between De La Cruz and the man he's chasing ("he saw his own death coming his way," "his will power slowly seeped from his body"). These could be De La Cruz observing what he thinks is happening to the man, but they feel just slightly off.
Also--not that this is hugely important, as the guy could be hallucinating--while time slows down for you relative to others near a black hole, subjectively there is no difference. You will only notice that time had been slower once you return and compare notes.
You briefly touch on the seven stages of grief (Shock, Denial, Bargaining, Guilt, Anger, Depression, Acceptance). I went back through and read your piece again after seeing that, expecting to find that each paragraph represented one of the stages. That would've been a really interesting way to structure this.
There are a couple of unnecessary bits--mentioning that he calls her Salome is unnecessary, we can see that for ourselves when he talks about her by that name later. And the weightless, breathless thing at the end is awkward. We've already seen how that ties into your story, there's no need to make it explicit.
Interesting. It feels like you chose a small slice of a larger story--the climactic scene at the very end. Excellent choice. Your greatest strength here is in your metaphors--they are descriptive and explanatory, without being overwrought. I'd like to read more from you so I can try to snipe your style.nitewulf said:
The only real negative here is that I can tell you wrote this in a hurry. You missed a few grammatical errors. Not enough to hurt the story, but enough to make it feel slightly incomplete, like a not-quite-final draft. Also in one or two places the perspective wavers between De La Cruz and the man he's chasing ("he saw his own death coming his way," "his will power slowly seeped from his body"). These could be De La Cruz observing what he thinks is happening to the man, but they feel just slightly off.
I was about to say that I agreed with the comments made by other folks, but I just noticed you edited, so I reread your piece. It's definitely better now, with the name change and the removal of the beginning bit. I can't remember exactly how the previous one ended--I think it was right after the part about the monstrous beast of gravity--but I actually slightly preferred that ending. This one is too... unambiguous? I'm not quite sure what it is, I just know I preferred the first one. Maybe it's just me.Great Rumbler said:
Also--not that this is hugely important, as the guy could be hallucinating--while time slows down for you relative to others near a black hole, subjectively there is no difference. You will only notice that time had been slower once you return and compare notes.
This felt a bit generic, in the sense that it felt like the main character could have been pretty much anyone without changing the story in the least. She didn't feel tied down or grounded to any reality (would she really think about "my father" instead of "dad?" If so, why?). I was also kind of bothered by all the questions. It was stylistic, I assume, but it grated a bit.RevenantKioku said:
You briefly touch on the seven stages of grief (Shock, Denial, Bargaining, Guilt, Anger, Depression, Acceptance). I went back through and read your piece again after seeing that, expecting to find that each paragraph represented one of the stages. That would've been a really interesting way to structure this.
This one is nice. I love your metaphor at the beginning ("cathedrals of sound"). I like the descriptions of Salome; you can see what he sees in her. That's key for something like this.ronito said:
There are a couple of unnecessary bits--mentioning that he calls her Salome is unnecessary, we can see that for ourselves when he talks about her by that name later. And the weightless, breathless thing at the end is awkward. We've already seen how that ties into your story, there's no need to make it explicit.
no...i am just holding comments till the voting begins. i loved your piece, its decidedly over the top without being cheesy. also i wear ties all the time, and have one which hangs past the buckle, so i dont wear it anymore...its very annoying. a perfectly good looking tie, just too long for me.Cyan said:
thanx...its a culmination of reading too much Hammett, Chandler, and Hemingway (never a bad thing!), and my lack of vocabulary skills, or being able to write long, descriptive, lyrical sentences. my strength has always been making sharp, to the point statements (engineer by trade)...so rather than trying something i cant do, i utilize what i can do and focus on writing terse, short, sharp sentences.Interesting. It feels like you chose a small slice of a larger story--the climactic scene at the very end. Excellent choice. Your greatest strength here is in your metaphors--they are descriptive and explanatory, without being overwrought. I'd like to read more from you so I can try to snipe your style.
i havent taken a creative writing course, or any formal writing courses aside from "technical writing"...so im not sure if there is a literary term for it, but that point of view is of the observer/reader. some grammatical mistakes are intentional, such as incomplete, abrupt sentences...its a part of my style, you will notice in other peices as well. but i am sure i missed other grammatical errors here and there, i did write in a hurry, and my grammar isnt actually very good.
some notes: ernesto is a nod to ernest hemingway, the character wasnt created for this story, he is one of my old characters, and i have written a novella featuring him. this piece is noir, as is the bigger story featuring him.
the title, "lost july" is a nod to my favorite Trigun episode, i was hoping more poeple would catch it, at least on GAF!
Great Rumbler
Member
Well, falling into a black hole isn't exactly the most ambiguous thing that could happen to you, but I see your point. The old ending was really abrupt though and didn't give off the feeling that I was going for.
Yeah, I know, but in times of extreme stress/danger your brain will actually speed up, causing you to perceive that time is slowing down. Falling into a black hole certainly represents a very stressful situation.
rumbler, your re-write reads a lot better and is tighter overall. but, the part where he rips his helmet off...shouldn't be used.
1) he might not realistically have the strength to do so. remember, he is already struggling to breathe.
2) he'd freeze and die instantly, and the local de-pressurizing effect, due to opening the helmet...would probably have ugly consequences.
1) he might not realistically have the strength to do so. remember, he is already struggling to breathe.
2) he'd freeze and die instantly, and the local de-pressurizing effect, due to opening the helmet...would probably have ugly consequences.
Gotcha. Well then, you can take my criticisms with a grain of salt.nitewulf said:
Third person omniscient is an unusual pov, but it's perfectly legit. I was thrown off because at first it felt like a third person limited, through De La Cruz's eyes.Ah, I'd wondered. I'm not familiar with that show.
Um. Good point. Maybe "ambiguous" isn't quite the word I wanted. We knew what his fate would be, but we didn't see it actually happen. The first ending clearly implied his inexorable death without spelling it out as it happened. I liked that version better. Personal taste, ymmv.Great Rumbler said:
Fair enough. That was nitpicking anyway.
I'll get to the other stories probably tomorrow.
RevenantKioku
PEINS PEINS PEINS PEINS PEINS PEINS PEINS PEINS PEINS PEINS PEINS PEINS oh god i am drowning in them
I think in terms of "my father" and like like so it was just what came natural to me. Again, my mind is also flooding with questions in similar situations so I tried to write what felt natural "to me." What's interesting is to see how others don't think like me.Cyan said:
I'm not clever enough to pull something like that.
Great Rumbler
Member
1.) I disagree there. He was struggling to breathe in the last seconds, but up until then he was relatively fine. He finally realizes that he's dying and nothing can save him, so in a desperate panic he does the only thing he can do: twist off his helmet. In a burst of adrenaline-induced panic, I'd say its definitely possible.
2.) He wouldn't freeze instantly that way some movies show. But, yeah, it wouldn't be too pretty. That part is all basically in the split second after his helmet comes off.
Sorry guys, I wanted to write one for this but a combination of it following too quickly after the last one and how I've been doing lately (rather poorly) has made me unable to whip something up in time
I hope I'll be able to write something for the next one but that depends on how busy school is and how my co-op job search goes.
I hope I'll be able to write something for the next one but that depends on how busy school is and how my co-op job search goes.
Ironically - SAL is HAL's actual twin in the books (we see more of her in 2010), and the name is actual abbreviation like HAL (though I forget what it stands for, it's been a long time since I read the books).Great Rumbler said:
When I first read your story I thought you simply wanted to make the connection more obvious by re-using a name from actual book, but it's amusing to see you came up with it on your own without knowing it.
At any rate, I second others here, I enjoyed your rewrite more then original - although I don't think renaming the AI was necessary at all.
beelzebozo
Jealous Bastard
Stage On said:Sorry guys, I wanted to write one for this but a combination of it following too quickly after the last one and how I've been doing lately (rather poorly) has made me unable to whip something up in time
I hope I'll be able to write something for the next one but that depends on how busy school is and how my co-op job search goes.
indeed, i don't think i'm going to make it this week either. i intend to read them all and vote tomorrow, but a good friend just moved back into town and things have been hectic. nice work though, everyone
Great Rumbler
Member
Fafalada said:
Well, people were focusing on that more than the actual story, so it's best to just change it to something else.
Vacant Inferno
Word Count: 999
As with all men that commit horrendous crimes, I did not feel the slightest bit hesitant before plunging that knife into the other man's chest. I did not resist when I was arrested, nor did I deny my crimes when I was interviewed. At my trial, I did not cry out when the guilty verdict was passed, nor did I break down when I was sentenced to death by beheading. I did, however, smile upon remembering a funny joke that my good friend had told me a few days before the event (It is slightly too racist to repeat here).
I did know that my crime guaranteed me in place in hell, which did unnerve me slightly especially since we have a slight clue as to what to expect. Davis Dunnman, that infamous criminal who ended the lives of twenty-two tax men in 432 AF, was reincarnated a thousand years after his execution as a lady named Beula Murphy, the daughter of a meat butcher. Beula Murphy developed a fear of pigs and sheep, which proved to be of great inconvenience to her father. To cure Beula's phobia, she was sent to Cedric Eddings, that famous hypnotist of Kingsford Isles. Under hypnosis, Beula recalled her previous life as the Dunnman, and the events that took place after he died including his journey to hell (Which is rather alarming, since we tend to assume that, after we die, we immediately wake up lying in bed of flames, the Devil looming over us with his pitchfork). Cedric Eddings's second auto-biography, Before I Go to Sleep (Ironically, published six months before his death), contains a transcription of Beula's account:
"It's dark. I'm walking down these stairs... Now, these people appear... both men and women. Their faces belong to the men I murdered. Their eyes are
swirly [sic] and they carry an assortment of deadly weapons. They hurry me down the stairs, molesting me, tormenting me. The stairs suddenly feel hot, and my feet turn red...then blue...then purple...then black. My feet burst into flames. They laugh, and continue torturing me."
Then, according to the book, Beula Murphy broke into a deranged frenzy, whereupon Eddings was forced to terminate the interview.
And that was just the journey. When the sinner reached the fiery games, only then would he suffer in an inferno for eternity, (Or, in Davis's case, till reincarnation), as threatened to him in the holy scriptures. If only Cedric Eddings had kept Beula Murphy in a state of hynopsis for just a bit longer, we would perhaps find out the candid details of this eternal torture, and perhaps the crime rate of Quantock would not be as high as it is now.
As the axe fell towards my neck, I was closer to finding out for myself.
Suddenly, I was at the top of staircase where Davis Dunnman once stood. Initially, I didn't feel much different. I turned my head to see what was behind me, but there was nothing but blackness. It was at that moment, however, when I felt the difference between my old form and my new one: my head, instead of stopping at the shoulders, rotated in a full circle. I frowned at this, but the corners of my mouth went past my chin and stopped who knows where. It was as if I could rearrange my entire body with the most subtle of movements. I imagine that I must have looked like one of those caricatures in the newsletters. One thing I could do relatively normally, however, was to walk down those stairs. And so I did.
I walked for a very long time. I wondered whether some kind of screeching demon would swoop down and attack me ala the ghost train ride, but there was nothing. I wondered whether Beula Murphy, with her fiery rainbow feet, exaggerated the truth a little bit.
Suddenly, a man appeared a few steps below me. I recognised his face as my victim, although he looked much healthier than when I killed him.
"Enjoying the trip so far?" he said.
"No, not really. It doesn't quite live up to all the hype," I said. I walked down a few more steps, so that I was level with him.
"Yes, I convinced them to go easy on you." He sighed. "It's a pity, you know. You were nearly going to heaven. Nearly." His voice was breaking. "I'm so sorry, old chap. If it wasn't for me, then "
"No, no, not at all. It's fine. I couldn't let a friend suffer like that, could I? You were an extremely sorry sight, and it must have been extremely painful when it spread to your chest."
"Ha, I gave up all hope when it spread to my privates," he said. We both laughed.
"So, before you go off gallivanting with angels and whatnot, I'd appreciate it if you accompany on my journey to hell, and make sure it goes smoothly. Unless, that is, you would rather spend the time tormenting me with a pitchfork."
So we continued down to hell, reminiscing over old times, discussing trivial matters (Such as who would attend our funerals and who would not), and cracking jokes (including that slightly racist one, which will always make me laugh). We had a good old time while walking down those stairs of doom, and I forgot that the Devil himself was waiting for me at the bottom.
Nevertheless, in the truest meaning of the phrase 'all good things come to an end' the big red gates slowly came into view, and our... my journey, was completed.
"I'll keep fighting your case," he said. I nodded, and held out my hand. Instead of shaking my hand, however, he hugged me.
"Oh, dear. You've just ruined your tough man image," I said.
"I'm not a man anymore, remember." he said. "Thanks. I'll never forget."
He waved goodbye and disappeared. And, feeling optimistic, I stepped into the fiery inferno that awaited me.
Word Count: 999
As with all men that commit horrendous crimes, I did not feel the slightest bit hesitant before plunging that knife into the other man's chest. I did not resist when I was arrested, nor did I deny my crimes when I was interviewed. At my trial, I did not cry out when the guilty verdict was passed, nor did I break down when I was sentenced to death by beheading. I did, however, smile upon remembering a funny joke that my good friend had told me a few days before the event (It is slightly too racist to repeat here).
I did know that my crime guaranteed me in place in hell, which did unnerve me slightly especially since we have a slight clue as to what to expect. Davis Dunnman, that infamous criminal who ended the lives of twenty-two tax men in 432 AF, was reincarnated a thousand years after his execution as a lady named Beula Murphy, the daughter of a meat butcher. Beula Murphy developed a fear of pigs and sheep, which proved to be of great inconvenience to her father. To cure Beula's phobia, she was sent to Cedric Eddings, that famous hypnotist of Kingsford Isles. Under hypnosis, Beula recalled her previous life as the Dunnman, and the events that took place after he died including his journey to hell (Which is rather alarming, since we tend to assume that, after we die, we immediately wake up lying in bed of flames, the Devil looming over us with his pitchfork). Cedric Eddings's second auto-biography, Before I Go to Sleep (Ironically, published six months before his death), contains a transcription of Beula's account:
"It's dark. I'm walking down these stairs... Now, these people appear... both men and women. Their faces belong to the men I murdered. Their eyes are
swirly [sic] and they carry an assortment of deadly weapons. They hurry me down the stairs, molesting me, tormenting me. The stairs suddenly feel hot, and my feet turn red...then blue...then purple...then black. My feet burst into flames. They laugh, and continue torturing me."
Then, according to the book, Beula Murphy broke into a deranged frenzy, whereupon Eddings was forced to terminate the interview.
And that was just the journey. When the sinner reached the fiery games, only then would he suffer in an inferno for eternity, (Or, in Davis's case, till reincarnation), as threatened to him in the holy scriptures. If only Cedric Eddings had kept Beula Murphy in a state of hynopsis for just a bit longer, we would perhaps find out the candid details of this eternal torture, and perhaps the crime rate of Quantock would not be as high as it is now.
As the axe fell towards my neck, I was closer to finding out for myself.
Suddenly, I was at the top of staircase where Davis Dunnman once stood. Initially, I didn't feel much different. I turned my head to see what was behind me, but there was nothing but blackness. It was at that moment, however, when I felt the difference between my old form and my new one: my head, instead of stopping at the shoulders, rotated in a full circle. I frowned at this, but the corners of my mouth went past my chin and stopped who knows where. It was as if I could rearrange my entire body with the most subtle of movements. I imagine that I must have looked like one of those caricatures in the newsletters. One thing I could do relatively normally, however, was to walk down those stairs. And so I did.
I walked for a very long time. I wondered whether some kind of screeching demon would swoop down and attack me ala the ghost train ride, but there was nothing. I wondered whether Beula Murphy, with her fiery rainbow feet, exaggerated the truth a little bit.
Suddenly, a man appeared a few steps below me. I recognised his face as my victim, although he looked much healthier than when I killed him.
"Enjoying the trip so far?" he said.
"No, not really. It doesn't quite live up to all the hype," I said. I walked down a few more steps, so that I was level with him.
"Yes, I convinced them to go easy on you." He sighed. "It's a pity, you know. You were nearly going to heaven. Nearly." His voice was breaking. "I'm so sorry, old chap. If it wasn't for me, then "
"No, no, not at all. It's fine. I couldn't let a friend suffer like that, could I? You were an extremely sorry sight, and it must have been extremely painful when it spread to your chest."
"Ha, I gave up all hope when it spread to my privates," he said. We both laughed.
"So, before you go off gallivanting with angels and whatnot, I'd appreciate it if you accompany on my journey to hell, and make sure it goes smoothly. Unless, that is, you would rather spend the time tormenting me with a pitchfork."
So we continued down to hell, reminiscing over old times, discussing trivial matters (Such as who would attend our funerals and who would not), and cracking jokes (including that slightly racist one, which will always make me laugh). We had a good old time while walking down those stairs of doom, and I forgot that the Devil himself was waiting for me at the bottom.
Nevertheless, in the truest meaning of the phrase 'all good things come to an end' the big red gates slowly came into view, and our... my journey, was completed.
"I'll keep fighting your case," he said. I nodded, and held out my hand. Instead of shaking my hand, however, he hugged me.
"Oh, dear. You've just ruined your tough man image," I said.
"I'm not a man anymore, remember." he said. "Thanks. I'll never forget."
He waved goodbye and disappeared. And, feeling optimistic, I stepped into the fiery inferno that awaited me.
Floating Word Count 999
Things had not been going according to plan. The man sat in his corner with an abused face and bruised body gasping hard for breath as he tried to focus on the cause of his distress. What he saw across the ring did not give him much hope.
His trainer was screaming something at him but the boxer couldn't concentrate as he kept staring across at his opponent. Bits and pieces of the last eight rounds kept replaying in his head and it was dawning on him why things were going so drastically wrong.
He was being starved.
He was realizing that all of his previous success had been driven off of emotion. His joy of the fight had always come from exploiting his opponent's moments of hesitation, fear, confusion, or frustration; from the motivation to wipe away a smug look of arrogance or confidence. These tells and his need for them were made obvious only by their complete absence in the last twenty four minutes of combat.
The first round had gone well enough but as the fight had gone on he had performed worse and worse. A subconscious need for something, anything to feed off of had become desperate and as he gazed at the face of his adversary moments before the ninth round bell rang he saw the same thing that he had seen all night. A tight lipped face and hard blank eyes betraying nothing.
Ding.
As the fighters moved into the centre the boxer was deprived of all his instincts. He was forced to rely on pure theory, a situation that he was unfamiliar and uncomfortable with. He knew his only hope for victory was a knockout and he also knew that his rival's hands tended to weaken and drop in later rounds.
The combatants circled each other as the boxer breathed heavily still trying to recover some wind. Conservation of energy was the strategy and he covered up as well as he could while still watching for his chance.
A minute in he saw it. A slow incoming right jab left him with an open face to hit. Usually he would have jabbed with his left but the need to cause damage turned that into a harder punch.
Whiff.
His target had disappeared. From the corner of his eye he saw the face he had been aiming at way off to his left. His opponent had slipped hard in that direction and there was an actual change in his face. The blank hard face had been replaced by one that was scrunched up in concentration.
Fear gripped the boxer, fighting through his fatigue, and a shot of adrenaline coursed through his tired body demanding too late that he flee.
One.
A hard right hook landed flush on the side of his head. His left ear screamed with throbs of pain and the rest of his head responded in counterpoint sympathy. His arm came back from the ill advised straight, hands raising in auto-pilot into a boxing stance that seemed like a parody of defensive intent. The visible world was reduced to the garish bright lights of the arena distorted by waves of agony, and then even that was blocked out by an approaching shadow.
Two.
The piercing pain in his left ear that was commanding the centre stage of his consciousness was reduced to a supporting role as the shadowy left fist landed straight in the middle of his face. His head snapped back, his skull exploded in pain, and the bridge of his nose was reduced to a mess of splinters with a sound that cannot be reproduced in words. Your really shoulda been there. You really shoulda heard it. A slurry of blood and snot wasted no time in rushing away from his body through rapidly clogging nostrils like rats from a sinking ship. His jaw unclenched, no longer caring about what it was supposed to be doing, and with his head thrown back, mouth open, and arms upraised he had transitioned from the stance of a boxer to the pose of a man in mourning, howling in agony at a cruel world and at the uncaring God of crushed dreams.
With eyes staring heavenwards, ears ringing with overshadowed almost forgotten pain, and no functional nose to speak of I cannot explain how the boxer sensed his opponent stepping forward. Perhaps there is some bitter taste that comes from the imminence of pain always forgotten in its aftermath. Maybe there is some undocumented sense that registers the oncoming touch, the same electric sensation that comes from hands almost grazing, from lips not connected but laden with the promise of it. Whatever it may have been he sensed his adversary's right foot thudding down in between his own feet. A foot that no longer cared about agility or range; A foot that thudded down and then twisted, toes in, heels out. He sensed a gloved right fist dipping down and then rushing up towards a body no longer displaying even a pretence of protecting itself.
Three
The punch drove into his gut with all the weight of inevitability. As it drove upwards like armageddon his breath, finding no other avenue, escaped through his mouth as a pained grunting gasp. His feet lifted slightly off the ring and for a brief moment the upwards force of the punch exactly matched the gravitational pull of the earth leaving him weightless, breathless. No longer receiving directions from his brain his body gladly accepted the direction of the punch instead and slumped forward. His forehead found purchase on his tormentor's shoulder. Pinned on a fist and with his only support a shoulder that was not his own his mind finally gave up its struggle and the world went soft and dark and blurry.
The fist and the shoulder both withdrew. He went down to his knees in slow motion and drifted slowly down face front. Lying on the mat as the countdown started he floated.
Things had not been going according to plan. The man sat in his corner with an abused face and bruised body gasping hard for breath as he tried to focus on the cause of his distress. What he saw across the ring did not give him much hope.
His trainer was screaming something at him but the boxer couldn't concentrate as he kept staring across at his opponent. Bits and pieces of the last eight rounds kept replaying in his head and it was dawning on him why things were going so drastically wrong.
He was being starved.
He was realizing that all of his previous success had been driven off of emotion. His joy of the fight had always come from exploiting his opponent's moments of hesitation, fear, confusion, or frustration; from the motivation to wipe away a smug look of arrogance or confidence. These tells and his need for them were made obvious only by their complete absence in the last twenty four minutes of combat.
The first round had gone well enough but as the fight had gone on he had performed worse and worse. A subconscious need for something, anything to feed off of had become desperate and as he gazed at the face of his adversary moments before the ninth round bell rang he saw the same thing that he had seen all night. A tight lipped face and hard blank eyes betraying nothing.
Ding.
As the fighters moved into the centre the boxer was deprived of all his instincts. He was forced to rely on pure theory, a situation that he was unfamiliar and uncomfortable with. He knew his only hope for victory was a knockout and he also knew that his rival's hands tended to weaken and drop in later rounds.
The combatants circled each other as the boxer breathed heavily still trying to recover some wind. Conservation of energy was the strategy and he covered up as well as he could while still watching for his chance.
A minute in he saw it. A slow incoming right jab left him with an open face to hit. Usually he would have jabbed with his left but the need to cause damage turned that into a harder punch.
Whiff.
His target had disappeared. From the corner of his eye he saw the face he had been aiming at way off to his left. His opponent had slipped hard in that direction and there was an actual change in his face. The blank hard face had been replaced by one that was scrunched up in concentration.
Fear gripped the boxer, fighting through his fatigue, and a shot of adrenaline coursed through his tired body demanding too late that he flee.
One.
A hard right hook landed flush on the side of his head. His left ear screamed with throbs of pain and the rest of his head responded in counterpoint sympathy. His arm came back from the ill advised straight, hands raising in auto-pilot into a boxing stance that seemed like a parody of defensive intent. The visible world was reduced to the garish bright lights of the arena distorted by waves of agony, and then even that was blocked out by an approaching shadow.
Two.
The piercing pain in his left ear that was commanding the centre stage of his consciousness was reduced to a supporting role as the shadowy left fist landed straight in the middle of his face. His head snapped back, his skull exploded in pain, and the bridge of his nose was reduced to a mess of splinters with a sound that cannot be reproduced in words. Your really shoulda been there. You really shoulda heard it. A slurry of blood and snot wasted no time in rushing away from his body through rapidly clogging nostrils like rats from a sinking ship. His jaw unclenched, no longer caring about what it was supposed to be doing, and with his head thrown back, mouth open, and arms upraised he had transitioned from the stance of a boxer to the pose of a man in mourning, howling in agony at a cruel world and at the uncaring God of crushed dreams.
With eyes staring heavenwards, ears ringing with overshadowed almost forgotten pain, and no functional nose to speak of I cannot explain how the boxer sensed his opponent stepping forward. Perhaps there is some bitter taste that comes from the imminence of pain always forgotten in its aftermath. Maybe there is some undocumented sense that registers the oncoming touch, the same electric sensation that comes from hands almost grazing, from lips not connected but laden with the promise of it. Whatever it may have been he sensed his adversary's right foot thudding down in between his own feet. A foot that no longer cared about agility or range; A foot that thudded down and then twisted, toes in, heels out. He sensed a gloved right fist dipping down and then rushing up towards a body no longer displaying even a pretence of protecting itself.
Three
The punch drove into his gut with all the weight of inevitability. As it drove upwards like armageddon his breath, finding no other avenue, escaped through his mouth as a pained grunting gasp. His feet lifted slightly off the ring and for a brief moment the upwards force of the punch exactly matched the gravitational pull of the earth leaving him weightless, breathless. No longer receiving directions from his brain his body gladly accepted the direction of the punch instead and slumped forward. His forehead found purchase on his tormentor's shoulder. Pinned on a fist and with his only support a shoulder that was not his own his mind finally gave up its struggle and the world went soft and dark and blurry.
The fist and the shoulder both withdrew. He went down to his knees in slow motion and drifted slowly down face front. Lying on the mat as the countdown started he floated.
Comments on the newer entries.
Cyan - Cool writing style, though I think you go a touch too far with it, and it would have worked better in a bit more moderation, but this is nit-picking. Really was expecting some sort of twist ending with this not actually being the old west... but then I always expect a twist ending.
Scribble - Compelling tale and a pleasant journey. You don't give much background to the characters, but doesn't feel like you really have to. If it has one fault, it feels like only the beginning to a longer story, but the word limit is a devil to all of us.
Azih - Another unexpected use of the premise. Writing is a little rough in places and the sudden intrusion of a narrator near the end is jarring, but it was overall a visceral and weighty experience. Very nice.
Cyan - Cool writing style, though I think you go a touch too far with it, and it would have worked better in a bit more moderation, but this is nit-picking. Really was expecting some sort of twist ending with this not actually being the old west... but then I always expect a twist ending.
Scribble - Compelling tale and a pleasant journey. You don't give much background to the characters, but doesn't feel like you really have to. If it has one fault, it feels like only the beginning to a longer story, but the word limit is a devil to all of us.
Azih - Another unexpected use of the premise. Writing is a little rough in places and the sudden intrusion of a narrator near the end is jarring, but it was overall a visceral and weighty experience. Very nice.
Every time I edited the story I pulled it back a bit--you should've seen the first version! Actually you shouldn't, it was absurdly over the top.Aaron said:
The twist was that there was no twist! I try not to do twists, since I usually inadvertently telegraph them. I was going for something more fun (and a little experimental, with the dual storylines--I'm not sure that completely worked either, though). Thanks for the feedback.
Final day for challenge #3! Still missing a few of the usual suspects, but I suppose they may post later.
All right. As others have said, it's a nice slice of life sort of story. It feels like it's missing something though, some kind of driving force. Maybe if the astronaut thing were brought up in the beginning rather than toward the end, it could tie the whole thing together. The tense changes and odd, expository tone toward the end are slightly off-putting, but work as a sort of representation of a pot-induced haze. Otherwise, the writing seems pretty solid.VALIS said:
Also, next time I suggest coming in under the word limit.
I don't think we're being super-strict about it as regards voting and such, but most people have made an effort to come just under it, so it'd be nice.I seem to say this a lot in these threads, but I don't get it.Mike Works said:
Well written and so on, I just don't get it. Setting- they're in some kind of underground tunnel, but there's an oak tree there? Characters- the guy sees him about to hang himself, but stops to read the note while he's still alive? And what about the note makes him laugh? I feel like I must be missing something obvious. Anyway, even without understanding it, I still liked it.Kind of odd tone, descriptions, and word choices given that the guy is hanging himself. I realize it's all in aid of not revealing the ending too early, but it just doesn't feel right. Kind of unfortunate that the immediately preceding story was also about someone hanging themselves. Not much you can do about that though. I liked the characterization here. The guy feels grounded in the reality of the story. Little details like the mom hitting the curb in her Taurus, and the hospital visits from people who then forgot him, really help.RumpledForeskin said:
Funny enough, at first I thought the twist here would be that his parents had poisoned him with some kind of peanut food.
Mike Works
Member
It's not obvious, at least I tried not to make it so. There are clues as to what's happening, who these characters are, and why they do what they do dropped throughout the story. I'd suggest reading the story again, this time paying attention more for these hints than the overall story itself to see if you can figure it out.Cyan said:I seem to say this a lot in these threads, but I don't get it.
For those of you who did or have figured it out, I'd appreciate it if you didn't reveal anything until the voting starts, if not after.
I'm really curious to see how many people understood the story right away, how many understood it after one or multiple re-reads, and how many just didn't get it. I did make it fairly ominous and purposefully avoided posting that there was something to get (ie it's not a random creatively nonsensical piece) until someone brought it up.
So yeah, I'd suggest that you (Cyan)- and any others who didn't understand the ending and how it coincides with the entire piece- read it again and take in the factual information, and if not that, then the character's thought process after his motivation is revealed. I had a ton of fun writing this story, as I was constantly adding and removing pieces of information adhering to the nature of the story and what is really happening.
pedrothelion
Member
Be nice please.
The Knight
word count: 949
As soon as he had received the court order Matthew had called the police. They were to pick his brother up at his apartment and take him to the hospital where Matthew would meet them. He would be a witness to the admission and of course sign the requisite paper work. The police officer had said that his brother had been shaking, that he was as thin as a rail, and that he had rambled on and on.
Ive seen the end. Its a pin prick of red. But we will be back you see because its a circle and we will have this conversation again in time again that cannot be measured.
To the best of Matthews memory this is what his brother had said in disconcertingly coherent fashion directly before two large men had escorted him from the intake room and through two large windowless locked doors. The doors were as monoliths and when they parted Matthew could hear faint mutterings, screams both breathless and with out reason.
After assuring the nurse that he would bring the hospital his brothers personal belongings, that he knew the drill (no belts, drawstrings, or sharp objects) and that his family had been through this many times before, he signed the papers and was let out of the locked front door. He stood for a moment in the parking lot and breathed deeply while looking at the black night sky with its freckled white. The fresh air filled his lungs and he at once became disturbed at his quick acclimation to the acidic smell of urine in the hospital.
While standing on the tarmac Matthew hoped for an instant that his brother would never walk through those doors again, that he would never smell this fresh air again, that he would be imprisoned for eternity in that urine soaked hell of muttering delusion. Then directly preceding violent pangs of guilt Matthew thought of his brother as a book, his life as words and wished for nothing more then it be violently snapped shut.
Matthew walked to his car as he thought and then wept silently as he drove to his brothers apartment.
*******
Matthew the Dutiful. His father had bestowed this title upon him. He would never forget his fathers lined face as he uttered the words. To Matthew he seemed to have aged decades in a span of months. He skin had turned yellow, as if colored by a child.
Matthew the Dutiful, you always picked him off the ground when he fell. You protected him. Dont shake your head. False modesty is not for you. Accept that maybe youre not such a bad person every now and then. His father smiled, achingly so.
Lay down Dad. Do you want a cold towel?
Listen, stop talking. Its my turn now. Dont look like that. Im joking. Id smile to give it away if it didnt fucking hurt to do it. Just think of me as irreverent. A smirk huh well its better then nothing I guess. But listen, this is it. We talked it over. Youre mom and I. Its only going to get worse. Here son, hold my hand. Tomorrow they're going to help me with my pain, but its going to put me to sleep. Ill slip away shortly after. Always remember that your brother has been sick like Im sick now. His illness is different and I know that you know that. And we have all been through it with him. Its been hard, its been stressful. But what weve been through with him, that stress, it had in no way put me in this bed. This is life. Ive been dealt this. Your brother has been dealt another. Now Matthew, the oldest of my two sons be there for your mom and brother. His fathers yellow arm painfully extended and caught Matthews tangled brown hair and pulled him to his bony chest.
The morphine was started the next day and his father slept for the next several with moments of sparse lucidity. In one of those moments his father, as if in a vacuum, breathed his final words, All this time and we never believed him.
******
Matthew turned the lock and slowly opened his brothers apartment door. At once he was inundated with the smell of refuse and sickness. The odor burnt his lungs and he hacked as his eyes watered. This was his brothers land, but randomness was its king. Stacks of note books served as mountainous vistas to a valley of sweat drenched rags and half eaten rotten filth.
No belts, draw strings or sharp objects he thought to him self as he navigated the man made canyon of paper and despair. As he trudged a stack of notebooks fell for no apparent reason. He leaned over and opened one and stared in disgust. Nothing but random collections of digits and make believe symbols. It was a sick pretense of mathematics. He threw it too the floor.
Finally arriving at his brothers closet he cursed at him-self for even making the effort. Its contents would only be disorder. Not a usable thread of clothing. He knew it.
As Mathews hand grasped the knob he couldnt help but notice the faint effervescent glow emanating from the under the door. He opened it loathe to discover its source.
He stood in the doorway as if a statue of disbelief. Mathew the Dutiful indeed.
It was empty and immaculate save for one thing. A window a hole floating as if cut through the world. Through it he saw utter, profound, infinite blackness upon blackness and a pin prick of throbbing red light, itself an infinite amount of heavens and earths.
The Knight
word count: 949
As soon as he had received the court order Matthew had called the police. They were to pick his brother up at his apartment and take him to the hospital where Matthew would meet them. He would be a witness to the admission and of course sign the requisite paper work. The police officer had said that his brother had been shaking, that he was as thin as a rail, and that he had rambled on and on.
Ive seen the end. Its a pin prick of red. But we will be back you see because its a circle and we will have this conversation again in time again that cannot be measured.
To the best of Matthews memory this is what his brother had said in disconcertingly coherent fashion directly before two large men had escorted him from the intake room and through two large windowless locked doors. The doors were as monoliths and when they parted Matthew could hear faint mutterings, screams both breathless and with out reason.
After assuring the nurse that he would bring the hospital his brothers personal belongings, that he knew the drill (no belts, drawstrings, or sharp objects) and that his family had been through this many times before, he signed the papers and was let out of the locked front door. He stood for a moment in the parking lot and breathed deeply while looking at the black night sky with its freckled white. The fresh air filled his lungs and he at once became disturbed at his quick acclimation to the acidic smell of urine in the hospital.
While standing on the tarmac Matthew hoped for an instant that his brother would never walk through those doors again, that he would never smell this fresh air again, that he would be imprisoned for eternity in that urine soaked hell of muttering delusion. Then directly preceding violent pangs of guilt Matthew thought of his brother as a book, his life as words and wished for nothing more then it be violently snapped shut.
Matthew walked to his car as he thought and then wept silently as he drove to his brothers apartment.
*******
Matthew the Dutiful. His father had bestowed this title upon him. He would never forget his fathers lined face as he uttered the words. To Matthew he seemed to have aged decades in a span of months. He skin had turned yellow, as if colored by a child.
Matthew the Dutiful, you always picked him off the ground when he fell. You protected him. Dont shake your head. False modesty is not for you. Accept that maybe youre not such a bad person every now and then. His father smiled, achingly so.
Lay down Dad. Do you want a cold towel?
Listen, stop talking. Its my turn now. Dont look like that. Im joking. Id smile to give it away if it didnt fucking hurt to do it. Just think of me as irreverent. A smirk huh well its better then nothing I guess. But listen, this is it. We talked it over. Youre mom and I. Its only going to get worse. Here son, hold my hand. Tomorrow they're going to help me with my pain, but its going to put me to sleep. Ill slip away shortly after. Always remember that your brother has been sick like Im sick now. His illness is different and I know that you know that. And we have all been through it with him. Its been hard, its been stressful. But what weve been through with him, that stress, it had in no way put me in this bed. This is life. Ive been dealt this. Your brother has been dealt another. Now Matthew, the oldest of my two sons be there for your mom and brother. His fathers yellow arm painfully extended and caught Matthews tangled brown hair and pulled him to his bony chest.
The morphine was started the next day and his father slept for the next several with moments of sparse lucidity. In one of those moments his father, as if in a vacuum, breathed his final words, All this time and we never believed him.
******
Matthew turned the lock and slowly opened his brothers apartment door. At once he was inundated with the smell of refuse and sickness. The odor burnt his lungs and he hacked as his eyes watered. This was his brothers land, but randomness was its king. Stacks of note books served as mountainous vistas to a valley of sweat drenched rags and half eaten rotten filth.
No belts, draw strings or sharp objects he thought to him self as he navigated the man made canyon of paper and despair. As he trudged a stack of notebooks fell for no apparent reason. He leaned over and opened one and stared in disgust. Nothing but random collections of digits and make believe symbols. It was a sick pretense of mathematics. He threw it too the floor.
Finally arriving at his brothers closet he cursed at him-self for even making the effort. Its contents would only be disorder. Not a usable thread of clothing. He knew it.
As Mathews hand grasped the knob he couldnt help but notice the faint effervescent glow emanating from the under the door. He opened it loathe to discover its source.
He stood in the doorway as if a statue of disbelief. Mathew the Dutiful indeed.
It was empty and immaculate save for one thing. A window a hole floating as if cut through the world. Through it he saw utter, profound, infinite blackness upon blackness and a pin prick of throbbing red light, itself an infinite amount of heavens and earths.
Great Rumbler
Member
Barrage said:
Always the hardest part.
Barrage
Member
Victory!
Word Count: 998
Not Safe Enough
"That is a big goddamn robot."
Clark's wife Ellen crossed her arms in front of her.
"Any other impressions, Clark?"
Clark adjusted his glasses and glanced at the behemoth standing in front of him. Besides the enormous height, the robot was a gangly, skeletal contraption. Two pancake sized lights represented his eyes, a yellow light eminating from each .
'It's a big... bright...robot."
Ellen shook her head in frustration and began to storm away. Clark took one more look at the robot before following her.
"What did you expect from me, Ellen?" Clark hissed.
"I wanted", Ellen said in an ice-cold voice, "you to at least appreciate a gift. You already spend a fortune on gadgets."
"That's different, Ellen!" Clark responded loudly. When he had become financially stable, Clark decided that his family would never have to live in the state of fear he had during his childhood in the ghetto. As soon as Clark had started pulling down six figures, he moved to the suburbs, and invested in every kind of security system imaginable.
As Clark's wealth grew, so did the exoticness of his security devices-and the sadisticness of it's punishments. Clark had installed tear gas emitters, trap doors leading the unlucky criminal to a twelve foot fall, and even a chemical substitute for Quicksand in front of his sons' door.
His friends laughed about it, thinking that Clark had watched a few too many Bond movies growing up. Ellen saw it a different way.
"How is it different, Clark? Because OMER won't kill?"
Clark's eyes rolled. "Oh god. You've named it."
Ellen leaned in, and Clark was suddenly reminded of the reprimands his mother used to give him. "Don't change the subject, Clark. You don't like OMER because he won't be able to stop these burglars you're always rambling about. I saw the flyer you were looking at last night, Clark. Noone deserves that."
Clark's face went crimson in embarassment. True, XV-II was perhaps a bit drastic-a spinnng , circular drill which would attach itself to a burglar's legs and bury itself into thier chest-but it was the best available defense for his family. He was going to ask Ellen to get it for his upcoming birthday, but with Ellen spending that money on OMER...
"The XV-II will make us safer then we have ever been. I'm just trying to make our lives better! "
Clark began to walk to his room. As he did, he was seized by one of his coughing fits. Ellen immediately forgot what caused thier fight and moved forward to comfort him.
" Clark, are you alright? Remember, you need to take your medicine! I know you're afraid of needles, Clark, but God... your next birthday's your 57th-do you want it to be your last?"
Clark turned, and said in a haggard voice (whether from the coughing or from rage, Ellen didn't know) "Ellen, you're not my mother. You're not my teacher. If you continue to act the way you are, you won't be my wife for very much longer."
Clark stormed away. Ellen stood, stunned.
"EL-LEN."
Ellen turned to see OMER enter the room. Ellen stood unsteadily. She was unsure whether to speak to OMER as a pet, a child, or a colleague.
"Did-did you hear that, OMER?"
OMER. stared back, emotionless. "I WILL DO. WHAT IS BEST. FOR THIS FAM-IL-E." OMER immediately turned and lurched away.
***********************************************************************************
Clark struggled to sleep, tossing and turning. As he laid his head back and tried to force himself to nod off, he felt a light focus on his face. He cracked one eye slowly, while reaching for the pistol he kept behind the pillowcase. He didn't have his glasses on, but he didn't need them to realize that there was OMER, eyes glowing intensely. One of his long arms was doing something unseen at the foot of the bed. The other was holding something, advancing it slowly towards Clark's face. Something long. Something sharp.
Fright and excitement filled Clark at the same time. How had OMER avoided all of the floor hazards Clark had installed? The smallest amount of weight should- Clark listened closely, and heard a whirling noise. Shock hit Clark's system. OMER could float! Clark was never a robot enthusiasist, but he read enough to know that the higher end models had propellers built into the back of thier legs, allowing them to levitate.
Apparently OMER was worth more then he had thought.
Clark slowly moved the pistol down. It was ready-all he needed was to pull the trigger. OMER's face peered into Clark's now, the shining blade in his hand descending-
Clark threw the pillow out of the way, and pulled the trigger. OMER stumbled back before landing awkwardly on the floor, pieces of him flying everywhere. the bullet had pierced OMER's forehead. The light in OMER's wide eyes slowly faded.
Clark squinted and tried to make sense of the junkyard of metal that surrounded him. There was nothing left of OMER-his security system even now didn't detect him. His mind tried to make sense of what had just happened -Had Ellen tried to kill him? No she couldn't have! He'd have to talk with her, sort things out.
He gripped the pistol tighter in his right hand.
As Clark stepped down, he felt his foot brush something. Clark peered down. It was a white, hastily wrapped box. He leaned over it, removing the semi-wrapped top.
There lay the XV-II.
Clark barely had time to react as two small claws lunged out, tearing into the skin of his ankles. He fell forward, landing directly on the XV-II's deadly drill. The XV-II recognized an intruder's prescence.
And began to spin very fast.
Word Count: 998
Not Safe Enough
"That is a big goddamn robot."
Clark's wife Ellen crossed her arms in front of her.
"Any other impressions, Clark?"
Clark adjusted his glasses and glanced at the behemoth standing in front of him. Besides the enormous height, the robot was a gangly, skeletal contraption. Two pancake sized lights represented his eyes, a yellow light eminating from each .
'It's a big... bright...robot."
Ellen shook her head in frustration and began to storm away. Clark took one more look at the robot before following her.
"What did you expect from me, Ellen?" Clark hissed.
"I wanted", Ellen said in an ice-cold voice, "you to at least appreciate a gift. You already spend a fortune on gadgets."
"That's different, Ellen!" Clark responded loudly. When he had become financially stable, Clark decided that his family would never have to live in the state of fear he had during his childhood in the ghetto. As soon as Clark had started pulling down six figures, he moved to the suburbs, and invested in every kind of security system imaginable.
As Clark's wealth grew, so did the exoticness of his security devices-and the sadisticness of it's punishments. Clark had installed tear gas emitters, trap doors leading the unlucky criminal to a twelve foot fall, and even a chemical substitute for Quicksand in front of his sons' door.
His friends laughed about it, thinking that Clark had watched a few too many Bond movies growing up. Ellen saw it a different way.
"How is it different, Clark? Because OMER won't kill?"
Clark's eyes rolled. "Oh god. You've named it."
Ellen leaned in, and Clark was suddenly reminded of the reprimands his mother used to give him. "Don't change the subject, Clark. You don't like OMER because he won't be able to stop these burglars you're always rambling about. I saw the flyer you were looking at last night, Clark. Noone deserves that."
Clark's face went crimson in embarassment. True, XV-II was perhaps a bit drastic-a spinnng , circular drill which would attach itself to a burglar's legs and bury itself into thier chest-but it was the best available defense for his family. He was going to ask Ellen to get it for his upcoming birthday, but with Ellen spending that money on OMER...
"The XV-II will make us safer then we have ever been. I'm just trying to make our lives better! "
Clark began to walk to his room. As he did, he was seized by one of his coughing fits. Ellen immediately forgot what caused thier fight and moved forward to comfort him.
" Clark, are you alright? Remember, you need to take your medicine! I know you're afraid of needles, Clark, but God... your next birthday's your 57th-do you want it to be your last?"
Clark turned, and said in a haggard voice (whether from the coughing or from rage, Ellen didn't know) "Ellen, you're not my mother. You're not my teacher. If you continue to act the way you are, you won't be my wife for very much longer."
Clark stormed away. Ellen stood, stunned.
"EL-LEN."
Ellen turned to see OMER enter the room. Ellen stood unsteadily. She was unsure whether to speak to OMER as a pet, a child, or a colleague.
"Did-did you hear that, OMER?"
OMER. stared back, emotionless. "I WILL DO. WHAT IS BEST. FOR THIS FAM-IL-E." OMER immediately turned and lurched away.
***********************************************************************************
Clark struggled to sleep, tossing and turning. As he laid his head back and tried to force himself to nod off, he felt a light focus on his face. He cracked one eye slowly, while reaching for the pistol he kept behind the pillowcase. He didn't have his glasses on, but he didn't need them to realize that there was OMER, eyes glowing intensely. One of his long arms was doing something unseen at the foot of the bed. The other was holding something, advancing it slowly towards Clark's face. Something long. Something sharp.
Fright and excitement filled Clark at the same time. How had OMER avoided all of the floor hazards Clark had installed? The smallest amount of weight should- Clark listened closely, and heard a whirling noise. Shock hit Clark's system. OMER could float! Clark was never a robot enthusiasist, but he read enough to know that the higher end models had propellers built into the back of thier legs, allowing them to levitate.
Apparently OMER was worth more then he had thought.
Clark slowly moved the pistol down. It was ready-all he needed was to pull the trigger. OMER's face peered into Clark's now, the shining blade in his hand descending-
Clark threw the pillow out of the way, and pulled the trigger. OMER stumbled back before landing awkwardly on the floor, pieces of him flying everywhere. the bullet had pierced OMER's forehead. The light in OMER's wide eyes slowly faded.
Clark squinted and tried to make sense of the junkyard of metal that surrounded him. There was nothing left of OMER-his security system even now didn't detect him. His mind tried to make sense of what had just happened -Had Ellen tried to kill him? No she couldn't have! He'd have to talk with her, sort things out.
He gripped the pistol tighter in his right hand.
As Clark stepped down, he felt his foot brush something. Clark peered down. It was a white, hastily wrapped box. He leaned over it, removing the semi-wrapped top.
There lay the XV-II.
Clark barely had time to react as two small claws lunged out, tearing into the skin of his ankles. He fell forward, landing directly on the XV-II's deadly drill. The XV-II recognized an intruder's prescence.
And began to spin very fast.
nitewulf: The fifth paragraph felt clunky to me and dragged down the rest of the story for me. Great opening and ending paragraphs.
Great Rumbler: Nice story, liked how the Commander's strengths caused his downfall at the end.
RevenantKioku: The story felt odd to me, everything I've heard about drowning doesn't happen the way your story put it. Liked the stream of conciousness though.
Ronito: Lovely story. Really pushed the climax.
Valis: Wow, amazing. Liked everything about it.
Mike Works: Benjamin pranked Luc, and you pranked me. Great stuff, re-reading it makes perfect sense. I don't get the joke, but I just assume it's an in-joke between the two and I haven't seen the same movie or tv show that Ben is referencing.
RumpledForeskin: Hey you actually played it straight. But you played it well.
Crushed: An actual subtle Lovecraftian tale? Very very nice.
Oldschoolgamer: Quite a few typos I think and I couldn't wrap my head around it. I think the 1000 word limit hurt it.
Aaron: Really nice to have a happy ending for a change.
Cyan: I didn't like the odd similies being thrown around until I realised that the asshole dad was narrating the story of the Mysterious Cowboy. That was fun. Still a bet too meta for me.
Scribble: Nice sweet story. The first sentence didn't seem to jibe with the ending though for me but it didn't bother me on re-reading it.
The Knight: Tight story. The plot was a bit ho-hum but Mathew and his family life shone through very well.
Great Rumbler: Nice story, liked how the Commander's strengths caused his downfall at the end.
RevenantKioku: The story felt odd to me, everything I've heard about drowning doesn't happen the way your story put it. Liked the stream of conciousness though.
Ronito: Lovely story. Really pushed the climax.
Valis: Wow, amazing. Liked everything about it.
Mike Works: Benjamin pranked Luc, and you pranked me. Great stuff, re-reading it makes perfect sense. I don't get the joke, but I just assume it's an in-joke between the two and I haven't seen the same movie or tv show that Ben is referencing.
RumpledForeskin: Hey you actually played it straight. But you played it well.
Crushed: An actual subtle Lovecraftian tale? Very very nice.
Oldschoolgamer: Quite a few typos I think and I couldn't wrap my head around it. I think the 1000 word limit hurt it.
Aaron: Really nice to have a happy ending for a change.
Cyan: I didn't like the odd similies being thrown around until I realised that the asshole dad was narrating the story of the Mysterious Cowboy. That was fun. Still a bet too meta for me.
Scribble: Nice sweet story. The first sentence didn't seem to jibe with the ending though for me but it didn't bother me on re-reading it.
The Knight: Tight story. The plot was a bit ho-hum but Mathew and his family life shone through very well.
Title: Elevator Music
Word Count: 1000
I ran as fast as I could; past upturned tables, under falling tiles and over one hundred and seven floors. Adam held my hand and led the way. I looked back over my shoulder to find insatiable flames chasing us, crawling along the walls and across the ceiling. The tendrils snaked along like fingers, reaching. I felt the heat on my back intensifying. I cried out for Adam to hurry but my voice was nullified by an explosion, low and dull, like the roar of a leviathan. The floor jerked, knocking me off my feet. Adam tripped over a chair, tumbled and swore. I ran over to help him up, daring a glance at the approaching promise of death. But the flames had disappeared. The scene was eerily still and quiet but I felt a vibration in the floor, in the air, in my bones. I heard the complaints of metal and concrete bending far beneath us, aching, yielding to stresses they were never meant to know. But I was a statue; my body frozen, eyes fixed at the end of the hallway. Office furniture was scattered around like flotsam. To an engineer, the building was a modern marvel, a stupefying impossibility. It was a monument to the defiance of man against nature. But now it resembled the gutted remains of a ghost ship.
And then its captain emerged. A dull thump, a screeching sound, like fingernails on a chalkboard, then a sharper thump. Thump, screech, thump. I couldn't see him yet but I knew he was coming. The lights went out. The skyline of the rest of the city was obvious through the windows. Lightning tore across the churning sky in crazy angles. Intermittent hail battered the building. Flames shot out of a neighboring skyscraper. It was the end of the world. Thump, screech, thump. Even in complete darkness he was clearly visible, almost incandescent. The H. Huntsman tailored suit, the Amedeo Testoni shoes, the Turnbull and Asser tie all seemed to glow. Brighter still, his eyes were fixed directly onto mine. One leg was shackled. It dragged an enormous bureau. It must have weighed half a ton but he dragged it nonetheless. I felt movement behind me, some indistinct sounds, but I remained frozen. Screech, thump. The shackled demon stopped behind a pile of debris. Violently, he swept an arm across the obstacle sending chairs flying in every direction. A chair smashed through a window and the sounds of a world ending rushed at me like a waterfall: sirens, thunder, rain, squealing tires, screams and the crying of children.
I snapped out of my trance and jumped up to run. Adam was tugging at my elbow, yelling. He pulled me into an elevator. Adam jabbed at the button for the lowest floor. Beyond, I saw him approaching. Even amidst the chaos of a planet being razed I could hear it: thump, screech, thump. Mercifully the doors slid closed. But the elevator didn't budge. A red light blinked on the panel. A tiny placard beside informed passengers that the elevator would not operate in case of fire. Adam pleaded with me. I had to find a way. He had overheard that the elevator shafts had electromagnetic brakes in case one plummeted. Perhaps if we could just make the thing free fall, we'd have a chance. I couldn't think; it was all just too much. Adam wrested the panel free exposing all the wiring.
The image rushed my mind back to the late nights, cramming for exams. The wires told me a long, complex story in a short time. They told me how to disengage the failsafe mechanisms. All I had to do was short the SLAM. Something was pounding on the door. SLAM, SCREECH, SLAM. He was trying to break it down. Dents formed in the stainless steel. On reflex I backed away but Adam forced me back to the panel. SLAM. I told him I could do it, but with the building falling apart there was no guarantee that the brakes would engage or even stop us in time if they could. SCREECH, SLAM. Fourteen hundred feet, over a quarter of a mile. He clenched my hand, kissed me. SLAM. He said nothing more. I held the two naked wires in my hands and I looked over to Adam, the only man I've ever loved.
"Take a deep breath."
I filled my lungs to capacity, SCREECH, closed my eyes. SLAM. I felt Adam's arms slip around my waist, tightly. I touched the wires. The lights went out in the elevator. We fell.
My stomach and my heart were in my throat, both fighting to get out. The box seemed to fall faster and faster, almost as if it were accelerating above and beyond the force of gravity. My toes slowly left the floor. The steel coffin shook so violently it started to sing. One last dance. Adam turned me around and put his mouth to mine.
Then the explosions began. Thunder surrounded us, threatening to blow out our ear drums. I put my hands on my ears and tried to look at Adam, but the darkness was complete. BANG, BANG, BANG, the explosions continued, unceasingly. But something was different. We were slowing down. By God we were slowing down. Without warning we were thrown to the floor. DING. A light on the pulled off panel burned a pale yellow before my eyes: A glowing "M" for main floor. I probed around in the dimness and found Adam's hand. His fingers locked into mine and he whispered my name.
The doors opened and sunlight poured in. There were gasps as strangers in a pristine lobby hurried over to help. I looked out, past the revolving doors, past the steady stream of traffic, to the hot dog vendor, the fountain in the park, the family of ducks. It was a beautiful day. I shielded my eyes from the bright sunlight and waved off a good Samaritan.
"We're fine. We're okay."
Iceman - Elevator Music
Word Count: 1000
I ran as fast as I could; past upturned tables, under falling tiles and over one hundred and seven floors. Adam held my hand and led the way. I looked back over my shoulder to find insatiable flames chasing us, crawling along the walls and across the ceiling. The tendrils snaked along like fingers, reaching. I felt the heat on my back intensifying. I cried out for Adam to hurry but my voice was nullified by an explosion, low and dull, like the roar of a leviathan. The floor jerked, knocking me off my feet. Adam tripped over a chair, tumbled and swore. I ran over to help him up, daring a glance at the approaching promise of death. But the flames had disappeared. The scene was eerily still and quiet but I felt a vibration in the floor, in the air, in my bones. I heard the complaints of metal and concrete bending far beneath us, aching, yielding to stresses they were never meant to know. But I was a statue; my body frozen, eyes fixed at the end of the hallway. Office furniture was scattered around like flotsam. To an engineer, the building was a modern marvel, a stupefying impossibility. It was a monument to the defiance of man against nature. But now it resembled the gutted remains of a ghost ship.
And then its captain emerged. A dull thump, a screeching sound, like fingernails on a chalkboard, then a sharper thump. Thump, screech, thump. I couldn't see him yet but I knew he was coming. The lights went out. The skyline of the rest of the city was obvious through the windows. Lightning tore across the churning sky in crazy angles. Intermittent hail battered the building. Flames shot out of a neighboring skyscraper. It was the end of the world. Thump, screech, thump. Even in complete darkness he was clearly visible, almost incandescent. The H. Huntsman tailored suit, the Amedeo Testoni shoes, the Turnbull and Asser tie all seemed to glow. Brighter still, his eyes were fixed directly onto mine. One leg was shackled. It dragged an enormous bureau. It must have weighed half a ton but he dragged it nonetheless. I felt movement behind me, some indistinct sounds, but I remained frozen. Screech, thump. The shackled demon stopped behind a pile of debris. Violently, he swept an arm across the obstacle sending chairs flying in every direction. A chair smashed through a window and the sounds of a world ending rushed at me like a waterfall: sirens, thunder, rain, squealing tires, screams and the crying of children.
I snapped out of my trance and jumped up to run. Adam was tugging at my elbow, yelling. He pulled me into an elevator. Adam jabbed at the button for the lowest floor. Beyond, I saw him approaching. Even amidst the chaos of a planet being razed I could hear it: thump, screech, thump. Mercifully the doors slid closed. But the elevator didn't budge. A red light blinked on the panel. A tiny placard beside informed passengers that the elevator would not operate in case of fire. Adam pleaded with me. I had to find a way. He had overheard that the elevator shafts had electromagnetic brakes in case one plummeted. Perhaps if we could just make the thing free fall, we'd have a chance. I couldn't think; it was all just too much. Adam wrested the panel free exposing all the wiring.
The image rushed my mind back to the late nights, cramming for exams. The wires told me a long, complex story in a short time. They told me how to disengage the failsafe mechanisms. All I had to do was short the SLAM. Something was pounding on the door. SLAM, SCREECH, SLAM. He was trying to break it down. Dents formed in the stainless steel. On reflex I backed away but Adam forced me back to the panel. SLAM. I told him I could do it, but with the building falling apart there was no guarantee that the brakes would engage or even stop us in time if they could. SCREECH, SLAM. Fourteen hundred feet, over a quarter of a mile. He clenched my hand, kissed me. SLAM. He said nothing more. I held the two naked wires in my hands and I looked over to Adam, the only man I've ever loved.
"Take a deep breath."
I filled my lungs to capacity, SCREECH, closed my eyes. SLAM. I felt Adam's arms slip around my waist, tightly. I touched the wires. The lights went out in the elevator. We fell.
My stomach and my heart were in my throat, both fighting to get out. The box seemed to fall faster and faster, almost as if it were accelerating above and beyond the force of gravity. My toes slowly left the floor. The steel coffin shook so violently it started to sing. One last dance. Adam turned me around and put his mouth to mine.
Then the explosions began. Thunder surrounded us, threatening to blow out our ear drums. I put my hands on my ears and tried to look at Adam, but the darkness was complete. BANG, BANG, BANG, the explosions continued, unceasingly. But something was different. We were slowing down. By God we were slowing down. Without warning we were thrown to the floor. DING. A light on the pulled off panel burned a pale yellow before my eyes: A glowing "M" for main floor. I probed around in the dimness and found Adam's hand. His fingers locked into mine and he whispered my name.
The doors opened and sunlight poured in. There were gasps as strangers in a pristine lobby hurried over to help. I looked out, past the revolving doors, past the steady stream of traffic, to the hot dog vendor, the fountain in the park, the family of ducks. It was a beautiful day. I shielded my eyes from the bright sunlight and waved off a good Samaritan.
"We're fine. We're okay."
Iceman - Elevator Music
Submissions are closed. Read the stories, make your votes, and place your bets. We're only 48 hours away from finding whose the next lucky person to wear the NeoGAF master writer pants.
Some final impressions:
pedrothelion - Grammar needs work. If you're not familiar with elements of style, it can be found free on the internet. The story, however, is powerful and descriptive, with well realized characters and tangible emotion despite it's brief length, leading up to a well crafted ending.
Barrage - Ouch, that's quite a dark ending there, and not quite what I had been expecting. You said you cut a lot from it, but it doesn't feel butchered in any way. The onset is pretty straight forward, but it's a strong little story with a meaty punch.
Iceman - The action comes off as a little confused. You're using first person, so I'd say cheat with the writing. Use phrases. A word. You don't need to use he or I as much if you did a little to establish the characters more. I liked the story itself a lot, and think you got pressed for time for something that could have used another pass in revising.
Some final impressions:
pedrothelion - Grammar needs work. If you're not familiar with elements of style, it can be found free on the internet. The story, however, is powerful and descriptive, with well realized characters and tangible emotion despite it's brief length, leading up to a well crafted ending.
Barrage - Ouch, that's quite a dark ending there, and not quite what I had been expecting. You said you cut a lot from it, but it doesn't feel butchered in any way. The onset is pretty straight forward, but it's a strong little story with a meaty punch.
Iceman - The action comes off as a little confused. You're using first person, so I'd say cheat with the writing. Use phrases. A word. You don't need to use he or I as much if you did a little to establish the characters more. I liked the story itself a lot, and think you got pressed for time for something that could have used another pass in revising.
Barrage, something that bothered me last night when I first read your story. The name combination of Clark and Ellen evoked images of Clark and Ellen Griswold from the National Lampoon vacation movies. The association created a problem for me: the characterizations were inconsistent with the ones established in the movies. The contrast was jarring for me, taking me out of the story. So, if it was intentional then I'd suggest it didn't work. But if it was unintentional then I would suggest changing one of the names.
I too had to look up vasovagal. But I love the name "Vago Dago." That really cracked me up. The tunnel explanation is bit too expository, but I suppose that's a word limit issue. I'm also not sure how the security cam recording will show Vince doing something he never actually did. I thought Richter had spliced in footage that they recorded elsewhere.Crushed said:
Interesting. Very abstract. Didn't quite work for me--a few odd phrasings and word choices threw it off. Needed more consistency in that regard (especially in the final section, where I hear your voice and not the character's).Oldschoolgamer said:
Well written as usual. I liked it, although it took me another read to understand what was happening at the end. I was confused as to where the story was supposed to be taking place.Aaron said:
Very clever little tale. Like oldschool's though, it lacks consistency. Your voice comes through rather than the character's. The setting appears to be England several hundred years ago (execution by beheading places it well in the past, "old chap" in England). But then you bring in a few phrases that just don't fit--a joke that is "too racist" to repeat, Hell not "living up to the hype", the ghost train ride. These are phrases or ideas of our time, and break the flow of the story. And again, a few lingering grammatical errors.Scribble said:
Great, very nicely done. Feels very real and solid, especially when the blows start landing. I like the structure here, where a few longer paragraphs are broken up by tiny moments in time. The only thing I didn't like about this story was at the beginning. He's only just now realizing what drove his previous success? I don't think that's necessary--I don't see any reason why he wouldn't have always known that. It wouldn't change the story at all, anyway.Azih said:
Ok finished reading all of them and in the spirit of commenting on all entries here are the last set of comments.
Cyan: Nice but man the similes were too forced. It seemed like you were trying really hard to be clever. It would've been better without all that.
Scribble: I like the concept. The last line was just not as strong as the rest of it. Also I wish you had taken more time to discribe the journey down. Dante did a great job of getting across the hopelessness. Here it feels like he's getting dropped off at Wal-Mart. I wanted more.
Azih: Love it. A nice and new take. So many of the stories in this one had to deal with death or space. It was refreshing to have a bold take on it. But it would've been better without the narrator.
Pedrothelion: You use repetition quite a bit in this piece and while some of it works very well others like "Mathew the Dutiful." Just didn't stick.
Barrage: FAM-IL-E!!! I loled. But that's the thing. Was it supposed to be funny?
Iceman: It gets confused. I have a hard time keeping track of what's what and who's who and what's happening to who and when and stuff.
Cyan: Nice but man the similes were too forced. It seemed like you were trying really hard to be clever. It would've been better without all that.
Scribble: I like the concept. The last line was just not as strong as the rest of it. Also I wish you had taken more time to discribe the journey down. Dante did a great job of getting across the hopelessness. Here it feels like he's getting dropped off at Wal-Mart. I wanted more.
Azih: Love it. A nice and new take. So many of the stories in this one had to deal with death or space. It was refreshing to have a bold take on it. But it would've been better without the narrator.
Pedrothelion: You use repetition quite a bit in this piece and while some of it works very well others like "Mathew the Dutiful." Just didn't stick.
Barrage: FAM-IL-E!!! I loled. But that's the thing. Was it supposed to be funny?
Iceman: It gets confused. I have a hard time keeping track of what's what and who's who and what's happening to who and when and stuff.
Be nice? Well, I'll try.pedrothelion said:
A few grammatical errors right off the bat. Check yo gramma, peeps! It might seem like I'm being oversensitive about this, but it's not hard to reread your story once or twice before posting, and it really helps you look less amateurish.
I like the story otherwise. It's well presented and well paced. I don't know what having an insane person in the family would really be like, but you do a good job of making it feel real. I'd prefer the ending (which was otherwise nicely done) be less telegraphed. The father's last words and glow under the door kind of give it away, removing much of the impact.
Not sure what to say about this one. When I first read it last night, I found it creepy to the point that I don't particularly want to read it again to give you a critique. But that in itself says a lot about how well you succeeded, no? I wasn't surprised by the ending (gun on the wall in act I, and all that), but it still totally creeped me out. Good job.Barrage said:
Excellent, evocative, and a little scary. It feels like a scene from a movie. The opening paragraph threw me off a bit, as it felt so 9-11. Not sure if that's what you wanted to evoke (probably), but it didn't quite work. I wonder if opening with the sight of the man might have been stronger. Another thing I wondered about is after exiting the elevator, why don't they warn those poor unsuspecting people? It felt like this piece ran up against the word limit.Iceman said:
Well, I'll have to vote a bit later. Can't make up my mind on what I like best.
Edit:
I always do! By "all that" do you mean the over-the-top similes/metaphors in general, or specifically the ones making up the secondary story?ronito said:
ronito said:
And you were going to get my number one vote. tsk, tsk.
Re: Cyan's critique.
Dang. I was not thinking about 911 whatsoever. I had no idea that's where it would take people visually/emotionally. I ended up submitting a slightly modified version of my first draft because I thought it had the most "oomph" to it/caught in the moment kind of feel. In retrospect, I wrote much clearer versions of the opening in subsequent drafts, but the immediacy was almost lost. In the end, with no time left on the clock, I decided that I would rather have the reader get lost in the moment.
Thanks for the critiques, guys. And I'm just kidding, ronito. You're still number one in my heart.
pedrothelion
Member
Thanks for the critique guys. Cyan- it's funny that you thought that I had telegraphed my ending. I was concerned that it was too ambiguous.
Also I'm painfully aware that my grammar is awful. I have always had trouble with it. Aaron thanks for suggesting elements of style. I had actually been thinking of ordering it from Amazon and had no idea that it was free on the internet.
Anyways I appreciate the feedback (positive or negative). I'm enjoying the stories that I've read so far. Hopefully I'll have time to comment on them later in the day.
Also I'm painfully aware that my grammar is awful. I have always had trouble with it. Aaron thanks for suggesting elements of style. I had actually been thinking of ordering it from Amazon and had no idea that it was free on the internet.
Anyways I appreciate the feedback (positive or negative). I'm enjoying the stories that I've read so far. Hopefully I'll have time to comment on them later in the day.
Barrage
Member
Iceman said:
Nope, I definently wasn't thinking of the National Lampoon characters when naming Clark and Ellen. In fact, Clark and Ellen were supposed to be black (now I feel dissapointed that didn't come across clearer in the story.
)Clark continued my rich tradition of naming characters after comic book icons (did it in Writing Challenge #1, too.) Ellen was a name I used in a previous short story that I liked the sound of.
That is a freaky coincidence, though, considering i've only seen Christmas Vacation once.
Great job everyone! I'm really looking forward to see how the writing progresses as these go on.
Here are my votes:
1. Azih: Really the top 3 for me were tied. It was the concept that put it over the top for me. It had a few little issues but really the fresh new way of looking at it made it up for me.
2. Aaron: Very well written. I really liked it.
3. Nitewulf: It was the imagery that stuck with me. Very vivid very nice.
Here are my votes:
1. Azih: Really the top 3 for me were tied. It was the concept that put it over the top for me. It had a few little issues but really the fresh new way of looking at it made it up for me.
2. Aaron: Very well written. I really liked it.
3. Nitewulf: It was the imagery that stuck with me. Very vivid very nice.
This was a tough one. A number of stories deserved votes. I finally decided on these three:
1. nitewulf- Lost July
2. Azih- Floating
3. Iceman- Elevator Music
The quality of the stories seems to be improving. But next time, I hope we get a few missing people back. AlteredBeast, beelz, DumbNameD, where you at?
1. nitewulf- Lost July
2. Azih- Floating
3. Iceman- Elevator Music
The quality of the stories seems to be improving. But next time, I hope we get a few missing people back. AlteredBeast, beelz, DumbNameD, where you at?
Barrage said:Nope, I definently wasn't thinking of the National Lampoon characters when naming Clark and Ellen. In fact, Clark and Ellen were supposed to be black (now I feel dissapointed that didn't come across clearer in the story.
Clark continued my rich tradition of naming characters after comic book icons (did it in Writing Challenge #1, too.) Ellen was a name I used in a previous short story that I liked the sound of.
That is a freaky coincidence, though, considering i've only seen Christmas Vacation once.
Oh, I definitely thought he was black. But I thought that was just my indoctrinated racism coming through. You teased it from me when you refered to the dangerous upbringing. That really threw me, a black Clark Griswold. Anyway, cool story. It just started off on the wrong foot with me.
There were so many great ideas and vivid narratives I decided to side my votes on those that struck me as interesting and the most well written.
1. Azih - just a stark and powerful piece of writing.
2. Mike Works - best ending of the bunch for me.
3. ronito - the writing itself feels musical and very fitting of the subject.
1. Azih - just a stark and powerful piece of writing.
2. Mike Works - best ending of the bunch for me.
3. ronito - the writing itself feels musical and very fitting of the subject.
this might help people read through, keep track of, and vote on the stories:
NITEWULF / LOST JULY - ernesto de la cruz chases down the man who killed a loved one
GREAT RUMBLER / A DISTANT CRY COMING OVER THE FACE OF THE WATERS - a space odyssey (2001 + event horizon + sunshine)
REVENTANT KIOKU / SLIPPERY WHEN WET - the dying thoughts of a girl drowning
CHEEBS / THE BEST STORY EVER - math, a stray dog, a wolf, a weight problem, a hospital?
RONITO / SALOME - a conductor's love for a ballerina
VALIS / THURSDAY NIGHT ASTRONAUTS - a bong brings a teenager as close as he'll get to his dream
MIKE WORKS / FINALLY - benjamin tries to hang himself on a tree before luc arrives
RUMPLEDFORESKIN / WEIGHTLESS, BREATHLESS - a kid, bullied at school and ignored at home, comes up with a surprise for all of them
CRUSHED / REMORA - vago dago and byron plan a heist from within a boarding school
OLDSCHOOLGAMER / LOVE AS RAIN IN SPACE - a man who cannot die laments lost love, in space (the fountain redux)
AARON / STRAIGHT SHOT - the first man to travel faster than the speed of light, it didn't go well (sequel to gattaca?)
CYAN / WESTERN FRIED SPAGHETTI - a man daydreams about being in a western during a child's band performance
SCRIBBLE / VACANT INFERNO - a man is a little nervous, but not altogether upset about going to hell
AZIH / FLOATING - a boxing story, but from a different perspective than we're used to
PEDROTHELION / THE KNIGHT - matthew's brother is taken to an asylum, but is he crazy?
BARRAGE / NOT SAFE ENOUGH - robot home security
ICEMAN / ELEVATOR MUSIC - basically, crap.
NITEWULF / LOST JULY - ernesto de la cruz chases down the man who killed a loved one
GREAT RUMBLER / A DISTANT CRY COMING OVER THE FACE OF THE WATERS - a space odyssey (2001 + event horizon + sunshine)
REVENTANT KIOKU / SLIPPERY WHEN WET - the dying thoughts of a girl drowning
CHEEBS / THE BEST STORY EVER - math, a stray dog, a wolf, a weight problem, a hospital?
RONITO / SALOME - a conductor's love for a ballerina
VALIS / THURSDAY NIGHT ASTRONAUTS - a bong brings a teenager as close as he'll get to his dream
MIKE WORKS / FINALLY - benjamin tries to hang himself on a tree before luc arrives
RUMPLEDFORESKIN / WEIGHTLESS, BREATHLESS - a kid, bullied at school and ignored at home, comes up with a surprise for all of them
CRUSHED / REMORA - vago dago and byron plan a heist from within a boarding school
OLDSCHOOLGAMER / LOVE AS RAIN IN SPACE - a man who cannot die laments lost love, in space (the fountain redux)
AARON / STRAIGHT SHOT - the first man to travel faster than the speed of light, it didn't go well (sequel to gattaca?)
CYAN / WESTERN FRIED SPAGHETTI - a man daydreams about being in a western during a child's band performance
SCRIBBLE / VACANT INFERNO - a man is a little nervous, but not altogether upset about going to hell
AZIH / FLOATING - a boxing story, but from a different perspective than we're used to
PEDROTHELION / THE KNIGHT - matthew's brother is taken to an asylum, but is he crazy?
BARRAGE / NOT SAFE ENOUGH - robot home security
ICEMAN / ELEVATOR MUSIC - basically, crap.
- Status