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NeoGAF Creative Writing Challenge #21 - "Foreign"
- Thread starter bengraven
- Start date
- Status
Great Rumbler
Member
ronito said:
Thanks! If there's one thing I know how to do well it's paranoia.
Motion Picture Soundtrack
Member
Never mind, just forget my entry, it isnt what I wanted it to be, its garbage. Im a goddamn hack, theres no point even trying to deny it anymore. This has been a real eye-opener for me. No more fooling around trying to become a respected writer. I always knew it was just a fantasy anyway. I mightve had the potential when I was younger, but its gone now. I had a real spark back then, I was obsessed with making sure everything I wrote was perfect before anyone else ever laid eyes on it, but looking back I think that did more harm than good. Nothing was ever perfect, obviously, so it was so rare that someone would see my work that Id never get any advice or opinions on it, so I never really got much better.
Thanks for helping me see this guys. Its funny, writing used to be so natural for me, it used to flow so easily, but now it just feels like some foreign object that I cant possibly comprehend.
Thanks for helping me see this guys. Its funny, writing used to be so natural for me, it used to flow so easily, but now it just feels like some foreign object that I cant possibly comprehend.
Argh. I'm getting fed up with the self-hating-writer routine.
If you had the potential as a kid, you have the potential now. Neuroplasticity isn't that strong.
Analogy time! Let's say you used to be pretty good at the original Super Mario Bros as a kid. So now, however many years later, you decide to have another go at it. Hey look, you died on the first stage! I guess that means you just suck at videogames, right? Might as well not even bother.
Except that would be a stupid conclusion. You're obviously just out of practice.
I've been in these threads from the very beginning, and have seen marked improvement in those people who write regularly. Hell, I'm still no DumbNameD, but I've definitely gotten a lot better since the start.
Why? Practice. You don't just do something and expect to be good at it right away. You have to keep plugging away.
You ever heard the theory of the four stages of expertise?
Stage 1 is sucking and not even knowing it
Stage 2 is sucking and knowing it
Stage 3 is being competent and knowing it
Stage 4 is mastery--you're so good that it's subconscious
The difference between the stages is not inherent skill or talent, but practice. And hey, if you think your writing sucks, then congrats--you're in Stage 2 already. Good for you. Keep at it a while longer and you'll start to get good.
This has been your friendly neighborhood smack upside the head.
If you had the potential as a kid, you have the potential now. Neuroplasticity isn't that strong.
Analogy time! Let's say you used to be pretty good at the original Super Mario Bros as a kid. So now, however many years later, you decide to have another go at it. Hey look, you died on the first stage! I guess that means you just suck at videogames, right? Might as well not even bother.
Except that would be a stupid conclusion. You're obviously just out of practice.
I've been in these threads from the very beginning, and have seen marked improvement in those people who write regularly. Hell, I'm still no DumbNameD, but I've definitely gotten a lot better since the start.
Why? Practice. You don't just do something and expect to be good at it right away. You have to keep plugging away.
You ever heard the theory of the four stages of expertise?
Stage 1 is sucking and not even knowing it
Stage 2 is sucking and knowing it
Stage 3 is being competent and knowing it
Stage 4 is mastery--you're so good that it's subconscious
The difference between the stages is not inherent skill or talent, but practice. And hey, if you think your writing sucks, then congrats--you're in Stage 2 already. Good for you. Keep at it a while longer and you'll start to get good.
This has been your friendly neighborhood smack upside the head.
crowphoenix
Banned
Well, not much I can say after that. I apologize.
MotionPictureSoundtrack: This entry does a really good job of showing the angst all of us budding writers feel. I like how you worked in that whole "uncle rico" if only I was younger feel to it. Short and sweet, but I don't really see how this ties in with the theme (oh Foreign object, clever!). And let's face it, the self hating writer thing as also been done to death. Memles had the best shot of it a few challenges back. I look forward to your next entry!
A Small Treat
Word count: 601
George?
I'm thinking to myself, sitting in my Costco brand executive chair, as to who ate my cake.
No, it couldn't be George. Phil, maybe?
The cake in question was a Tres Leches, a sort of wet cake that went down like cream, all the while retaining a spongy texture that no girl could deny. It was just a slice I had picked up on my way back from the marketplace, in that small bakery shop that grandma used to own.
No, Phil's diabetic. He'd sooner eat raw tofu than raise his sugar level, especially after last time. Or would he...?
When I got to the front door, the glass pane was shattered, fragments of crystal strewn across the entry hall, with a dirty little baseball sitting idly at the end. Had this been any other day, I would've exploded, but not today, not with my Tres Leches.
Maybe it was Sally. She'd been angry with me for a while now, and this could be her way of getting back.
As I retrace my steps, I look at my monitor to see a blip come up from the bottom-right hand of the screen. Sally was on. I didn't hear her come in, but if she was home, why wasn't she online the entire time? I got so distracted by the broken glass and my Tres Leches, I forgot... what did I forget?
A deafening silence had filled the kitchen without notice; my heart sank. I look to the direction of Sally's bedroom. Was there anyone else in the house? Was Sally even in her room? Breathing became difficult as I slowly turned around to walk towards the hallway. As I got closer, I could hear a muffled noise through her door, a repetitious squeeking. Her door open ajar by but an inch. I held my breath, trying to take a peak, listening as intently as possible.
All of a sudden, Sally's shadowed face was facing mine. I shrieked and stumbled backwards. She had opened the door quite suddenly, placing her face perfectly parallel to mine for maximum effect.
"What was that for?" I exclaimed.
"That's what I should be asking you," she retorted.
"Did you see the front door?"
"No, I came in through the back. Why?"
"Well, the glass is busted. Looks like some kids were playing with a baseball and... anyways, were you here this entire time? I just got home about 30 minutes ago, and I didn't hear a peep, so I thought everyone was already out--"
At that moment, I noticed there was cream around Sally's lips and on her nose.
"Did you eat my cake?" I snapped at her, accusingly.
As a wave of shock and embarrassment disarmed her, I could clearly hear what had been making all that noise. Behind her, on the bed, was a basket of kittens, mewing, as some licked the cream off the remaining slice.
As quick as the thief had stolen my cake, I quickly walked past Sally towards the kittens, and fell to my knees, weakened as their arrows of cuteness pierced right through me.
"I found them in the back, next to the garden," she said.
After a moment, I felt something creep up inside me
"...Aren't baby kittens not supposed to eat or drink cow dairy?" I stare up at Sally, who's own expression changes to sour, as we both turn our heads back to the mewing kittens.
Quickly, I took away the plate of cake and got on Sal's computer, simultaneously looking up the closest vet and any online guides on how to take care of baby kittens.
Word count: 601
George?
I'm thinking to myself, sitting in my Costco brand executive chair, as to who ate my cake.
No, it couldn't be George. Phil, maybe?
The cake in question was a Tres Leches, a sort of wet cake that went down like cream, all the while retaining a spongy texture that no girl could deny. It was just a slice I had picked up on my way back from the marketplace, in that small bakery shop that grandma used to own.
No, Phil's diabetic. He'd sooner eat raw tofu than raise his sugar level, especially after last time. Or would he...?
When I got to the front door, the glass pane was shattered, fragments of crystal strewn across the entry hall, with a dirty little baseball sitting idly at the end. Had this been any other day, I would've exploded, but not today, not with my Tres Leches.
Maybe it was Sally. She'd been angry with me for a while now, and this could be her way of getting back.
As I retrace my steps, I look at my monitor to see a blip come up from the bottom-right hand of the screen. Sally was on. I didn't hear her come in, but if she was home, why wasn't she online the entire time? I got so distracted by the broken glass and my Tres Leches, I forgot... what did I forget?
A deafening silence had filled the kitchen without notice; my heart sank. I look to the direction of Sally's bedroom. Was there anyone else in the house? Was Sally even in her room? Breathing became difficult as I slowly turned around to walk towards the hallway. As I got closer, I could hear a muffled noise through her door, a repetitious squeeking. Her door open ajar by but an inch. I held my breath, trying to take a peak, listening as intently as possible.
All of a sudden, Sally's shadowed face was facing mine. I shrieked and stumbled backwards. She had opened the door quite suddenly, placing her face perfectly parallel to mine for maximum effect.
"What was that for?" I exclaimed.
"That's what I should be asking you," she retorted.
"Did you see the front door?"
"No, I came in through the back. Why?"
"Well, the glass is busted. Looks like some kids were playing with a baseball and... anyways, were you here this entire time? I just got home about 30 minutes ago, and I didn't hear a peep, so I thought everyone was already out--"
At that moment, I noticed there was cream around Sally's lips and on her nose.
"Did you eat my cake?" I snapped at her, accusingly.
As a wave of shock and embarrassment disarmed her, I could clearly hear what had been making all that noise. Behind her, on the bed, was a basket of kittens, mewing, as some licked the cream off the remaining slice.
As quick as the thief had stolen my cake, I quickly walked past Sally towards the kittens, and fell to my knees, weakened as their arrows of cuteness pierced right through me.
"I found them in the back, next to the garden," she said.
After a moment, I felt something creep up inside me
"...Aren't baby kittens not supposed to eat or drink cow dairy?" I stare up at Sally, who's own expression changes to sour, as we both turn our heads back to the mewing kittens.
Quickly, I took away the plate of cake and got on Sal's computer, simultaneously looking up the closest vet and any online guides on how to take care of baby kittens.
Pizza Luigi
Member
I know my english is really poor. But I tried to make something of it:
Apple
It was a dreary Sunday morning when the first beam of sunlight shot into the room and placed itself on the side of the fruit basket. It was the only sunlight that day would see. And it was if the little beam was alive, because it stood up and climbed into the fruit basket. It moved around the pieces of fruit that were in there as if it was dancing. If one would have seen that peculiar moment, when the beam of light shot around the fruit like something not from this world, one would have been struck with fear, or maybe curiosity. The agility with which the sunlight strode was remarkable. It had already moved to the next position before it had entirely found its place in the other.
It was then that it touched the only fresh piece of fruit in the basket. Like a haven of red and green colors, the apple lay there in between something that could be called a pile of rotten pears, oranges and bananas. It was like the sunlight didnt want to touch those rotten pieces of fruit, because it only touched the apple. And it didnt touched it once, or slightly, no, it touched it a few minutes. It burned itself onto the apple. And the beam of sunlight was so strong (was it because it was the only beam that that day would see or was it for some other reason?) that where it touched the apple, a small dark hole appeared. And the beam became even stronger and the hole became larger, but not only that, the apple slowly turned brown because of this sunlight.
And then, after just a few minutes, the whole apple was turned into a brown lump. And the shiny apple, so graciously lying there in the fruit basket, like the savior of all fruit in this world, being beautiful between the rotten fruit, was gone. The apple was now one of them, although it didnt wanted it. And the beam of sunlight knew that his duty was done and disappeared in only a fraction of a second. The shiny apple was no more, the foreign beauty was gone.
Apple
It was a dreary Sunday morning when the first beam of sunlight shot into the room and placed itself on the side of the fruit basket. It was the only sunlight that day would see. And it was if the little beam was alive, because it stood up and climbed into the fruit basket. It moved around the pieces of fruit that were in there as if it was dancing. If one would have seen that peculiar moment, when the beam of light shot around the fruit like something not from this world, one would have been struck with fear, or maybe curiosity. The agility with which the sunlight strode was remarkable. It had already moved to the next position before it had entirely found its place in the other.
It was then that it touched the only fresh piece of fruit in the basket. Like a haven of red and green colors, the apple lay there in between something that could be called a pile of rotten pears, oranges and bananas. It was like the sunlight didnt want to touch those rotten pieces of fruit, because it only touched the apple. And it didnt touched it once, or slightly, no, it touched it a few minutes. It burned itself onto the apple. And the beam of sunlight was so strong (was it because it was the only beam that that day would see or was it for some other reason?) that where it touched the apple, a small dark hole appeared. And the beam became even stronger and the hole became larger, but not only that, the apple slowly turned brown because of this sunlight.
And then, after just a few minutes, the whole apple was turned into a brown lump. And the shiny apple, so graciously lying there in the fruit basket, like the savior of all fruit in this world, being beautiful between the rotten fruit, was gone. The apple was now one of them, although it didnt wanted it. And the beam of sunlight knew that his duty was done and disappeared in only a fraction of a second. The shiny apple was no more, the foreign beauty was gone.
RurouniZel
Asks questions so Ezalc doesn't have to
My precious
869 words
THIS HAS TO BE A MISTAKE!! Carl shouted, forgetting himself. His face was one of anger and agony. The appraiser jumped, causing his glasses to nearly slide off the tip of his pointed nose.
I-Im terribly sorry. Im sure this must be a horrible shock for you he apologized, pushing the rim of his glasses back up. Tears formed in the corners of Carls eyes. It just couldnt be true! It couldnt!
Can you check again? Please? Carl pleaded.
The appraiser shook his head. Ive look at it from every angle. Im very sorry Mr. Porter. Its a fake.
Carl felt like the most worthless man alive. A former oil tycoon, he once lavished in the finer things. His mansion, his Benz, his $10,000 Rolex, he had anything and everything he could possibly want. But none of them did he treasure as much as his vase.
And now, it wasnt worth a dime.
Ten years ago, his wife encouraged him to indulge for once in his life. Easy for her to say, she indulged herself in everything at his expense anyway. He had always tried to finance responsibly. Sure he had a big house and everything, what millionaire didnt? But the Benz and the Rolex, his mansion and custom tailored suits werent so much indulgences as they were for keeping up appearances. Business as usual.
The vase was different. Hed always wanted a Greek vase; the artistry of the stories they told had captivated him, even as a child. When he found one that truly seemed to call out to him, he spent $2,000,000 on it. And to him, it was worth every penny. He beamed every time he looked at it. He bought a special pedestal resembling a Greek column to display it on. Whenever he threw parties for his rich friends, he always ended his home tour with the vase. They would ooh and ahh and nod to themselves at its magnificence. Nothing made Carl feel more proud than to show the vase to others.
But the recession hit, and now his savings were all but dried up. His wife didnt talk to him anymore, his spoiled son complaining that he didnt have the best clothes in school. Even if he wanted to sell the house, his family would staunchly oppose, and in this market it wouldnt fetch enough money anyway.
It had been a difficult decision to sell his beloved treasure. Of all of his possessions, he loved nothing more. But hed already sold everything else he could, much to his wifes dismay. The paintings, the busts, even that big screen plasma TV that no one used anyway. But it still wasnt enough to pay the house and the Benz. And with the credit markets frozen he couldnt even get a loan to tide him through the dark times.
But as he grew poorer and poorer, his mind began to return to its former self. His possessions were merely objects. His family had to come first. Keep a roof over their heads and food on their table, just until the recession ended anyway.
The vase had been his last hope at redemption. It betrayed him.
A broken Carl parked in front of his home, quite sure that this would be the last time he did that in his Benz. He saw his wife, a beautiful French woman, yammering away on that stupidly expensive cell phone of hers. He could feel his grip on the vase grow tighter as he clutched it to his chest. Walking to place it back on his stand, his wife grabbed his shoulder and forcibly turned him around.
Why do you still have that? I thought you were finally selling it! she demanded shrilly.
Carls throat had long since become dry, and impulsively gulped. Apparently its fake.
Youre full of it, you just didnt want to get rid of it! she insisted.
Here, Carl offered, pulling the appraisers card out of his coat pocket. Its the one you recommended to me remember? If you dont believe me, believe him. Her cocksure attitude disappeared almost instantly.
I can not believe this!! she screeched.
Whats the matter, Mom? their son asked as he walked down the magnificent stairway in the entry hall.
Whats the matter? WHATS THE MATTER? Your father's the matter, THATS WHAT! she screamed.
Avril, I know times are tough, but well get through this. Were a family, remember? Carl tried to assure her.
Oh please! Youre as worthless as that vase! You two deserve each other! she exclaimed. Avril stomped up the stairs shrieking and screaming as she went and their son Cameron grunted and lamented for hours about his life being over as Carl held the vase tighter to his chest.
The full moon shone brightly that night as Carl drove up the hill, his precious Greek vase safely seat belted in the passengers seat. He approached the view by the bend; his favorite spot, and the place where he had proposed to Avril. As the moon gently caressed him and his precious in its light, he gazed at it with loving eyes.
Youre all I have now. Will you go with me? he asked, hitting the gas pedal.
869 words
THIS HAS TO BE A MISTAKE!! Carl shouted, forgetting himself. His face was one of anger and agony. The appraiser jumped, causing his glasses to nearly slide off the tip of his pointed nose.
I-Im terribly sorry. Im sure this must be a horrible shock for you he apologized, pushing the rim of his glasses back up. Tears formed in the corners of Carls eyes. It just couldnt be true! It couldnt!
Can you check again? Please? Carl pleaded.
The appraiser shook his head. Ive look at it from every angle. Im very sorry Mr. Porter. Its a fake.
Carl felt like the most worthless man alive. A former oil tycoon, he once lavished in the finer things. His mansion, his Benz, his $10,000 Rolex, he had anything and everything he could possibly want. But none of them did he treasure as much as his vase.
And now, it wasnt worth a dime.
Ten years ago, his wife encouraged him to indulge for once in his life. Easy for her to say, she indulged herself in everything at his expense anyway. He had always tried to finance responsibly. Sure he had a big house and everything, what millionaire didnt? But the Benz and the Rolex, his mansion and custom tailored suits werent so much indulgences as they were for keeping up appearances. Business as usual.
The vase was different. Hed always wanted a Greek vase; the artistry of the stories they told had captivated him, even as a child. When he found one that truly seemed to call out to him, he spent $2,000,000 on it. And to him, it was worth every penny. He beamed every time he looked at it. He bought a special pedestal resembling a Greek column to display it on. Whenever he threw parties for his rich friends, he always ended his home tour with the vase. They would ooh and ahh and nod to themselves at its magnificence. Nothing made Carl feel more proud than to show the vase to others.
But the recession hit, and now his savings were all but dried up. His wife didnt talk to him anymore, his spoiled son complaining that he didnt have the best clothes in school. Even if he wanted to sell the house, his family would staunchly oppose, and in this market it wouldnt fetch enough money anyway.
It had been a difficult decision to sell his beloved treasure. Of all of his possessions, he loved nothing more. But hed already sold everything else he could, much to his wifes dismay. The paintings, the busts, even that big screen plasma TV that no one used anyway. But it still wasnt enough to pay the house and the Benz. And with the credit markets frozen he couldnt even get a loan to tide him through the dark times.
But as he grew poorer and poorer, his mind began to return to its former self. His possessions were merely objects. His family had to come first. Keep a roof over their heads and food on their table, just until the recession ended anyway.
The vase had been his last hope at redemption. It betrayed him.
A broken Carl parked in front of his home, quite sure that this would be the last time he did that in his Benz. He saw his wife, a beautiful French woman, yammering away on that stupidly expensive cell phone of hers. He could feel his grip on the vase grow tighter as he clutched it to his chest. Walking to place it back on his stand, his wife grabbed his shoulder and forcibly turned him around.
Why do you still have that? I thought you were finally selling it! she demanded shrilly.
Carls throat had long since become dry, and impulsively gulped. Apparently its fake.
Youre full of it, you just didnt want to get rid of it! she insisted.
Here, Carl offered, pulling the appraisers card out of his coat pocket. Its the one you recommended to me remember? If you dont believe me, believe him. Her cocksure attitude disappeared almost instantly.
I can not believe this!! she screeched.
Whats the matter, Mom? their son asked as he walked down the magnificent stairway in the entry hall.
Whats the matter? WHATS THE MATTER? Your father's the matter, THATS WHAT! she screamed.
Avril, I know times are tough, but well get through this. Were a family, remember? Carl tried to assure her.
Oh please! Youre as worthless as that vase! You two deserve each other! she exclaimed. Avril stomped up the stairs shrieking and screaming as she went and their son Cameron grunted and lamented for hours about his life being over as Carl held the vase tighter to his chest.
The full moon shone brightly that night as Carl drove up the hill, his precious Greek vase safely seat belted in the passengers seat. He approached the view by the bend; his favorite spot, and the place where he had proposed to Avril. As the moon gently caressed him and his precious in its light, he gazed at it with loving eyes.
Youre all I have now. Will you go with me? he asked, hitting the gas pedal.
Motion Picture Soundtrack
Member
I just wanted to do a type of epistolary that no one else would, and yeah, I was getting a bit annoyed with the way people were constantly putting themselves down. Plus I've never written a story within a story before, it was interesting trying to write how I thought my character would write, and what he would write about given his emotional state.
Also I wanted to cause confusion :lol
Also I wanted to cause confusion :lol
Botolf: I felt like Jacob annoyed as to "Why" during the whole thing. I tend to find that having characters describe action is a bit kludgy. I have an editor friend who constantly says the same, though given the structure of your piece it seems difficult to do it any other way. The ending was an interesting twist.
TimeDog: Write what you know. Sadly, as a life long student of musicology I couldn't help but glare at the inaccuracies of the piece. But that's my own fault, not yours. But just as a quick tip, anytime you're going to write about something historical, be aware that there is always someone who knows the event intimately. Reminds me of the piece I tried to write two challenges ago but couldn't finish. But bravo. Really well done. Good concept, good execution.
LiquidSpeed: Pacing is important. It felt like you set up nicely but then stayed at the same tone/pace for the rest of the piece with a quick drop off at the end.
Cyan: Leave it to you to come up with a concept no one thought of. Very nice and the quick pace of the IRC really lends itself well to the overall pacing you really used it to your advantage. This would be a really great way to start a larger story or even a book. You also knew the area, where are you at? Also I couldn't help but want it to end in
Cthulu> Ph'nglui mglw'nafh C'thulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn
Nitewulf: Some of the dialogue feels unnatural. I'd suggest reading it aloud and seeing if it's something you'd actually say. I like how you intermixed the messages as a vital part of your story. Nice.
MotionPictureSoundtrack: Nice. But to be blunt, why should the reader care? It just felt like it was over before it began. Though I do like the Mary Please. Very plaintive.
DarkPen: I don't know what to say. I wasn't ready for it to be over so quick and the mystery to be solved so quickly while presenting another problem.
TimeDog: Write what you know. Sadly, as a life long student of musicology I couldn't help but glare at the inaccuracies of the piece. But that's my own fault, not yours. But just as a quick tip, anytime you're going to write about something historical, be aware that there is always someone who knows the event intimately. Reminds me of the piece I tried to write two challenges ago but couldn't finish. But bravo. Really well done. Good concept, good execution.
LiquidSpeed: Pacing is important. It felt like you set up nicely but then stayed at the same tone/pace for the rest of the piece with a quick drop off at the end.
Cyan: Leave it to you to come up with a concept no one thought of. Very nice and the quick pace of the IRC really lends itself well to the overall pacing you really used it to your advantage. This would be a really great way to start a larger story or even a book. You also knew the area, where are you at? Also I couldn't help but want it to end in
Cthulu> Ph'nglui mglw'nafh C'thulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn
Nitewulf: Some of the dialogue feels unnatural. I'd suggest reading it aloud and seeing if it's something you'd actually say. I like how you intermixed the messages as a vital part of your story. Nice.
MotionPictureSoundtrack: Nice. But to be blunt, why should the reader care? It just felt like it was over before it began. Though I do like the Mary Please. Very plaintive.
DarkPen: I don't know what to say. I wasn't ready for it to be over so quick and the mystery to be solved so quickly while presenting another problem.
ronito - depends on when you read it, i've been smothing it up bit by bit, i wrote it in a burst of excitement late sunday...i wasnt even gonna enter, but the idea just popped up. to me, editing until deadline is fair game. i talk to my boss that way BTW, kinda modeled it after that...engineering discussion, cold and to the point. also i purposefully kept a "little" campy feel here and there, as if you're watching a 70's sci-fi anime, like you'd have a very serious scene, life and death moment, but all of a sudden the hero would spazz out. i could have easily changed that little tone but i liked the quirkiness.
but if you read it earlier than today, then please re-read it again...i brushed it up a bit, mostly logical errors but also sentences and flow.
but if you read it earlier than today, then please re-read it again...i brushed it up a bit, mostly logical errors but also sentences and flow.
liquidspeed
Member
ronito said:
Maybe its just a flaw by design? I intended for the quick drop off in order to farther accentuate the "foreignness" of the EYE Vs. The Eyewall. I will definitely look into this for the next piece though
I'm sorry I was unclear. The quick drop off is almost understandable. but what I'm trying to say is you setup nicely and go off at a nice trot. It just felt like you never left that trot. At least it did to me. Then to have a quick drop off after that just accentuated it.liquidspeed said:
RurouniZel
Asks questions so Ezalc doesn't have to
Any critiques on mine ronito?
liquidspeed
Member
I see what you are saying. I have a few * minor* edits to make tomorrow before the deadline......... For me ( A severe weather nut) The increasing intensity of the storm corresponded with the overall intensity of the story as I imagined myself in the chaser's shoes..... witnessing, and listening to the violence of the stormronito said:
... However, I understand that for someone not as enthusiastic about it as my self, that it may not have taken off in that manner..... Essentially, my intention was to have the story start at a point, then quickly cresendo and suddenly drop off at the end.
Everyone gets critiques. That's what these challenges are for. To get better at writing. I feel that by reading/writing/getting/giving feedback we all get better. Which is why I'm constantly surprised by how few actually give feedback. To me it's been incredibly helpful, I always sit and think when I'm writing feedback, "Do I do this? Should I do this?" or "Man, I gotta do something like that!" But I'm done reading for today. So tomorrow dood. Tomorrow.RurouniZel said:
RurouniZel
Asks questions so Ezalc doesn't have to
ronito said:
I apologize, I didn't mean to pressure you.
And I plan to critique as well, I'm just waiting until the deadline 'cause I'm a procrastinator like that. >>
Pfft. Not very convincing on that third post.Motion Picture Soundtrack said:
Ok, seriously, I kind of feel like an ass now. :lol Although for the several people who do think too little of their writing, I meant every word.
Totally agreed. I critique because I care... but also because it helps my own writing! Speaking of which, I will definitely try and get them in this go-round.ronito said:
:lol That would definitely have changed the meaning of the rest of it!ronito said:
Thanks for the comments. And yeah, I'm a local. Living in Mountain View right now, working in Palo Alto.
Well like I said, it's MY fault not yours.Timedog said:
The Requiem wasn't completely finished by Sussmeyer (not Mozart's student) many movements were sketched what was blank Sussmeyer stole from other composers and some he actually wrote. Mozart was everywhere when he wrote, he'd sketch out parts here and there of different movements. Given that and the structure of later movements that Sussmeyer was not really all that capable of it seems logical that Mozart didn't really stop at the Lacrimosa. Also the first opening of the requiem was supposedly a smaller affair with only it's patron and his friends around. For the first few years after Mozart's death there was some confusion as to who really wrote it. Some speculate that Sussmeyer took credit for it.
It's minutiae. Completely my short coming.
I'll take all of this into mind. If this thing had been any longer, I probably would have gone with a different approach, but I really felt having the main character recount the events that landed Jacob where he was was important (as a part of who the character is and also to lead into the ending).ronito said:
Thanks for the critique, I really liked your piece
The Restless
word count: 1,483
***
The diary of Father Henry Burke was discovered in the ruins of Ypres. The cover was badly burned, so all of the initial entries have been lost. The first legible entry finds him already on the field of battle for control of the Netherlands.
October 17th, 1914:
Communications Officer Willard Jenkins has been returned to the earth after being struck by a shell during a surprise attack this morning. He did not go easily, so I brought him peace and performed the last rites under a hail of gunfire. His ashes are already on their way home. He was not yet twenty one.
Our days are grey and filled with smoke. It's some concern the other side won't see the white of my uniform, and hold their fire. This wasn't a problem in the distant past where the priests would wait up on hillsides, looking down upon the battle. When men died upon the field with their heads high, embracing death. The warriors of these modern times are too young and unwilling to pass, leaving the clergy to stand in the thick of things, and serve our fragile human race as we can and must.
October 25th, 1914:
A recent skirmish left me separated from my unit. I was captured by German soldiers with gaunt and dirty faces, shouting and striking me with the butts of their rifles to drive me on through this bleak landscape of debris and ruin. All Mighty, how can you allow us to do this to your cherished land? How foul the earth becomes left to the hands of men.
Their commander was gracious in broken English, apologizing to me while harshly reprimanding my captors. The reason why was clear enough when he mentioned with a shudder of dread that his own chaplain had been killed in an accident. That explained the ragged look of these soldiers, who had witnessed the Lord's vengeance first hand.
There was a sick man. A leg had been lost and gangrene was eating away at him. He had a fever and wouldn't last long. Their captain made an impassioned plea as one Christian to another to take care of things for them. They were the enemy, and I knew they would suffer greatly if I let this man slip away unconsecrated, but there are horrors worse than war that no one should witness.
I was left alone in the small tent, listening to the cold wind blowing outside. The man was covered in sweat and spitting out nonsense, though when I raised the needle and readied the injection, he regained some rationality. In a weak and broken voice, he begged for his life. He spoke of the rolling hills of home, of golden sunsets, of a girl with cinnamon eyes, and hope of a family. I listened to it all and offered soft words of comfort in the little German I knew as I stuck the needle into this chest, into his heart. He jerked once, one final gasp, before falling silent.
I hesitated, not knowing the rites that the German chaplains followed, and wondering if it was proper to treat this man from a land far from my own. Yet his pallor was shifting to grey like a wave passing over his skin, and in moments the small trembles began, which I knew from my own experience would end far worse if I remained silent. So with bible in hand, with cup and bell, I blessed this former soldier in the eyes of the Lord, easing his spirit as his body ceased its shuddering. The waiting pyre was already burning when I stepped out under the grey sky.
The Germans were lavish in gratitude. Rich food and stolen tobacco were offered, the latter refused, before they drove me near as they dared to a British camp. They did not risk holding me prisoner, needing to hold grace they could for the war ahead.
November 18th, 1914
Man was not meant to live in holes.
The German artillery fire has slackened enough so we could raise our heads and survey the ruin around us. For nearly a month, I and the other chaplains in this combined assault to secure Ypres have been running like foxes at all hours of the day and night, saying the proper words so often and so quickly that they were beginning to lose meaning. We were far too few for a force this size.
Some were bound to grow restless.
When we lost contact with a distant company, we prayed their radios had only been ruined by the death that rained down upon them. As I seemed the most steady and untroubled by these 'horrors' of war, I was chosen to accompany a group of soldiers to the edge of Ypres where they had been stationed. These were hardened men who had watched their friends and comrades die around them, and had held their ground. Yet even they slackened their pace, allowing me to be the first to see beyond the ridge.
The bodies of men laid in a shallow crater, and feasting upon them were dark things that had once been men. Most were still recognizable as they stumbled and crawled with their eyes flat and black. The Change worked on them slowly. It needed to be fed. The stomp of boots and raising of rifles caught their attention, leaving them to gape and hiss with the blood running down their chins. A sharp command and a volley of gunfire tore into the peaceful and restless alike as I slowly shook my head.
It did no good. Bullets were nothing to those who had lost all feeling. Their hissing only grew louder as they stumbled towards us, like puppets with tangled strings. I did not flinch in the face of their wickedness. I raised my voice high with the words of the Lord, and blessed them all in a great arc of holy oil. So their hissing became howls as their approach slowed. A calm soldier called for fire bombs. Dark orbs were hurled through the grey sky as I was yanked back, watching as this lake of flame filled the crater, burning the innocent and the damned alike.
There was no time to properly collect the ashes. Too many were dead or dying all around us. Our hearts had turned to ice.
April 22nd, 1915
We have been holding Ypres with the aid of our French and Algerian allies for some time. The German artillery fire has ceased, and I have spent the days tending to the wounded in a hospital that escaped the devastation. Our leaders are planning a major push to drive our enemies out of the region, but we must wait for the arrival of more men and supplies. We must wait in the shadow of these ruins and pray for deliverance from evil.
A feeling of dread is seeping into my bones as I sit here writing, listening to the sound of a wounded soldier's uneasy breath. The other priests are nervous. We wait for the sound of a shell whistling through the air towards us, but the sky remains empty and silent. The radio barks. A soldier answers...
Dear God. Where is your mercy?
I have just crested a hill near to where the trenches lay to hold against the German advance. Where the brave soldiers had held their rifles fast against the ceaseless shelling without fear... but the blasted Germans have broken their pact with the All Mighty to unleash a foul gas that still taints the air...
So many have died. So many unwilling. I can see them now as they crawl up from the trenches. Thousands of them, like a torn and befouled wave of grey and black. The Germans have resumed shelling. They fill the air with bombs and bullets, but it can't stem the tide. The courage of their priests has broken. I can see them in white as the first to flee, but the damned are too quick and too numerous. These holy men are pulled down and devoured, no different than the soldiers beside them.
Soon the gunfire will cease and all will be consumed, while our army has shut their doors and barricaded their windows, believing they can be saved by crumbling stone. Most have never witnessed the restless with their bloated bodies full, lying upon the ground turning black until they burst, and each one releases ten thousand spores that will cover this land in a second Black Plague. A million innocents will suffer for the sins of a few.
Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil. For thou art with me. Doused in your holy oil, let my body become the vessel of your divine fire. I will burn away this foul darkness in your holy light.
I will die unafraid.
word count: 1,483
***
The diary of Father Henry Burke was discovered in the ruins of Ypres. The cover was badly burned, so all of the initial entries have been lost. The first legible entry finds him already on the field of battle for control of the Netherlands.
October 17th, 1914:
Communications Officer Willard Jenkins has been returned to the earth after being struck by a shell during a surprise attack this morning. He did not go easily, so I brought him peace and performed the last rites under a hail of gunfire. His ashes are already on their way home. He was not yet twenty one.
Our days are grey and filled with smoke. It's some concern the other side won't see the white of my uniform, and hold their fire. This wasn't a problem in the distant past where the priests would wait up on hillsides, looking down upon the battle. When men died upon the field with their heads high, embracing death. The warriors of these modern times are too young and unwilling to pass, leaving the clergy to stand in the thick of things, and serve our fragile human race as we can and must.
October 25th, 1914:
A recent skirmish left me separated from my unit. I was captured by German soldiers with gaunt and dirty faces, shouting and striking me with the butts of their rifles to drive me on through this bleak landscape of debris and ruin. All Mighty, how can you allow us to do this to your cherished land? How foul the earth becomes left to the hands of men.
Their commander was gracious in broken English, apologizing to me while harshly reprimanding my captors. The reason why was clear enough when he mentioned with a shudder of dread that his own chaplain had been killed in an accident. That explained the ragged look of these soldiers, who had witnessed the Lord's vengeance first hand.
There was a sick man. A leg had been lost and gangrene was eating away at him. He had a fever and wouldn't last long. Their captain made an impassioned plea as one Christian to another to take care of things for them. They were the enemy, and I knew they would suffer greatly if I let this man slip away unconsecrated, but there are horrors worse than war that no one should witness.
I was left alone in the small tent, listening to the cold wind blowing outside. The man was covered in sweat and spitting out nonsense, though when I raised the needle and readied the injection, he regained some rationality. In a weak and broken voice, he begged for his life. He spoke of the rolling hills of home, of golden sunsets, of a girl with cinnamon eyes, and hope of a family. I listened to it all and offered soft words of comfort in the little German I knew as I stuck the needle into this chest, into his heart. He jerked once, one final gasp, before falling silent.
I hesitated, not knowing the rites that the German chaplains followed, and wondering if it was proper to treat this man from a land far from my own. Yet his pallor was shifting to grey like a wave passing over his skin, and in moments the small trembles began, which I knew from my own experience would end far worse if I remained silent. So with bible in hand, with cup and bell, I blessed this former soldier in the eyes of the Lord, easing his spirit as his body ceased its shuddering. The waiting pyre was already burning when I stepped out under the grey sky.
The Germans were lavish in gratitude. Rich food and stolen tobacco were offered, the latter refused, before they drove me near as they dared to a British camp. They did not risk holding me prisoner, needing to hold grace they could for the war ahead.
November 18th, 1914
Man was not meant to live in holes.
The German artillery fire has slackened enough so we could raise our heads and survey the ruin around us. For nearly a month, I and the other chaplains in this combined assault to secure Ypres have been running like foxes at all hours of the day and night, saying the proper words so often and so quickly that they were beginning to lose meaning. We were far too few for a force this size.
Some were bound to grow restless.
When we lost contact with a distant company, we prayed their radios had only been ruined by the death that rained down upon them. As I seemed the most steady and untroubled by these 'horrors' of war, I was chosen to accompany a group of soldiers to the edge of Ypres where they had been stationed. These were hardened men who had watched their friends and comrades die around them, and had held their ground. Yet even they slackened their pace, allowing me to be the first to see beyond the ridge.
The bodies of men laid in a shallow crater, and feasting upon them were dark things that had once been men. Most were still recognizable as they stumbled and crawled with their eyes flat and black. The Change worked on them slowly. It needed to be fed. The stomp of boots and raising of rifles caught their attention, leaving them to gape and hiss with the blood running down their chins. A sharp command and a volley of gunfire tore into the peaceful and restless alike as I slowly shook my head.
It did no good. Bullets were nothing to those who had lost all feeling. Their hissing only grew louder as they stumbled towards us, like puppets with tangled strings. I did not flinch in the face of their wickedness. I raised my voice high with the words of the Lord, and blessed them all in a great arc of holy oil. So their hissing became howls as their approach slowed. A calm soldier called for fire bombs. Dark orbs were hurled through the grey sky as I was yanked back, watching as this lake of flame filled the crater, burning the innocent and the damned alike.
There was no time to properly collect the ashes. Too many were dead or dying all around us. Our hearts had turned to ice.
April 22nd, 1915
We have been holding Ypres with the aid of our French and Algerian allies for some time. The German artillery fire has ceased, and I have spent the days tending to the wounded in a hospital that escaped the devastation. Our leaders are planning a major push to drive our enemies out of the region, but we must wait for the arrival of more men and supplies. We must wait in the shadow of these ruins and pray for deliverance from evil.
A feeling of dread is seeping into my bones as I sit here writing, listening to the sound of a wounded soldier's uneasy breath. The other priests are nervous. We wait for the sound of a shell whistling through the air towards us, but the sky remains empty and silent. The radio barks. A soldier answers...
Dear God. Where is your mercy?
I have just crested a hill near to where the trenches lay to hold against the German advance. Where the brave soldiers had held their rifles fast against the ceaseless shelling without fear... but the blasted Germans have broken their pact with the All Mighty to unleash a foul gas that still taints the air...
So many have died. So many unwilling. I can see them now as they crawl up from the trenches. Thousands of them, like a torn and befouled wave of grey and black. The Germans have resumed shelling. They fill the air with bombs and bullets, but it can't stem the tide. The courage of their priests has broken. I can see them in white as the first to flee, but the damned are too quick and too numerous. These holy men are pulled down and devoured, no different than the soldiers beside them.
Soon the gunfire will cease and all will be consumed, while our army has shut their doors and barricaded their windows, believing they can be saved by crumbling stone. Most have never witnessed the restless with their bloated bodies full, lying upon the ground turning black until they burst, and each one releases ten thousand spores that will cover this land in a second Black Plague. A million innocents will suffer for the sins of a few.
Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil. For thou art with me. Doused in your holy oil, let my body become the vessel of your divine fire. I will burn away this foul darkness in your holy light.
I will die unafraid.
We're not done. It's Pacific time, right?
Don't scare me like that, bengraven! Especially since my entry is done!
I was utterly confused about a combination of Motion's story, your feedback, Cyan's reply and Timedog's reply, and Mr.Zephyr's blinking post. I didn't know what was going on!
Also, the word limit murdered me this time (But just to think: our earlier challenges were 1000 words)
Don't scare me like that, bengraven! Especially since my entry is done!
ronito said:
I was utterly confused about a combination of Motion's story, your feedback, Cyan's reply and Timedog's reply, and Mr.Zephyr's blinking post. I didn't know what was going on!
Also, the word limit murdered me this time (But just to think: our earlier challenges were 1000 words)
PizzaLuigi: Be careful with your verbs. For example you say the beam "shot" in and then "placed itself", well it can't do both. One word denotes straight action, the other careful chosing. Which is it? If you're using a strong word like shot, follow it up with an equally strong work like "impaling the room with its light" or something. Obviously the grammar needs work as it can be hard to understand at times, but that will come in time. I like how you used the theme in a new way though. Good idea.
RurouniZel: Wait. If the guy has a mansion, a Benz and a $10,000 rolex how can the Vase be his first indulgence? You really need to put the line explaining the non-indulgences right after you say that. It makes sense when you explain it but the gap in explaining it jars a little. It's a good thing to leave the reader wanting more. But this is a bit extreme. I reall felt you were just getting to it. All the pieces you set out finally arranged for something great and then you promptly put them all away.
Ward:
I loved it man!
Seriously though, I thought it meandered a bit. With such strict limits on word count it's important keep a laser focus on movement.
Aaron: There are tricks that I've learned from some other writers here. But you have this way that I can't understand how you do it but they're just wonderful. For example:
He spoke of the rolling hills of home, of golden sunsets, of a girl with cinnamon eyes, and hope of a family
In these short two sentences you've told us everything we need to know about the man, and humanized him and then moved on. Very effective. I need to learn to do that. Now my only gripe about this is, is progression. We come into it in the thick of things, and leave it in the thick of things. I understand the leaving, but it felt like a snippet instead of a journey. That's probably the way you intended it however.
RurouniZel: Wait. If the guy has a mansion, a Benz and a $10,000 rolex how can the Vase be his first indulgence? You really need to put the line explaining the non-indulgences right after you say that. It makes sense when you explain it but the gap in explaining it jars a little. It's a good thing to leave the reader wanting more. But this is a bit extreme. I reall felt you were just getting to it. All the pieces you set out finally arranged for something great and then you promptly put them all away.
Ward:
I loved it man!
Seriously though, I thought it meandered a bit. With such strict limits on word count it's important keep a laser focus on movement.
Aaron: There are tricks that I've learned from some other writers here. But you have this way that I can't understand how you do it but they're just wonderful. For example:
He spoke of the rolling hills of home, of golden sunsets, of a girl with cinnamon eyes, and hope of a family
In these short two sentences you've told us everything we need to know about the man, and humanized him and then moved on. Very effective. I need to learn to do that. Now my only gripe about this is, is progression. We come into it in the thick of things, and leave it in the thick of things. I understand the leaving, but it felt like a snippet instead of a journey. That's probably the way you intended it however.
Heh. Interesting format. It actually gave me an idea for a possible future story. Definitely needed a few more editing passes. There were a number of typos and errors. I know you didn't really mean it as a super-serious effort or anything, but it never hurts to put your best foot forward.MrFingers said:
Very imaginitive. And you have a lot of great imagery in here--that's always something I wish I could do better.ZephyrFate said:
A few things:
-Don't give away the main point in the beginning! Let the "dream of something... better" unfold through the story. It's far more effective illustrated through the beauty of the secret world than when it's just baldly stated like that.
-Think more about the format. Jane's emails mostly feel like actual emails. Matt's don't. It seems more as though he's talking. Also, I'd drop the apostrophes for dropped gs.
-You might consider hanging a lantern on the Alice in Wonderland issue. i.e. have the sister mention it in one of her emails or something.
Ah, the descent into madness. The story you've chosen to tell fits nicely with the format. And the monologue feels pretty good. Also, as I mentioned earlier, it was really damn creepy. By April 18th the whole thing was feeling pretty claustrophobic.Great Rumbler said:
My one real criticism is the pacing. It seems like it jumps a little too fast from April 7th and seeing something out of the corner of his eye to April 13th, and straight out saying there's a weird presence in his apartment. The quick change feels a bit unsubtle.
Otherwise, good stuff. I still can't decide what happened at the end.
The dialogue is good, for the most part. And I like the twist at the end, although I didn't catch that it was a twist until my second read-through. But I can't help but echo Jacob's question: why? Why tell the story through dialogue? I think it leaves the piece a bit unfocused, which reduces the impact of the twist.Botolf said:
The only other thing I'd like to mention is the names of the characters. They change throughout the story. This can make things confusing for readers, especially when the last names are so similar. I'd pick one name and stick with it. Does Gil Provost think of himself as Gil or as Provost? And does he think of his enemy as Jacob or as Prosper?
RurouniZel
Asks questions so Ezalc doesn't have to
That makes sense, I'll adjust the placement of that sentence when I get home. I'll look at expanding the narrative as well, but I don't think I'll finish in time.ronito said:
ZephyrFate
Banned
Cyan said:
I totally just fixed a lot of what you said. I'll retool the dialogue a bit, but thank you for the input. The story flows a lot smoother now.
Beautifully done. Really taps into something deeply emotional. A lot of great metaphor and nice use of language.Timedog said:
I was going to say that there's too much narrative summary, but I think the story dips into in-the-moment action in just the right places. Maybe those moments could be held just a little longer?
The POV switches also work ok with the way the story's constructed, but a cleaner break between each switch could be helpful. A new paragraph for the new POV, or some such.
Also, something about the beginning feels slightly off to me, although I can't quite put my finger on what. The first two paragraphs or so just don't quite do it for me. But after that... lovely!
Seems like you know a bit about tornadoes and hurricanes, huh? I don't know jack about either, so I have no idea if you got everything right, but it sounds right to the layman, which is the important thing. The description of the winds is great. The noises and so on. Almost felt like I was there at points.liquidspeed said:
But that leads me to my main complaint--the hurricane felt like a real character, but the three actual characters didn't. They felt more like placeholders than anything. It might've helped to choose one as the main POV character, so that we'd have someone to identify with.
As a side note, I'm not sure the phrase "spamming F5" really belongs in this type of story. That's a kind of internet forum-ism that jars out of context.
Great Rumbler
Member
Cyan said:
I added in another entry between the one where he cut his hand and the one where he realizes that something is in his apartment. I would like to have added more, but I got pinned up against the word limit.
And that's what I like about the ending, that you're not quite sure what happened. I've got my own personal preference, though.
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