-
Hey, guest user. Hope you're enjoying NeoGAF! Have you considered registering for an account? Come join us and add your take to the daily discourse.
NeoGAF Creative Writing Challenge #91 - "Unbound"
- Thread starter Cyan
- Start date
- Status
Excerpt from the Anal King? I can't wait to read it.
BTW, you just got yourself a new ronito-Nickname!
Also for those wondering what my secondary was it'll come as no surprise for anyone that's read a lot of my non-donkey material that it's
symbolism
Well, fuck. Guess we'll have two Old Testament inspired entries this round. I really liked that though. Will post a full critique later.
Exodus
Caleb
The Canaanites are broken.
Through the rain we charge again at their shattered ranks. Over the claps of distant thunder, the battlefield is furious with the sounds of crying wounded, terrified horses, officers shouting futile orders in their foreign tongue.
The chariot before me is stuck in the mud. Desperately the driver lashes out at his horses, but the left wheel of the cart will not budge. The officer on board strikes his driver across the face, ordering him to turn the vehicle around, but the poor slave can no more free the chariot wheel than he can command the winds and rain to stop.
I spring towards them, shield in front, spear held ready. The officer sees me. His arrows spent, his spear lost somewhere in the carnage, he draws his short sword. I jab forward with the spear, forcing his parry. Bronze strikes on bronze as he deflects my spearhead to the side, but he put too much weight into his parry, and he stumbles on the uneven footing. I pull back and thrust the spear forward again. This time it tears through his stomach. Crying out, he clutches at the wound. As I rip the spear from his body, the bronze tip emerges steaming, dripped with blood and shit and bile. The Canaanite collapses. His body is failing him. His god has failed him.
The slave cowers against the side of the chariot. He looks towards his master’s sword for a moment, and then looks back to me. In his hand is only a horsewhip. There is no honor in killing him. I nod towards the distant hills. “Run,” I say to him in his tongue. It was one of the words I learned when we scouted this place. Perhaps my intonation is poor, but he understands. He runs.
The remaining Canaanites are fleeing alongside the slave, running back to their city to spread the news of calamity. This was their last stand; when we assault their walls tomorrow we will face only the old and the cowardly. The smart ones will be leagues from here by then.
Aaron
The camp is always festive after a victory. As I pass among the rows of tents, I hear the moans of the soldiers' wives being fucked. I see the shadows on the tent walls: men and women writhing together, spines arching, legs flailing, pressing their bodies into the friction.
Off to one side, a circle of unmarried young men sit together playing dice. I can see the lustful hunger in their eyes when they look towards the tents, but they would not dare to take any of the virgins. Tomorrow they can sate their lust on Canaanite daughters. They need only be strong until then.
The tabernacle looms before me, lamped in unearthly blue. I used to tell myself it was only the moonlight. I used to tell myself that the power my brother brought back with him to Pharaoh’s court was just another of the Earth Spirits by a different name. All wise men knew the Earth Spirits and their rules. They gave certain men the gift of simple tricks, and nothing more. Some had taken names, and the more gullible had worshiped them as Osiris, or Dagon, or Molech. But when I heard ten thousand mothers cry out as one that night, while a Destroyer stalked the streets of Memphis, I knew that this was something different. What did my brother find out there in the wilderness? What has he brought with us?
From inside the tabernacle I hear voices. My brother’s voice, protesting something, asking questions… and someone else. Something answering him inside the tent. I can’t make out the words. The guards outside the door flap stand firm, but their discipline cannot hide their fear. I recognize one of them: Elah, son of Abinidad. He once worked alongside me carving blocks for the temple of Horus.
“Who is inside?” I ask.
“Since we set up the tabernacle this morning, none have entered except Moses,” Elah answers. “It is him inside, and no other. He gave orders that no one was to follow him in.”
The argument grows louder, and suddenly I hear my brother cry out, and something crashes inside the tent. Elah rushes in, and immediately he screams. Even from here I can make out the stench of burning flesh. It smells like the pig meat the Canaanites roast.
When Elah stops screaming, the area is silent. The other guard has fled. With trembling hands I pull back the tent flap and step into the tabernacle.
All the torches have been extinguished, but still the inside is lit. At my feet lies Elah’s body, charred beyond recognition. My brother lies prostrate on the dirt, completely silent, arms outstretched towards the light, the mist, that floats at the center of the room.
“You think to enter my presence, Aaron, son of Amram?” comes the voice like thunder. And after it a second voice, a whisper I hear only in the mind’s shadow: I know your fear. It is also your wisdom. If not for your brother, your fate would be that of the burned man who now writhes in a deeper fire.
“Forgive me…” I drop to one knee.
“I do not forgive,” the voice says. I only ignore. And I will overlook this, for I have need of you.
“Whatever you ask,” I say. “I will do whatever you ask of me.” Whatever it takes to get away from this place.
“It is not fit that your brother alone should bear the burden of the task I have given him,” the voice says. "You shall be my priest. You shall wear the ephod, and the people will tremble before you. Your words will carry my judgment. Your hands will carry the scales of life and death."
“I will carry them gladly.” I try to keep my voice steady. The stench in the tent is overwhelming. When you roast an animal over a spit, the blood is drained first, and the hair is plucked. When you burn a man to death, when the blood boils, when the hair withers in the heat... that is something worse.
“Good,” the voice answers. “And in return, I shall make you great.” Do you think I cannot see you tremble? You only fear me. You do not love me yet. But you will.
“I am not worthy of this task,” I say. “But I will proclaim your power to the people. And when we enter the land you have promised us, I will build you a temple worthy of your glory.”
“That honor may be yours,” the voice answers. “It shall be yours if you are careful to obey. But until then, this tabernacle must suffice. Now, fall on your face before my presence, and worship me.” In my mind, the whisper becomes a scream: WORSHIP ME!!!!
I lay my body before this God, my arms stretching towards the light. I can feel the dirt in my nostrils. The scent of earth is a welcome respite from the smell of burned flesh. My back aches, but I dare not complain. I dare not.
Caleb
The Canaanites are broken.
Through the rain we charge again at their shattered ranks. Over the claps of distant thunder, the battlefield is furious with the sounds of crying wounded, terrified horses, officers shouting futile orders in their foreign tongue.
The chariot before me is stuck in the mud. Desperately the driver lashes out at his horses, but the left wheel of the cart will not budge. The officer on board strikes his driver across the face, ordering him to turn the vehicle around, but the poor slave can no more free the chariot wheel than he can command the winds and rain to stop.
I spring towards them, shield in front, spear held ready. The officer sees me. His arrows spent, his spear lost somewhere in the carnage, he draws his short sword. I jab forward with the spear, forcing his parry. Bronze strikes on bronze as he deflects my spearhead to the side, but he put too much weight into his parry, and he stumbles on the uneven footing. I pull back and thrust the spear forward again. This time it tears through his stomach. Crying out, he clutches at the wound. As I rip the spear from his body, the bronze tip emerges steaming, dripped with blood and shit and bile. The Canaanite collapses. His body is failing him. His god has failed him.
The slave cowers against the side of the chariot. He looks towards his master’s sword for a moment, and then looks back to me. In his hand is only a horsewhip. There is no honor in killing him. I nod towards the distant hills. “Run,” I say to him in his tongue. It was one of the words I learned when we scouted this place. Perhaps my intonation is poor, but he understands. He runs.
The remaining Canaanites are fleeing alongside the slave, running back to their city to spread the news of calamity. This was their last stand; when we assault their walls tomorrow we will face only the old and the cowardly. The smart ones will be leagues from here by then.
Aaron
The camp is always festive after a victory. As I pass among the rows of tents, I hear the moans of the soldiers' wives being fucked. I see the shadows on the tent walls: men and women writhing together, spines arching, legs flailing, pressing their bodies into the friction.
Off to one side, a circle of unmarried young men sit together playing dice. I can see the lustful hunger in their eyes when they look towards the tents, but they would not dare to take any of the virgins. Tomorrow they can sate their lust on Canaanite daughters. They need only be strong until then.
The tabernacle looms before me, lamped in unearthly blue. I used to tell myself it was only the moonlight. I used to tell myself that the power my brother brought back with him to Pharaoh’s court was just another of the Earth Spirits by a different name. All wise men knew the Earth Spirits and their rules. They gave certain men the gift of simple tricks, and nothing more. Some had taken names, and the more gullible had worshiped them as Osiris, or Dagon, or Molech. But when I heard ten thousand mothers cry out as one that night, while a Destroyer stalked the streets of Memphis, I knew that this was something different. What did my brother find out there in the wilderness? What has he brought with us?
From inside the tabernacle I hear voices. My brother’s voice, protesting something, asking questions… and someone else. Something answering him inside the tent. I can’t make out the words. The guards outside the door flap stand firm, but their discipline cannot hide their fear. I recognize one of them: Elah, son of Abinidad. He once worked alongside me carving blocks for the temple of Horus.
“Who is inside?” I ask.
“Since we set up the tabernacle this morning, none have entered except Moses,” Elah answers. “It is him inside, and no other. He gave orders that no one was to follow him in.”
The argument grows louder, and suddenly I hear my brother cry out, and something crashes inside the tent. Elah rushes in, and immediately he screams. Even from here I can make out the stench of burning flesh. It smells like the pig meat the Canaanites roast.
When Elah stops screaming, the area is silent. The other guard has fled. With trembling hands I pull back the tent flap and step into the tabernacle.
All the torches have been extinguished, but still the inside is lit. At my feet lies Elah’s body, charred beyond recognition. My brother lies prostrate on the dirt, completely silent, arms outstretched towards the light, the mist, that floats at the center of the room.
“You think to enter my presence, Aaron, son of Amram?” comes the voice like thunder. And after it a second voice, a whisper I hear only in the mind’s shadow: I know your fear. It is also your wisdom. If not for your brother, your fate would be that of the burned man who now writhes in a deeper fire.
“Forgive me…” I drop to one knee.
“I do not forgive,” the voice says. I only ignore. And I will overlook this, for I have need of you.
“Whatever you ask,” I say. “I will do whatever you ask of me.” Whatever it takes to get away from this place.
“It is not fit that your brother alone should bear the burden of the task I have given him,” the voice says. "You shall be my priest. You shall wear the ephod, and the people will tremble before you. Your words will carry my judgment. Your hands will carry the scales of life and death."
“I will carry them gladly.” I try to keep my voice steady. The stench in the tent is overwhelming. When you roast an animal over a spit, the blood is drained first, and the hair is plucked. When you burn a man to death, when the blood boils, when the hair withers in the heat... that is something worse.
“Good,” the voice answers. “And in return, I shall make you great.” Do you think I cannot see you tremble? You only fear me. You do not love me yet. But you will.
“I am not worthy of this task,” I say. “But I will proclaim your power to the people. And when we enter the land you have promised us, I will build you a temple worthy of your glory.”
“That honor may be yours,” the voice answers. “It shall be yours if you are careful to obey. But until then, this tabernacle must suffice. Now, fall on your face before my presence, and worship me.” In my mind, the whisper becomes a scream: WORSHIP ME!!!!
I lay my body before this God, my arms stretching towards the light. I can feel the dirt in my nostrils. The scent of earth is a welcome respite from the smell of burned flesh. My back aches, but I dare not complain. I dare not.
The Kings
The king, Jonathan, stood at the balcony of his castle and ordered the people of his fiefdom to stop their rebellion. It wasn't his fault that the debts he had to pay off to other kingdoms could only be paid by taxes. Now, these people stood at his castle door, demanding him to treat them fairly.
Well, Jonathan figured he could treat them all fairly. So, he stormed down the stairs of the castle to the front doors, ordered his guards to open the doors, and grabbed his double-barreled shotgun.
Jonathan unloaded as the doors opened. The first ten people in the crowd got knocked down from the force of the blast instantly, blood streaming everywhere. Jonathan reloaded and unloaded again into the crowd, finding another hundred targets. He repeated this a few times, until everyone was dead or limping away from the scene.
The guards closed the doors and led the king to his dining room for dinner. He was starved after all that fairness he dealt out. In front of him sat a large turkey roast. Jonathan tore off a leg and chomped down. His guards tried to join him, but he took out his Uzi from under the table and shot them all dead, too.
After finishing the delicious turkey roast, the king went up to his bed to sleep with his wife, who heard everything. She was so terrified that she didn't want to leave the bedroom, for she was afraid he would kill her too. As he walked up the steps, she grabbed the two Glock 19s she hid under her pillow every night, and aimed them at the door.
The door opened, and the king shot the guns from her hands. In his hands was his trusty double-barreled shotgun.
Jonathan told her: "My dear, I have the upper hand."
She looked at him with disgust, and ran at him with her mouth foaming in anger. He shot her in the chest twice, and she fell over, dead.
The day's events were finally at a close, and Jonathan slept soundly in his bed that night.
-
Every other kingdom in the land heard of the terrible crimes Jonathan committed on his subjects, and vowed to work together to bring him down. Unbeknownst to them, Jonathan had a nuclear bomb hidden in his basement.
Jonathan did not know that the others were conspiring against him, but as they finally advanced on his castle with all of their troops, he found that the last act of his was to detonate his nuclear bomb.
Once again, the king stood at his balcony and called out to the people who were at his door. In his hand, a football with codes to detonate the bomb laid easily.
"You people down there! Do not come closer, for if you do, then you are declaring war on my kingdom, and I will respond with utmost force!"
The people didn't listen, and Jonathan detonated the bomb, destroying everything in a twenty mile radius, including a few other kingdoms.
-
The other kingdoms that survived met once again, but blamed every other kingdom for the detonation of the bomb. One by one, the kings were shot in the back by an assassin.
The man that shot them all stood on the table, surrounded by blood. He said only: "For dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return."
The king, Jonathan, stood at the balcony of his castle and ordered the people of his fiefdom to stop their rebellion. It wasn't his fault that the debts he had to pay off to other kingdoms could only be paid by taxes. Now, these people stood at his castle door, demanding him to treat them fairly.
Well, Jonathan figured he could treat them all fairly. So, he stormed down the stairs of the castle to the front doors, ordered his guards to open the doors, and grabbed his double-barreled shotgun.
Jonathan unloaded as the doors opened. The first ten people in the crowd got knocked down from the force of the blast instantly, blood streaming everywhere. Jonathan reloaded and unloaded again into the crowd, finding another hundred targets. He repeated this a few times, until everyone was dead or limping away from the scene.
The guards closed the doors and led the king to his dining room for dinner. He was starved after all that fairness he dealt out. In front of him sat a large turkey roast. Jonathan tore off a leg and chomped down. His guards tried to join him, but he took out his Uzi from under the table and shot them all dead, too.
After finishing the delicious turkey roast, the king went up to his bed to sleep with his wife, who heard everything. She was so terrified that she didn't want to leave the bedroom, for she was afraid he would kill her too. As he walked up the steps, she grabbed the two Glock 19s she hid under her pillow every night, and aimed them at the door.
The door opened, and the king shot the guns from her hands. In his hands was his trusty double-barreled shotgun.
Jonathan told her: "My dear, I have the upper hand."
She looked at him with disgust, and ran at him with her mouth foaming in anger. He shot her in the chest twice, and she fell over, dead.
The day's events were finally at a close, and Jonathan slept soundly in his bed that night.
-
Every other kingdom in the land heard of the terrible crimes Jonathan committed on his subjects, and vowed to work together to bring him down. Unbeknownst to them, Jonathan had a nuclear bomb hidden in his basement.
Jonathan did not know that the others were conspiring against him, but as they finally advanced on his castle with all of their troops, he found that the last act of his was to detonate his nuclear bomb.
Once again, the king stood at his balcony and called out to the people who were at his door. In his hand, a football with codes to detonate the bomb laid easily.
"You people down there! Do not come closer, for if you do, then you are declaring war on my kingdom, and I will respond with utmost force!"
The people didn't listen, and Jonathan detonated the bomb, destroying everything in a twenty mile radius, including a few other kingdoms.
-
The other kingdoms that survived met once again, but blamed every other kingdom for the detonation of the bomb. One by one, the kings were shot in the back by an assassin.
The man that shot them all stood on the table, surrounded by blood. He said only: "For dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return."
"I Am" or "Clay" (1165 words)
http://dl.dropbox.com/u/12382966/I%20Am%20or%20Clay.pdf
Secondary objective: I wanted to play a bit with tense, but only did in the very beginning. Nevertheless, I wanted to try present tense, and first person. If you have any feedback on how it changes my usual style, that's great. Also I guess since I was trying new stuff, I threw in some music. If it bugs you, just ignore the suggestion. Oh, and I was trying to go for something that invokes more of an artistic mood rather than that of what I usually write -- which I think is usually so concrete.
http://dl.dropbox.com/u/12382966/I%20Am%20or%20Clay.pdf
Secondary objective: I wanted to play a bit with tense, but only did in the very beginning. Nevertheless, I wanted to try present tense, and first person. If you have any feedback on how it changes my usual style, that's great. Also I guess since I was trying new stuff, I threw in some music. If it bugs you, just ignore the suggestion. Oh, and I was trying to go for something that invokes more of an artistic mood rather than that of what I usually write -- which I think is usually so concrete.
Elfforkusu
Member
Secondary objective: exceed word count
Status: met!
Aether (2343 words)
Block by block, beam by beam, weld by weld, they had built this place. From the ground up. Well, "ground up" wasn't quite right.
It was bitter work. There was nothing here, and zero G maneuvers with heavy machinery and volatile chemicals was a recipe for more than a few accidents. But every worker to the last was a volunteer, some far-flung decedent, in spirit if not in blood, of the wagoners and frontiersmen of the old Oregon trail. They had come to Lagrange 5 for work, for a future, and by the name of God they weren't going to let the occasional de-pressurization or case of radiation sickness stop them.
Where there had been nothing, now there was something. They had built this place on top of the ether.
Ernest Lee had been a young man from Texas when he was recruited by a contracting firm to do welding for the outer shell of L501, the first space colony to enclose a full city with earth gravity in the vacuum of space. Work back home had been scarce, and he had taken the offer. Even if he'd had a steady job, being a part of history was too tempting to pass up. Many of his compatriots were the same way -- taking the offer, and jetting into the harsh conditions of outer space with little more than pennies to their names.
There were no decent living quarters, no livable habitat. They were the ones building the habitat. Still, they did it. The first completed section went into low-speed rotation less than 11 months after they had begun. It had no atmosphere, but it did have more and more pressurized buildings, and living quarters in oh-five G. Those had been the best times.
When they finished, when all the pieces were linked up into a majestic, marvelous rotating wheel, there had still been work left to do. Buildings -- real ones now, not temporary dormitories -- had to go up, and the life support systems had to be dug out of the hard rock that had been laid in the first stage. The whole thing had been hell, but it had been fun. Not a single person really knew what he or she was doing, but somehow the city began to sustain itself, and people began to come to space no longer just to die, but to live.
They had built this place on top of the ether. But as it turned out, not for themselves.
Ernest, like his compatriots, found there was no place for him. After Construction, he had found his working prospects much the same as they had been back home. But this time, there was no place to go. He couldn't afford an apartment in the rapidly growing metropolis, and could no sooner afford an expensive shuttle ticket back to earth. He was cut off. So he wandered, he begged. One day, years later, he found himself in one of the sewers, in some of the tunnels he himself had dug. He had a cheap light, enough to see how dark it was but not much else. The stench was unbearable. The trash here, an assortment of every god-forsaken thing that came storming down the city drains, would be harvested for energy, purified, and recirculated into the water supply. But none of those things had happened yet. It was putrid. What's worse, there was a body.
Dead. He'd known this woman, a playful thing with a penchant for fixing machinery in zero G. Her name had been Patricia. Her skin was dried out, her body thin and frail. She been dead for a while now, evidently.
There was no place to bury the dead in space. He moved on, deeper into the tunnel.
He trudged further on, his nose somehow learning to ignore the smell. It was stunningly quiet. The concrete-like walls blocked the noise from the city above, and below there was no noise to be heard. The sound of his footsteps in the wet trash was all that separated him from Patricia.
Another hour, another body. A young boy. Gone, dried out the same way. His clothes and skin were colored so thoroughly from the filth that he was nearly unrecognizable. Ernest dug him out, resting his small head against the wall.
Another hour, another body. This time an old man. Dead. There was nothing more to see, nothing more to say.
The sewer dried up. If he hadn't been so covered in filth himself, Ernest thought the smell might've faded away as well. There was a fork in the darkness, a nightmarish choice between right and left. He stopped for minutes, staring, waiting. In the profound silence, an echo of metal chains reached his ears.
"Hello?" he heard himself call out. "Is there anyone in there?"
In response, the chains grew louder.
"Ho there!"
He looked up, and saw a torch in the dry darkness. A grizzled man squinted at him out of the light. A pair of broken metal shackles hung loosely around his hands.
"Ernest?"
"Guilty as charged," Ernest answered with a smile despite himself. "You don't look good, Rog."
"Takes one to know one, asshole," Rog fired back with a gruesome grin. "Gallows humor was never my style, but the tunnels change ya."
"Tunnels?" asked Ernest.
"Ya, where ya are now. Nothin' but dry wanderin' from here to the central HQ."
"Which one of you bastards did this shoddy workmanship?" Ernest asked, motioning to the uneven cuts that made up the low tunnel over their heads.
"Gary, I reckon. Idiot got himself killed right at the end. Cave in."
"Right, I remember," Ernest grimaced. He stopped to think. If Rog was down here, who else was? And though the man didn't look fashionable, he did seem suspiciously well fed. "Where are you living these days?"
Rog smiled, turning and waving his arm. "I'll show ya."
They walked for another fifteen or so minutes, taking lefts and rights and ups and downs that shamed every videogame maze he'd ever tackled. Still, Rog never lost his way. They finally came to a small clearing of sorts, a wide space about 30 feet wide. The tunnel continued on, but there were makeshift tents here, torches, and people. And... what was that? It smelled like... food.
Ernest's train of thought stopped as a woman approached. She was tall and slender, and moved with a grace that stood out all the more against the flimsy tents all around them. Her hair was cut short, her clothes were patched all over with mismatched cloth, and lines of aged wear were written all over her face. Still, he knew this woman. Unlikely he could forget, even if he tried.
"June?"
"Hi, Ernest," she smiled.
"Do you run this show?" he asked, peering around.
"I do. We'll welcome you to the fold, if you'd like. But first, let's get you cleaned up." She turned. "April!"
At her call, a teenage girl stepped out of a tent, a towel in hand and her face staring half forward and half to the ground. She was colored slightly with dirt and grime, and her short, jet black hair was frayed, but she seemed pretty to Ernest's appraising eyes. Pretty, but quiet. Without a word, she led him into a tent to get cleaned up.
***
They were all trapped. Rog, June, Ernest -- all of them. They'd built this cage, and now they were trapped in it.
"It's a slog, but we manage," June's clear voice called out from behind a small flashlight. Behind her stood Ernest, Rog, and a few other members of a search party. They were scavenging through the trash. A decapitated teddy bear lay next to her boot, in a pool of murky, probably undrinkable water.
"Somehow," she added with distaste.
"Where does the food come from?" Ernest asked inquisitively. That and the clean water -- those were the two things that were the most important, and neither's existence made sense to him.
"The food we scavenge from the surface. The water," June said, seeming to read his mind, "is a charity." She elaborated no further, but Ernest nodded.
"No jobs, no money," he mused aloud. "Just survival."
"The god damned truth," Rog muttered. "Can't even get thrown in jail. Tried robbing a bank a month ago, they threw me right back down here."
"Well, it's better than being dead," June offered.
"The god damned truth," Rog repeated, though less definitively.
***
Step, step, step. The tunnel was steep. This was the way to the surface. There were three -- June, Ernest, and young April. The women were dressed in surprisingly decent clothes, presumably the best they had. Ernest was wearing the stained rags he had shown up in.
"There's one sure, guaranteed way to make money," June explained, "...wherever you go."
"And that is?" asked Ernest, not sure what she was getting at.
"Prostitution."
"You wouldn't," Ernest gaped.
"You would," June answered calmly. "If you had to. Every man has his price, every woman has hers." She let it sink in, and for a long moment he stared at her uncomprehendingly. "Don't take me for being cheap though, kiddo." Somehow, she smiled. Ernest winced.
"Where's April?"
The girl had given them the slip. Quickly, with June leading the way, they retraced their steps, taking a side fork in the path. There, in the distance, a thin shadow stood against a bright backdrop. The dark, haphazard tunnel gave way to brilliant (relatively speaking) orange light, metal walls, and architectural precision.
"The nearest outpost," June offered.
Ernest stepped forward, approaching the young woman that stood at the threshold. April turned at the sound of footsteps. She looked at him sadly, her face thoughtful.
"I've said it a hundred times," June smiled, "It's not safe to come here alone, April."
"Why not?" Ernest asked.
"It's a military outpost. We don't linger here even when there aren't soldiers present. The walls are alive somehow, and orange lights beat with the rhythm of a pulsing heart."
April looked to the older woman, and she smiled. Then she spoke in a soft, flowing tenor.
"Every colony has a computer," she explained. "You shouldn't be scared of it. It's just a little lonely. And it's trapped here, just like all of us."
The two adults traded a glance, and without protest, April joined their convoy. After another five minutes, they poked their heads through a manhole and stepped onto a quiet sidewalk.
"There is a, shall we say, 'classier' alternative," June was saying. Ernest nodded, his eyes taking in the familiar sights of the nighttime city streets. He thought he recognized the closed pizza shop at the corner. He'd tried to find work there at least a dozen times.
"Which is?"
"Dowry. A lovely young lady, proposed to by a wealthy young or old man, can secure a fortune by our standards."
"That's almost just as vile," Ernest spat.
"It's the girl's choice," June said simply. Ernest's eyes fell to April, whose young, pretty face stared at the ground. He suddenly understood why the girl was so well dressed.
What unfolded in the hours that followed put a pit in the man's stomach. It was not overly offensive, and every wealthy man that arrived to court Miss April was indeed courteous to the point of near comedy, but the whole scenario felt subversive and horrifying. Each man, after spending some fifteen minutes to half and hour in the company of the young lady (depending on her patience) would make some sort of offer to June. And, for her part, April seemed to be expected to choose a suitor, if any were indeed worthy. The "winner" would pay June the dowry, and April would leave with her future husband, never to be seen again by the poor scamps in the underground slums.
This was not Miss April's first such trip, June informed him some two hours into the midnight proceedings. And Ernest could tell, even without that information. The girl looked comfortable, somehow. Like she belonged in the midst of these rich folks, a cut above worthless scamps like himself and June.
It was not April first trip, but it would be her last. Shortly past 3 AM, the girl picked a suitor -- a middle aged man with a cane, a monocle, and a brilliant mind and demeanor. It seemed likely she would be more like a daughter to him that anything else, and Ernest marked him with a smile. Seemed likely, but you could never tell what might be lurking beneath the surface. Still, all he could do was hope for the best, for the sake of the girl and his own sanity.
At 5 AM, as dawn was breaking, the two dropped back underground.
***
The old man on the street corner danced his weary feet off, sliding from side to side in his ragged clothes, and offering his hat to any passerby that came within arm's reach. By his feet, a small board read in hand-written scrawl, "Homeless". Most that passed quietly winced. Some snorted in audible derision. A youth dropped a dollar into the hat as he went, but wouldn't meet the man's gaze.
"Christ, check this out! There are even bums in space."
The old man peered out to the source of a voice, an officer in a white suit and hat wearing a gold-plated necklace. The officer passed him, not offering a second glance or comment -- or money. Ernest smiled weakly, readying his jig for the next passerby.
Out of the corner of his eye, a vision of loveliness approached. She wore a flowing golden dress, and her long black hair swayed with each graceful stride she made. He felt his heart well up inside his chest. Without hesitation, she walked up to him, slipped a pearl into his shabby coat pocket, and kissed him lightly on the cheek.
"Keep up the good work, dad," she said, sweeping past him and on down the road.
"Thank you, April," he answered.
Status: met!
Aether (2343 words)
Block by block, beam by beam, weld by weld, they had built this place. From the ground up. Well, "ground up" wasn't quite right.
It was bitter work. There was nothing here, and zero G maneuvers with heavy machinery and volatile chemicals was a recipe for more than a few accidents. But every worker to the last was a volunteer, some far-flung decedent, in spirit if not in blood, of the wagoners and frontiersmen of the old Oregon trail. They had come to Lagrange 5 for work, for a future, and by the name of God they weren't going to let the occasional de-pressurization or case of radiation sickness stop them.
Where there had been nothing, now there was something. They had built this place on top of the ether.
Ernest Lee had been a young man from Texas when he was recruited by a contracting firm to do welding for the outer shell of L501, the first space colony to enclose a full city with earth gravity in the vacuum of space. Work back home had been scarce, and he had taken the offer. Even if he'd had a steady job, being a part of history was too tempting to pass up. Many of his compatriots were the same way -- taking the offer, and jetting into the harsh conditions of outer space with little more than pennies to their names.
There were no decent living quarters, no livable habitat. They were the ones building the habitat. Still, they did it. The first completed section went into low-speed rotation less than 11 months after they had begun. It had no atmosphere, but it did have more and more pressurized buildings, and living quarters in oh-five G. Those had been the best times.
When they finished, when all the pieces were linked up into a majestic, marvelous rotating wheel, there had still been work left to do. Buildings -- real ones now, not temporary dormitories -- had to go up, and the life support systems had to be dug out of the hard rock that had been laid in the first stage. The whole thing had been hell, but it had been fun. Not a single person really knew what he or she was doing, but somehow the city began to sustain itself, and people began to come to space no longer just to die, but to live.
They had built this place on top of the ether. But as it turned out, not for themselves.
Ernest, like his compatriots, found there was no place for him. After Construction, he had found his working prospects much the same as they had been back home. But this time, there was no place to go. He couldn't afford an apartment in the rapidly growing metropolis, and could no sooner afford an expensive shuttle ticket back to earth. He was cut off. So he wandered, he begged. One day, years later, he found himself in one of the sewers, in some of the tunnels he himself had dug. He had a cheap light, enough to see how dark it was but not much else. The stench was unbearable. The trash here, an assortment of every god-forsaken thing that came storming down the city drains, would be harvested for energy, purified, and recirculated into the water supply. But none of those things had happened yet. It was putrid. What's worse, there was a body.
Dead. He'd known this woman, a playful thing with a penchant for fixing machinery in zero G. Her name had been Patricia. Her skin was dried out, her body thin and frail. She been dead for a while now, evidently.
There was no place to bury the dead in space. He moved on, deeper into the tunnel.
He trudged further on, his nose somehow learning to ignore the smell. It was stunningly quiet. The concrete-like walls blocked the noise from the city above, and below there was no noise to be heard. The sound of his footsteps in the wet trash was all that separated him from Patricia.
Another hour, another body. A young boy. Gone, dried out the same way. His clothes and skin were colored so thoroughly from the filth that he was nearly unrecognizable. Ernest dug him out, resting his small head against the wall.
Another hour, another body. This time an old man. Dead. There was nothing more to see, nothing more to say.
The sewer dried up. If he hadn't been so covered in filth himself, Ernest thought the smell might've faded away as well. There was a fork in the darkness, a nightmarish choice between right and left. He stopped for minutes, staring, waiting. In the profound silence, an echo of metal chains reached his ears.
"Hello?" he heard himself call out. "Is there anyone in there?"
In response, the chains grew louder.
"Ho there!"
He looked up, and saw a torch in the dry darkness. A grizzled man squinted at him out of the light. A pair of broken metal shackles hung loosely around his hands.
"Ernest?"
"Guilty as charged," Ernest answered with a smile despite himself. "You don't look good, Rog."
"Takes one to know one, asshole," Rog fired back with a gruesome grin. "Gallows humor was never my style, but the tunnels change ya."
"Tunnels?" asked Ernest.
"Ya, where ya are now. Nothin' but dry wanderin' from here to the central HQ."
"Which one of you bastards did this shoddy workmanship?" Ernest asked, motioning to the uneven cuts that made up the low tunnel over their heads.
"Gary, I reckon. Idiot got himself killed right at the end. Cave in."
"Right, I remember," Ernest grimaced. He stopped to think. If Rog was down here, who else was? And though the man didn't look fashionable, he did seem suspiciously well fed. "Where are you living these days?"
Rog smiled, turning and waving his arm. "I'll show ya."
They walked for another fifteen or so minutes, taking lefts and rights and ups and downs that shamed every videogame maze he'd ever tackled. Still, Rog never lost his way. They finally came to a small clearing of sorts, a wide space about 30 feet wide. The tunnel continued on, but there were makeshift tents here, torches, and people. And... what was that? It smelled like... food.
Ernest's train of thought stopped as a woman approached. She was tall and slender, and moved with a grace that stood out all the more against the flimsy tents all around them. Her hair was cut short, her clothes were patched all over with mismatched cloth, and lines of aged wear were written all over her face. Still, he knew this woman. Unlikely he could forget, even if he tried.
"June?"
"Hi, Ernest," she smiled.
"Do you run this show?" he asked, peering around.
"I do. We'll welcome you to the fold, if you'd like. But first, let's get you cleaned up." She turned. "April!"
At her call, a teenage girl stepped out of a tent, a towel in hand and her face staring half forward and half to the ground. She was colored slightly with dirt and grime, and her short, jet black hair was frayed, but she seemed pretty to Ernest's appraising eyes. Pretty, but quiet. Without a word, she led him into a tent to get cleaned up.
***
They were all trapped. Rog, June, Ernest -- all of them. They'd built this cage, and now they were trapped in it.
"It's a slog, but we manage," June's clear voice called out from behind a small flashlight. Behind her stood Ernest, Rog, and a few other members of a search party. They were scavenging through the trash. A decapitated teddy bear lay next to her boot, in a pool of murky, probably undrinkable water.
"Somehow," she added with distaste.
"Where does the food come from?" Ernest asked inquisitively. That and the clean water -- those were the two things that were the most important, and neither's existence made sense to him.
"The food we scavenge from the surface. The water," June said, seeming to read his mind, "is a charity." She elaborated no further, but Ernest nodded.
"No jobs, no money," he mused aloud. "Just survival."
"The god damned truth," Rog muttered. "Can't even get thrown in jail. Tried robbing a bank a month ago, they threw me right back down here."
"Well, it's better than being dead," June offered.
"The god damned truth," Rog repeated, though less definitively.
***
Step, step, step. The tunnel was steep. This was the way to the surface. There were three -- June, Ernest, and young April. The women were dressed in surprisingly decent clothes, presumably the best they had. Ernest was wearing the stained rags he had shown up in.
"There's one sure, guaranteed way to make money," June explained, "...wherever you go."
"And that is?" asked Ernest, not sure what she was getting at.
"Prostitution."
"You wouldn't," Ernest gaped.
"You would," June answered calmly. "If you had to. Every man has his price, every woman has hers." She let it sink in, and for a long moment he stared at her uncomprehendingly. "Don't take me for being cheap though, kiddo." Somehow, she smiled. Ernest winced.
"Where's April?"
The girl had given them the slip. Quickly, with June leading the way, they retraced their steps, taking a side fork in the path. There, in the distance, a thin shadow stood against a bright backdrop. The dark, haphazard tunnel gave way to brilliant (relatively speaking) orange light, metal walls, and architectural precision.
"The nearest outpost," June offered.
Ernest stepped forward, approaching the young woman that stood at the threshold. April turned at the sound of footsteps. She looked at him sadly, her face thoughtful.
"I've said it a hundred times," June smiled, "It's not safe to come here alone, April."
"Why not?" Ernest asked.
"It's a military outpost. We don't linger here even when there aren't soldiers present. The walls are alive somehow, and orange lights beat with the rhythm of a pulsing heart."
April looked to the older woman, and she smiled. Then she spoke in a soft, flowing tenor.
"Every colony has a computer," she explained. "You shouldn't be scared of it. It's just a little lonely. And it's trapped here, just like all of us."
The two adults traded a glance, and without protest, April joined their convoy. After another five minutes, they poked their heads through a manhole and stepped onto a quiet sidewalk.
"There is a, shall we say, 'classier' alternative," June was saying. Ernest nodded, his eyes taking in the familiar sights of the nighttime city streets. He thought he recognized the closed pizza shop at the corner. He'd tried to find work there at least a dozen times.
"Which is?"
"Dowry. A lovely young lady, proposed to by a wealthy young or old man, can secure a fortune by our standards."
"That's almost just as vile," Ernest spat.
"It's the girl's choice," June said simply. Ernest's eyes fell to April, whose young, pretty face stared at the ground. He suddenly understood why the girl was so well dressed.
What unfolded in the hours that followed put a pit in the man's stomach. It was not overly offensive, and every wealthy man that arrived to court Miss April was indeed courteous to the point of near comedy, but the whole scenario felt subversive and horrifying. Each man, after spending some fifteen minutes to half and hour in the company of the young lady (depending on her patience) would make some sort of offer to June. And, for her part, April seemed to be expected to choose a suitor, if any were indeed worthy. The "winner" would pay June the dowry, and April would leave with her future husband, never to be seen again by the poor scamps in the underground slums.
This was not Miss April's first such trip, June informed him some two hours into the midnight proceedings. And Ernest could tell, even without that information. The girl looked comfortable, somehow. Like she belonged in the midst of these rich folks, a cut above worthless scamps like himself and June.
It was not April first trip, but it would be her last. Shortly past 3 AM, the girl picked a suitor -- a middle aged man with a cane, a monocle, and a brilliant mind and demeanor. It seemed likely she would be more like a daughter to him that anything else, and Ernest marked him with a smile. Seemed likely, but you could never tell what might be lurking beneath the surface. Still, all he could do was hope for the best, for the sake of the girl and his own sanity.
At 5 AM, as dawn was breaking, the two dropped back underground.
***
The old man on the street corner danced his weary feet off, sliding from side to side in his ragged clothes, and offering his hat to any passerby that came within arm's reach. By his feet, a small board read in hand-written scrawl, "Homeless". Most that passed quietly winced. Some snorted in audible derision. A youth dropped a dollar into the hat as he went, but wouldn't meet the man's gaze.
"Christ, check this out! There are even bums in space."
The old man peered out to the source of a voice, an officer in a white suit and hat wearing a gold-plated necklace. The officer passed him, not offering a second glance or comment -- or money. Ernest smiled weakly, readying his jig for the next passerby.
Out of the corner of his eye, a vision of loveliness approached. She wore a flowing golden dress, and her long black hair swayed with each graceful stride she made. He felt his heart well up inside his chest. Without hesitation, she walked up to him, slipped a pearl into his shabby coat pocket, and kissed him lightly on the cheek.
"Keep up the good work, dad," she said, sweeping past him and on down the road.
"Thank you, April," he answered.
I have 29 minutes to cut 27 words. My god... MY GOD.
Doooo it! I'm already ridiculously late... again.
British Monsoon
Member
The dreams always preceded a full moon, on darkened nights scant of cloud and thick of wind that whipped the trees into a cacophony outside of Pavels workshop. The man in his dreams had been his mirror image once, when they were both small, but the years had passed and the dreams had gradually shown exactly how their lives had differed. First and foremost, Pavel had stayed at home and learnt his Fathers craft, while his ethereal double had gone off to the city and made his way in science. At first these dreams stung Pavel as he felt them taunting at him, reminding him of the opportunity he had missed by staying on as his Fathers apprentice, but it didn't take long for what, once, had been his mirror image to become wholly unrecognisable to Pavel.
It began, of course, with his mirrors announcement that he was leaving the family business to head to the big city. The strains it put on the mirrors relationship with his Father only reinforced Pavels belief that his Father would have been crushed had he chosen to leave. The mirror version of Mother was upset and afraid for her only child, but secretly supportive of his desire to see more of the world. Later, she would remind her husband that they would always be there should their son ever want to return, to which the old man gave only a disbelieving grunt of one who fears his craft will die with him, but lacks the words, or perhaps the will, to express it to his son.
And then the mirror Pavel left home and his parents and headed out into the world. These were the dreams Pavel found most trying, as his mirror self was exposed to a wealth of experiences and opportunities which he was denied, so far from the city. It was during these months that he cursed the strange dreams that had visited him without fail since the eve of his sixteenth birthday and the blinding meteor shower that had streaked across the sky that night. But eventually he had come to look on his dreams as inspiration, using the images that taunted him to drive him on he threw himself into his Fathers lessons and was soon an apprentice no longer, but a craftsman in his own right.
Meanwhile, his mirror selfs stock was rising and, unbeknown to Pavel, he was having dreams of his own that he too had used to inspire him and drive him onward as he graduated with honours from college and earned a prestigious research grant. Pavel continued to work in his Fathers workshop, slowly taking over more of the duties until one day his Father retired and it was Pavels workshop. Hed married also, a sweet girl a few years younger that hed met one drunken eve. This was the point in the tale, however, when one Pavels fortunes started to fade.
Pavel the Scientist, so earnest in his theories of the alternate realities he visited in his dreams and the disastrous experiments to bridge the gap between here and there, was drummed out of the scientific community. A laughingstock, he was left near-penniless, without a job and with no company that would dare hire him, he was forced to return home. His Father, now too old to impart the fire of his craft to one left so bitter and hate-filled by his failure, glared disapprovingly as his son ineptly worked at the wood with clumsy taps of the chisel. In his dreams, Pavel felt immeasurably saddened.
Years passed and Pavel had tried his best to forget the dreams that still visited him, a dark cloud upon an otherwise comfortable life. His Father had passed away content in the knowledge that his craft was handed down to a worthy successor, and now the workshop held only Pavels name. The pay was good, but the style of the times was for function more than form, and much of the work that paid Pavels bills was devoid of any artful flourishes. In his spare time he liked to carve, statues mostly, cheap, unfit for sale imitations of the classical work that had once made his Fathers workshop moderately famous in the region.
His mirror self continued to wallow and Pavel thought that, as he once had, his double was beginning to resent the dreams. But then, the gaunt and twisted alternate version of Pavel began to exhibit change. He knuckled down at the workshop and, although his work would never approach that quality of Pavels own, he became serviceable in his craft. The money he earned, he saved, rather than fritter away on alcohol, and then one day, with savings in hand, he began to build his own little workshop that wasn't a workshop at all, it was a laboratory. He seemed invigorated for the first time in years and Pavel was truly pleased for his other self who, really, had been a constant companion for nearly half of Pavels life.
And it was on his thirty-second birthday, exactly sixteen years the anniversary from that fateful, meteor speckled night, that Pavels other self made a breakthrough. With all manner of wires and machines that hummed and purred in the darkened room of his laboratory, the alternate Pavel veritably grinned with glee as he checked and double checked glowing systems that Pavel could only guess at their function as the dream came to a close. The next month passed as many others, with the notable exception of the good news that Pavels wife was pregnant, as Pavel continued to labour in his workshop, building tables and chairs and carving his little statues. He was thoroughly contended with his life and could only be glad that fortunes were looking up for his double.
The next dream was strange, however, for Pavel found himself not looking at the now-familiar face of his other self, but at his own visage as he worked a piece of wood on the lathe, features taut with concentration. At length his wife came in with a cup of tea and a kiss on his cheek and they talked long about their hopes and dreams for the future. Later, a man from the garden centre came to enquire whether Pavel would sell his little carved wood statues there, as the perfect centrepiece for a fountain or flower bed, and Pavel consented, inviting the man in for a drink to toast their deal. Then the images started to fade and Pavel found himself once more returning to the world of the awakened.
But when he opened his eyes, it was not into the face of his wife he stared, but into the bare and rough attic room above the workshop that he had lived in as a child. With a start Pavel jumped to his feet. This wasnt his room anymore, hell, it wasnt even a bedroom anymore, Pavel now simply used it as storage space. He clattered down the stairs and into the workshop, stopping in horror as he glanced around. Gone, were the modern tools and equipment he had bought with his inheritance, replaced by the old and worn tools his Father had spent so many years huddled over. He retreated to the rear of the workshop, his mind awash with confused thoughts as he stared at pale and wan fingers, translucent skin stretched across bony flesh, and there came face to face with whatever had happened to him.
Here in the back of the workshop, machines hummed. The experiments his other self had been performing, their purpose unfathomable to Pavel, were laid out before him in a state of disarray. Everything seemed alive with current, so much so that he could feel the electricity passing about this place. That was when he caught sight of the mirror out of the corner of his eye and at once rushed over to its misty frame. He was no longer Pavel, he realised with a chilling shock, but rather his other self. The lines that marred his face, the rings that darkly encircled eyes that involuntarily twitched to an fro about their sockets. Everything about his appearance was wrong and now, Pavel realised with a grim and despairing certainty, he had become the man in the mirror.
It began, of course, with his mirrors announcement that he was leaving the family business to head to the big city. The strains it put on the mirrors relationship with his Father only reinforced Pavels belief that his Father would have been crushed had he chosen to leave. The mirror version of Mother was upset and afraid for her only child, but secretly supportive of his desire to see more of the world. Later, she would remind her husband that they would always be there should their son ever want to return, to which the old man gave only a disbelieving grunt of one who fears his craft will die with him, but lacks the words, or perhaps the will, to express it to his son.
And then the mirror Pavel left home and his parents and headed out into the world. These were the dreams Pavel found most trying, as his mirror self was exposed to a wealth of experiences and opportunities which he was denied, so far from the city. It was during these months that he cursed the strange dreams that had visited him without fail since the eve of his sixteenth birthday and the blinding meteor shower that had streaked across the sky that night. But eventually he had come to look on his dreams as inspiration, using the images that taunted him to drive him on he threw himself into his Fathers lessons and was soon an apprentice no longer, but a craftsman in his own right.
Meanwhile, his mirror selfs stock was rising and, unbeknown to Pavel, he was having dreams of his own that he too had used to inspire him and drive him onward as he graduated with honours from college and earned a prestigious research grant. Pavel continued to work in his Fathers workshop, slowly taking over more of the duties until one day his Father retired and it was Pavels workshop. Hed married also, a sweet girl a few years younger that hed met one drunken eve. This was the point in the tale, however, when one Pavels fortunes started to fade.
Pavel the Scientist, so earnest in his theories of the alternate realities he visited in his dreams and the disastrous experiments to bridge the gap between here and there, was drummed out of the scientific community. A laughingstock, he was left near-penniless, without a job and with no company that would dare hire him, he was forced to return home. His Father, now too old to impart the fire of his craft to one left so bitter and hate-filled by his failure, glared disapprovingly as his son ineptly worked at the wood with clumsy taps of the chisel. In his dreams, Pavel felt immeasurably saddened.
Years passed and Pavel had tried his best to forget the dreams that still visited him, a dark cloud upon an otherwise comfortable life. His Father had passed away content in the knowledge that his craft was handed down to a worthy successor, and now the workshop held only Pavels name. The pay was good, but the style of the times was for function more than form, and much of the work that paid Pavels bills was devoid of any artful flourishes. In his spare time he liked to carve, statues mostly, cheap, unfit for sale imitations of the classical work that had once made his Fathers workshop moderately famous in the region.
His mirror self continued to wallow and Pavel thought that, as he once had, his double was beginning to resent the dreams. But then, the gaunt and twisted alternate version of Pavel began to exhibit change. He knuckled down at the workshop and, although his work would never approach that quality of Pavels own, he became serviceable in his craft. The money he earned, he saved, rather than fritter away on alcohol, and then one day, with savings in hand, he began to build his own little workshop that wasn't a workshop at all, it was a laboratory. He seemed invigorated for the first time in years and Pavel was truly pleased for his other self who, really, had been a constant companion for nearly half of Pavels life.
And it was on his thirty-second birthday, exactly sixteen years the anniversary from that fateful, meteor speckled night, that Pavels other self made a breakthrough. With all manner of wires and machines that hummed and purred in the darkened room of his laboratory, the alternate Pavel veritably grinned with glee as he checked and double checked glowing systems that Pavel could only guess at their function as the dream came to a close. The next month passed as many others, with the notable exception of the good news that Pavels wife was pregnant, as Pavel continued to labour in his workshop, building tables and chairs and carving his little statues. He was thoroughly contended with his life and could only be glad that fortunes were looking up for his double.
The next dream was strange, however, for Pavel found himself not looking at the now-familiar face of his other self, but at his own visage as he worked a piece of wood on the lathe, features taut with concentration. At length his wife came in with a cup of tea and a kiss on his cheek and they talked long about their hopes and dreams for the future. Later, a man from the garden centre came to enquire whether Pavel would sell his little carved wood statues there, as the perfect centrepiece for a fountain or flower bed, and Pavel consented, inviting the man in for a drink to toast their deal. Then the images started to fade and Pavel found himself once more returning to the world of the awakened.
But when he opened his eyes, it was not into the face of his wife he stared, but into the bare and rough attic room above the workshop that he had lived in as a child. With a start Pavel jumped to his feet. This wasnt his room anymore, hell, it wasnt even a bedroom anymore, Pavel now simply used it as storage space. He clattered down the stairs and into the workshop, stopping in horror as he glanced around. Gone, were the modern tools and equipment he had bought with his inheritance, replaced by the old and worn tools his Father had spent so many years huddled over. He retreated to the rear of the workshop, his mind awash with confused thoughts as he stared at pale and wan fingers, translucent skin stretched across bony flesh, and there came face to face with whatever had happened to him.
Here in the back of the workshop, machines hummed. The experiments his other self had been performing, their purpose unfathomable to Pavel, were laid out before him in a state of disarray. Everything seemed alive with current, so much so that he could feel the electricity passing about this place. That was when he caught sight of the mirror out of the corner of his eye and at once rushed over to its misty frame. He was no longer Pavel, he realised with a chilling shock, but rather his other self. The lines that marred his face, the rings that darkly encircled eyes that involuntarily twitched to an fro about their sockets. Everything about his appearance was wrong and now, Pavel realised with a grim and despairing certainty, he had become the man in the mirror.
The Entries:
Alucard - "Summer's End"
ronito - "And Eve Said No"
Ward - "An Excerpt from the Annals of the Kings"
Puddles - "Exodus"
Grakl - "The Kings"
Tangent - "I Am" or "Clay"
Elfforkusu - "Aether" (ineligible, but please read and comment anyway)
Alfarif - "Breylalen"
Ashes - “Unbind” or “How a House Became a Home”
Cyan - "The Box"
Bootaaay - "Mirrors"
Cyan and Timedog 4ever!
Alucard - "Summer's End"
ronito - "And Eve Said No"
Ward - "An Excerpt from the Annals of the Kings"
Puddles - "Exodus"
Grakl - "The Kings"
Tangent - "I Am" or "Clay"
Elfforkusu - "Aether" (ineligible, but please read and comment anyway)
Alfarif - "Breylalen"
Ashes - “Unbind” or “How a House Became a Home”
Cyan - "The Box"
Bootaaay - "Mirrors"
Cyan and Timedog 4ever!
Anyone reading?
As a reminder, voting deadline is today!
I'm reading! And, at the expense of swimming!
British Monsoon
Member
1. Cyan - "The Box" - inventive premise executed well, with sharp, snappy dialogue and a good deal of fun. Very enjoyable piece.
2. Ashes1396 - “Unbind” or “How a House Became a Home” - very warm and endearing tone throughout this piece, which feels less like a story to me and more like a series of remembered moments and experiences.
3. Tangent - "I Am" or "Clay" - very inventive and well realised piece, although I felt it was a bit confused in places.
HM; Alfarif - "Breylalen", Ward - "An Excerpt from the Annals of the Kings"
.
2. Ashes1396 - “Unbind” or “How a House Became a Home” - very warm and endearing tone throughout this piece, which feels less like a story to me and more like a series of remembered moments and experiences.
3. Tangent - "I Am" or "Clay" - very inventive and well realised piece, although I felt it was a bit confused in places.
HM; Alfarif - "Breylalen", Ward - "An Excerpt from the Annals of the Kings"
That moment when you've read everyone's work and decided to go back and see how your's stacks up in comparison, feels bad man
I'm going to be uncharacteristically critical this time around. I hope no one is offended. I'd like to get the same treatment myself from all of you.
Alucard: Gave my thoughts earlier in the thread.
ronito: Great final sentence. The subject matter has some real weight, and I can tell that this is an important subject for you. And I think you could make this piece a lot better. So here goes:
The beginning didn't really grab my interest. The dialogue seemed perfunctory. I realize there was some signficance to it, but the average reader will lose interest by the fifth line. It didn't really start to grab me until halfway through. You can think up a better way to present those opening bits.
Your dialogue tags need work. You also tell a lot when you could be showing. The paragraph where you talk about all the things she'll miss out on in life should have been extremely powerful, but it felt like it fell just short. Many of these sentences are just short of greatness and could be worded better. But there was some real power shimmering through here and there in the final paragraphs. Do some more work on this piece, and it could be great.
Ward: Great opening line of dialogue. But did the queen actually spit? That's how it comes across. I'm generally not a fan of 'spat' as a dialogue tag, but YMMV. The dialogue is a mixed bag and needs tightening in places. The prose is rough in many places, although I liked the paragraph where the first priest slaughters the bull. But my biggest problem is that anyone who went to Sunday school knows this story inside and out. You're presenting it almost exactly as the Bible does, without bringing much of an original interpretation to the subject matter beyond changing the names. Put us inside the heads of these characters a little more. Do something to differentiate this from the original.
Graki: Since this clearly isn't a serious entry, I won't give any suggestions. It made me chuckle a few times though. Some hints of a talent for comedy show through in this story.
Elfforkusu: The first 7 1/2 paragraphs are exposition that isn't particularly interesting. Why not start with the first dead body and work the backstory in later? Or maybe start with our main character (who is completely inconsequential to the plot) looking out at the city he built. Something like that. Give me a reason to keep reading after the first few sentences.
When we get to the actual story, there's no payoff. An impoverished girl marries herself off to a wealthy middle-aged man. That's it? The whole plot of this piece is resolved in three short paragraphs. You did all this world-building for that little tiny bit of plot? And what was the point of the main character? He crawls through a sewer, meets some people, and watches the young girl get married off? Then, decades later, he sees her on the street? You could do so many more interesting things with this world.
I'll do the rest later.
Alucard: Gave my thoughts earlier in the thread.
ronito: Great final sentence. The subject matter has some real weight, and I can tell that this is an important subject for you. And I think you could make this piece a lot better. So here goes:
The beginning didn't really grab my interest. The dialogue seemed perfunctory. I realize there was some signficance to it, but the average reader will lose interest by the fifth line. It didn't really start to grab me until halfway through. You can think up a better way to present those opening bits.
Your dialogue tags need work. You also tell a lot when you could be showing. The paragraph where you talk about all the things she'll miss out on in life should have been extremely powerful, but it felt like it fell just short. Many of these sentences are just short of greatness and could be worded better. But there was some real power shimmering through here and there in the final paragraphs. Do some more work on this piece, and it could be great.
Ward: Great opening line of dialogue. But did the queen actually spit? That's how it comes across. I'm generally not a fan of 'spat' as a dialogue tag, but YMMV. The dialogue is a mixed bag and needs tightening in places. The prose is rough in many places, although I liked the paragraph where the first priest slaughters the bull. But my biggest problem is that anyone who went to Sunday school knows this story inside and out. You're presenting it almost exactly as the Bible does, without bringing much of an original interpretation to the subject matter beyond changing the names. Put us inside the heads of these characters a little more. Do something to differentiate this from the original.
Graki: Since this clearly isn't a serious entry, I won't give any suggestions. It made me chuckle a few times though. Some hints of a talent for comedy show through in this story.
Elfforkusu: The first 7 1/2 paragraphs are exposition that isn't particularly interesting. Why not start with the first dead body and work the backstory in later? Or maybe start with our main character (who is completely inconsequential to the plot) looking out at the city he built. Something like that. Give me a reason to keep reading after the first few sentences.
When we get to the actual story, there's no payoff. An impoverished girl marries herself off to a wealthy middle-aged man. That's it? The whole plot of this piece is resolved in three short paragraphs. You did all this world-building for that little tiny bit of plot? And what was the point of the main character? He crawls through a sewer, meets some people, and watches the young girl get married off? Then, decades later, he sees her on the street? You could do so many more interesting things with this world.
I'll do the rest later.
I didn't have time to do what I actually wanted to do, so I figured I might as well write something fun real quick. So here we are, haha.
Votes:
1. Bootaaay - "Mirrors"
2. Cyan - "The Box"
I've read the Bostrom paper on simulations before, always great to read a story with ideas from it.
HM - Cyan and Timedog 4ever!
Hopefully, Timedog isn't banned for long.
As always, if you actually want a critique from me, just ask!
Cyan: Great dialogue. Would read again. Would even bring up as the subject of conversation and include in an anthology if I were making one.
Tangent: This was a very nice, very whismical piece. It didn't really gain momentum until halfway through, but the entire work was filled with nice existential musing. Some very nice descriptive work, although I was confused by the phrase "singing a sunset". Bonus points for that Michaelangelo quote. It's really brilliant.
Alfarif: Cool idea, pretty well done. I felt that the big reveal should have had more of an impact. We know it's coming, but it still should have been more of a punch to the gut, and it felt very much by-the-numbers. And I wasn't quite sure what was going on at the very end. Other than that, good job.
Bootaay: Some brilliant prose in here. I liked the idea, but I felt that the structure needed tightening. It would have been really cool if Mirror Pavel had eventually created a machine that made Real Pavel's craft obsolete, or something like that. That might have tied the piece together thematically. As it is, the piece is interesting, but it lacked something, and I'm not sure what. A good idea though.
Ashes: I really loved the voice. This piece interested me the whole way through, and it flowed together very nicely. My only criticism is that it ends a little too abruptly. The last line was brilliant, but it seemed a bit out of rhythm, like there should have been one more paragraph right before the end. Great piece though. There were so many wonderful self-contained lines. I really loved the one about how the best part of traveling is coming home safely. There's a lot to like about this piece.
I'll vote a bit later once I've had more time to think about the entries.
I want a critique from you.
Tangent: This was a very nice, very whismical piece. It didn't really gain momentum until halfway through, but the entire work was filled with nice existential musing. Some very nice descriptive work, although I was confused by the phrase "singing a sunset". Bonus points for that Michaelangelo quote. It's really brilliant.
Alfarif: Cool idea, pretty well done. I felt that the big reveal should have had more of an impact. We know it's coming, but it still should have been more of a punch to the gut, and it felt very much by-the-numbers. And I wasn't quite sure what was going on at the very end. Other than that, good job.
Bootaay: Some brilliant prose in here. I liked the idea, but I felt that the structure needed tightening. It would have been really cool if Mirror Pavel had eventually created a machine that made Real Pavel's craft obsolete, or something like that. That might have tied the piece together thematically. As it is, the piece is interesting, but it lacked something, and I'm not sure what. A good idea though.
Ashes: I really loved the voice. This piece interested me the whole way through, and it flowed together very nicely. My only criticism is that it ends a little too abruptly. The last line was brilliant, but it seemed a bit out of rhythm, like there should have been one more paragraph right before the end. Great piece though. There were so many wonderful self-contained lines. I really loved the one about how the best part of traveling is coming home safely. There's a lot to like about this piece.
I'll vote a bit later once I've had more time to think about the entries.
I want a critique from you.
Elfforkusu
Member
Puddles, wrt the critique: First of all, thanks for reading. And apparently I was too subtle. Duly noted.
Anyway,
1. Tangent - "I Am" or "Clay"
2. Ashes1396 - Unbind or How a House Became a Home
3. Ward - "An Excerpt from the Annals of the Kings"
Anyway,
1. Tangent - "I Am" or "Clay"
2. Ashes1396 - Unbind or How a House Became a Home
3. Ward - "An Excerpt from the Annals of the Kings"
Was there supposed to be some kind of twist, like they were running a scam? I read through it a second time looking for that, but Ernest's thoughts didn't really match that interpretation.
Elfforkusu
Member
Ernest is April's biological father, though he doesn't know it for almost the entire story.
In general I wasn't extremely happy with it, but I had to perform some last minute surgery on the thing just to make it as short (which it's not) and cohesive (which it's also not) as it is. oh well.
Overall:
Really creative stories this time. However, I wish I were up on my Judeo-Christian knowledge. That woulda helped me out.
)
Alucard -- Summer's End:
I liked this line: "the sun’s rays shining through the swaying treetops with gleaming winks, covering Peter’s face." Very well told story. I was about to say try lengthening the story to develop William's character more, but, at the same time, I like how this is one quick punch -- very fitting for "summer's end." Very good job using dialog to continue the story, but I was thinking you could try somehow sticking to your showing-vs-telling style that you use for the entire story at the very end. While I like how you describe Peter's world at the very end, see if you can put that description in some other form rather than the narrator simply stating it.
Ronito -- And Eve Said No:
I like how you brought back the mocha and the attempt at rain protection bits at the end. The whole story feels very circular and harmonious -- in a good way. I wonder though if the points made by Joanne and the main character could have been more in depth. For example, I wonder if Joanne thinks of her faith as facing a HARD truth -- say, more so than rejecting her faith. It just seemed like Joanne wasn't trying very hard -- especially when she said, "And that makes you happy?" Clearly, it doesn't seem that the main character is seeking the truth to make himself happy -- whatever "truth" may be to the main character. I also like the bit about the Jewish mother for this Mormon Joanne.) Anyway, great story, and one that I bet millions can relate to -- on either the main character's -- or Joanne's -- end. (Personaly experience, perchance...?)
Ward -- An Excerpt from the Annals of the Kings:
Well-written story that was very easy to visualize and smooth to read. Good dialog. I wonder if the part between the Queen speaking to Sedah and the part between the priest and Aidan showing off their god could have been condensed a bit. I only say so because I thought the first and last part were the most gripping.
Puddles -- Exodus:
I really like how you described these two experiences of Caleb and Aaron entirely separately. Good descriptions. Maybe it would have been interesting to toy with those concepts you used of "fear, wisdom, and love" (as well as "forgive" and "ignore" actually) and have the god recognize when the humans are feeling any or all of those 3 feelings, and when. Then again, maybe that'd be steering away from the story...
Grakl -- The Kings:
This looked like it was fun to write.) I liked how you portrayed Jonathan. And very good ending. I wonder if it would have been fun to get a description of what Jonathan looked like, and then also maybe a description of the assassin. But, it does well without, too.
Elfforkusu -- Aether:
You create a rich world in just a small short story which is very impressive. I wonder, though, if your world would work better in an enriched longer novel. Also, I liked the character development as well. Both setting the stage and the characters: check! I also found the latter half of your story to be more gripping. In that sense, I wonder if the first part could be trimmed, or if you could lead into the second part of the story quicker. And, maybe
. Overall, an adventurous story, and I liked how the characters' lives were intertwined.
Alfarif -- Breylalen:
This was so fun to read. I liked the combination of sweet-n-spooky.
Ashes -- Unbind or How a House Became a Home:
This felt like a journal entry or something. I like this style and I think you do it well. You also do a good job of inserting quotes at times to relive moments rather than just "telling." I liked how you described the conversation between the two brothers, full of conflicting feelings and memories, and hoped there might be a little of that with the main character and his sister.
Cyan -- The Box:
What a fun read! It reminded me of our cognitive science papers. Searle and all. Ideally, I think the story would have been smoother without descriptions of, say, the Chinese Room Theorem or Bostrom's Simulation argument. Having said that, I think it's good that you DID put them in so that this is readable to anyone, and your descriptions were quick so you could get back to the story. I liked, "I'm a regular guy. I come to work, I write code, I goof off, I eat lunch. Blah blah.") I also liked the ending. In trying to suggest something to improve upon, I would say that it'd be great if it had more momentum somehow. But I'm not sure how, since I thought the dialog was swift and fun to read, and there were no redundant parts. But I think in a story with very little movement, it somehow seems to "sit" and have a slower pace.
Bootaaay -- Mirrors:
I very much liked the idea behind this story -- it rings true personally for me. while I like the idea, there were times that the explanations felt a little tedious in the middle of the story. Nevertheless, I thought this was great and found interesting that there was no dialog. I wondered if that was something you were trying out.
Cyan and Timedog 4ever: -- Very well presented. Also, short and sweet, which is great, since I have spent the last 4 hrs reading stories! Dang slow reading!
Okay okay. I'm back to vote. The thing I put off the most since it's so dang hard. I'm glad I don't do this for a living. Here are my votes in somewhat of a random shuffle.
Votes:
1. Cy & Ti 4ev... I mean, Alfarif
2. Ashes
3. Bootaaay
HM: Cyan, Alucard, and, well, so forth! Well done everyone.
Really creative stories this time. However, I wish I were up on my Judeo-Christian knowledge. That woulda helped me out.
)Alucard -- Summer's End:
I liked this line: "the sun’s rays shining through the swaying treetops with gleaming winks, covering Peter’s face." Very well told story. I was about to say try lengthening the story to develop William's character more, but, at the same time, I like how this is one quick punch -- very fitting for "summer's end." Very good job using dialog to continue the story, but I was thinking you could try somehow sticking to your showing-vs-telling style that you use for the entire story at the very end. While I like how you describe Peter's world at the very end, see if you can put that description in some other form rather than the narrator simply stating it.
Ronito -- And Eve Said No:
I like how you brought back the mocha and the attempt at rain protection bits at the end. The whole story feels very circular and harmonious -- in a good way. I wonder though if the points made by Joanne and the main character could have been more in depth. For example, I wonder if Joanne thinks of her faith as facing a HARD truth -- say, more so than rejecting her faith. It just seemed like Joanne wasn't trying very hard -- especially when she said, "And that makes you happy?" Clearly, it doesn't seem that the main character is seeking the truth to make himself happy -- whatever "truth" may be to the main character. I also like the bit about the Jewish mother for this Mormon Joanne.
) Anyway, great story, and one that I bet millions can relate to -- on either the main character's -- or Joanne's -- end. (Personaly experience, perchance...?)Ward -- An Excerpt from the Annals of the Kings:
Well-written story that was very easy to visualize and smooth to read. Good dialog. I wonder if the part between the Queen speaking to Sedah and the part between the priest and Aidan showing off their god could have been condensed a bit. I only say so because I thought the first and last part were the most gripping.
Puddles -- Exodus:
I really like how you described these two experiences of Caleb and Aaron entirely separately. Good descriptions. Maybe it would have been interesting to toy with those concepts you used of "fear, wisdom, and love" (as well as "forgive" and "ignore" actually) and have the god recognize when the humans are feeling any or all of those 3 feelings, and when. Then again, maybe that'd be steering away from the story...
Grakl -- The Kings:
This looked like it was fun to write.
) I liked how you portrayed Jonathan. And very good ending. I wonder if it would have been fun to get a description of what Jonathan looked like, and then also maybe a description of the assassin. But, it does well without, too.Elfforkusu -- Aether:
You create a rich world in just a small short story which is very impressive. I wonder, though, if your world would work better in an enriched longer novel. Also, I liked the character development as well. Both setting the stage and the characters: check! I also found the latter half of your story to be more gripping. In that sense, I wonder if the first part could be trimmed, or if you could lead into the second part of the story quicker. And, maybe
elaborate on how the man sees the girl way later
Alfarif -- Breylalen:
This was so fun to read. I liked the combination of sweet-n-spooky.
Ashes -- Unbind or How a House Became a Home:
This felt like a journal entry or something. I like this style and I think you do it well. You also do a good job of inserting quotes at times to relive moments rather than just "telling." I liked how you described the conversation between the two brothers, full of conflicting feelings and memories, and hoped there might be a little of that with the main character and his sister.
Cyan -- The Box:
What a fun read! It reminded me of our cognitive science papers. Searle and all. Ideally, I think the story would have been smoother without descriptions of, say, the Chinese Room Theorem or Bostrom's Simulation argument. Having said that, I think it's good that you DID put them in so that this is readable to anyone, and your descriptions were quick so you could get back to the story. I liked, "I'm a regular guy. I come to work, I write code, I goof off, I eat lunch. Blah blah."
) I also liked the ending. In trying to suggest something to improve upon, I would say that it'd be great if it had more momentum somehow. But I'm not sure how, since I thought the dialog was swift and fun to read, and there were no redundant parts. But I think in a story with very little movement, it somehow seems to "sit" and have a slower pace.Bootaaay -- Mirrors:
I very much liked the idea behind this story -- it rings true personally for me. while I like the idea, there were times that the explanations felt a little tedious in the middle of the story. Nevertheless, I thought this was great and found interesting that there was no dialog. I wondered if that was something you were trying out.
Cyan and Timedog 4ever: -- Very well presented. Also, short and sweet, which is great, since I have spent the last 4 hrs reading stories! Dang slow reading!
Okay okay. I'm back to vote. The thing I put off the most since it's so dang hard. I'm glad I don't do this for a living. Here are my votes in somewhat of a random shuffle.
Votes:
1. Cy & Ti 4ev... I mean, Alfarif
2. Ashes
3. Bootaaay
HM: Cyan, Alucard, and, well, so forth! Well done everyone.
I promise to have one for you tomorrow morning. Been studying for the past couple hours, so I'm about to go to sleep.
Votes:
1. Ashes - Unbind or How a House Became a Home - slow start, meandered a bit, but powerful emotional payload.
2. ronito - "And Eve Said No" - I like your personal stories, dude. You don't always have to go full donkey.
3. Tangent - "I Am" or "Clay" - Really enjoyed it. Mainly because of the clay's attitude toward everything.
HM: Puddles, Bootaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay
Fun to get the two back-to-back Bible stories! I've always liked the bull sacrifice story. The scientific method has Biblical precedent!
No time for decent crits, so I'll follow Grakl's example and say they're available on request.
Speaking of which, I'd like to request one from you, Grakl. Thinking I might go back and work on this story some more.
1. Ashes - Unbind or How a House Became a Home - slow start, meandered a bit, but powerful emotional payload.
2. ronito - "And Eve Said No" - I like your personal stories, dude. You don't always have to go full donkey.
3. Tangent - "I Am" or "Clay" - Really enjoyed it. Mainly because of the clay's attitude toward everything.
HM: Puddles, Bootaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay
Fun to get the two back-to-back Bible stories! I've always liked the bull sacrifice story. The scientific method has Biblical precedent!
No time for decent crits, so I'll follow Grakl's example and say they're available on request.
Speaking of which, I'd like to request one from you, Grakl. Thinking I might go back and work on this story some more.
What's the point? Without criticisms, it's basically a rank yer Final Fantasies. I guess we need to know who to say congrats to, but that's about as useful as most of this voting has been.
I'd like to propose a new rule: you must list, at minimum, one thing you liked and one thing you thought needed improvement from every story if you want your votes to count. Obviously full critiques would be better, but that should be the bare minimum. This 1, 2, 3, and pull one out of a hat for HM doesn't help anybody improve.
I'd like to propose a new rule: you must list, at minimum, one thing you liked and one thing you thought needed improvement from every story if you want your votes to count. Obviously full critiques would be better, but that should be the bare minimum. This 1, 2, 3, and pull one out of a hat for HM doesn't help anybody improve.
I can do that.
I have to break my promise, though. I woke up late and am leaving the house soon, so I'll have your full critiques, Puddles and Cyan, this afternoon. Same for the one thing liked and that should be improved.
British Monsoon
Member
That's a good idea, but we barely get all the entrants to vote before the deadline as it is. I'll go back and edit some comments into my votes.
Puddles said:
I agree, but it's clear not everyone has the time for full critiques - I would have tried to write something along with my votes, but personally I didn't even remember to start reading until Cyan bumped the thread, which was at 1AM for me.
Also, it can be hard giving critiques, finding some constructive criticism for every piece. Sometimes I might have some good comments on one piece, but then have so little to say about another, while I feel that if I'm critiquing one, I should do so for all the pieces.
Tangent said:
Yeah, I had set out to have no dialogue, but didn't feel it really fit in with the theme of the secondary, as I wasn't really 'working' on any aspect or skill of my writing, but rather just ignoring dialogue entirely as I *hate* writing dialogue
Puddles said:
Oh, damn, and now I wish that was the ending I wrote, haha.
1. Ronito - The lead was irritatingly patronising and judgemental, but the insight into the community or at least from one who has left the community was what won me over. You could have picked any three or four things that the female protagonist might be missing out on, but lead states, sex, debauchery, profanity, wine etc; made me chuckle though I don't think I was supposed to. /shedding light.
2. Bootaaay - The reference to the mirror character was always awkward, you need to find a J.k. Rowling way of making that digestible. And apart from the piece needing a bit of an edit, the story felt like one I've heard of before, which in this case is a good thing. /story telling achievement unlocked.
3. Cyan - Did you omit names for fear of overreaching the word count? I didn't know who was speaking sometimes. Ps. glad you confirmed that timedog is one of your alternate accounts. Who is the shorter guy with the receding hairline to your right? /Philosophy.gaf represent.
hm. Tangent - Wonderfully creative. Lacked in ambition I feel.
and wm, Grakl for a beautiful rendition of a nonsense story.
@Puddle: I liked the immediacy of the prose, but where it excelled in the technical department, it lost out elsewhere. It's too mild for serious criticism, and/but were it to stoke controversy, it would be facetious, more exploitive than worthy of critical dissemination. As a concept for a novel, I'm not sure whether I would get whether this is a good demonstration of the argument at hand, or whether there is an argument being demonstrated. It feels pointless at the moment.
2. Bootaaay - The reference to the mirror character was always awkward, you need to find a J.k. Rowling way of making that digestible. And apart from the piece needing a bit of an edit, the story felt like one I've heard of before, which in this case is a good thing. /story telling achievement unlocked.
3. Cyan - Did you omit names for fear of overreaching the word count? I didn't know who was speaking sometimes. Ps. glad you confirmed that timedog is one of your alternate accounts. Who is the shorter guy with the receding hairline to your right? /Philosophy.gaf represent.
hm. Tangent - Wonderfully creative. Lacked in ambition I feel.
and wm, Grakl for a beautiful rendition of a nonsense story.
@Puddle: I liked the immediacy of the prose, but where it excelled in the technical department, it lost out elsewhere. It's too mild for serious criticism, and/but were it to stoke controversy, it would be facetious, more exploitive than worthy of critical dissemination. As a concept for a novel, I'm not sure whether I would get whether this is a good demonstration of the argument at hand, or whether there is an argument being demonstrated. It feels pointless at the moment.
The Results:
1st Place : Ashes - “Unbind” or “How a House Became a Home”
2nd Place (tie): Bootaaay - "Mirrors"
2nd Place (tie): Cyan - "The Box"
Vote Count:
Ashes - 9 (1)
Bootaaay - 6 (1)
Cyan - 6 (1)
ronito - 5 (1)
Tangent - 5 (1)
Alfarif - 4 (1)
Ward - 1
Congrats Ashes! A nicely written piece. Man, voting was all over the place. Zero consensus on the first place votes!
1st Place : Ashes - “Unbind” or “How a House Became a Home”
2nd Place (tie): Bootaaay - "Mirrors"
2nd Place (tie): Cyan - "The Box"
Vote Count:
Ashes - 9 (1)
Bootaaay - 6 (1)
Cyan - 6 (1)
ronito - 5 (1)
Tangent - 5 (1)
Alfarif - 4 (1)
Ward - 1
Congrats Ashes! A nicely written piece.
Man, voting was all over the place. Zero consensus on the first place votes!*sigh*
I understand where you're coming from, and to some extent I agree with you... but I think the result of such a rule would be fewer votes rather than more critiques. Even reading all the stories is time-consuming. Critiquing every single one as well makes it a commitment of a significant chunk of time. Some of us don't have that kind of time. Or at least, not always.
It'd also encourage quick one-liner crits, which can sometimes be useful, but probably aren't worth the discouragement of votes.
One of the main purposes of the writing challenges is improvement through practice, yes. And more/improved critiques would help guide that practice. But the other main purpose of the challenge is to encourage writers to write, to encourage everyone, whether regulars or doe-eyed newbies, to join in and submit a story. To that end, we want the challenges to be fun. And that's the purpose of voting--it's a competition! We get to battle it out and have a winner!
Balancing those goals, of encouraging participation vs increasing usefulness, I think the most practical solution is what we've been doing--voters are required to read every story, while critiques are encouraged but not required.
Not to mention having to face the wrath and ridicule from Timedog and John Dunbar among others.
http://www.neogaf.com/forum/showthread.php?t=429701
post 175 onwards...
edit: Still find this such an awesome post.
http://www.neogaf.com/forum/showthread.php?t=429701
post 175 onwards...
edit: Still find this such an awesome post.
What does the bolded mean?
What's unclear about it?
Mild in what way exactly? Mild seems like the total opposite of what I wrote.
Mild in terms of what you were taking on and compared to what others before have done as regards the task you set yourself.
Edit:
N/m, I just need to step away from the internet for a bit. Congrats on your win.
Okay then.
I agree with Cyan that one liner critiques aren't very effective, and I believe that they are usually too general - for example, to tell someone to work on their character development doesn't say much. Does this mean to give a better physical description? Develop a back story? What examples are there for weak character development in the story?
We already seem to have problems with votes themselves, which are relatively simple compared to a critique. A requirement for small like and dislike points may discourage people or result in voting in a less timely manner, even if it initially seems like a good idea. Critiques should probably just be requested, instead. If you have the time, though, and it wont result in untimeliness (ha!), then do what you will.
On that note, I'm still working on the critiques for you two, Cyan and Puddles. It's taking me longer than I thought. Should be done tonight.
And Puddles, my name is Grakl with an L, haha.
We already seem to have problems with votes themselves, which are relatively simple compared to a critique. A requirement for small like and dislike points may discourage people or result in voting in a less timely manner, even if it initially seems like a good idea. Critiques should probably just be requested, instead. If you have the time, though, and it wont result in untimeliness (ha!), then do what you will.
On that note, I'm still working on the critiques for you two, Cyan and Puddles. It's taking me longer than I thought. Should be done tonight.
And Puddles, my name is Grakl with an L, haha.
- Status