Theme - "A Chance Encounter"

Word Limit: 1800

Submission Deadline: Wednesday, 1/13 by 11:59 PM Pacific.

Voting begins Thursday, 1/14, and goes until Saturday, 1/16 at 11:59 PM Pacific.

Optional Secondary Objective: Circular Ending
In the last line of your story, refer back to the opening. Did you start with a piece of imagery? Reuse that same imagery in a slightly different way. Did you start with a piece of dialogue? End with a similar piece of dialogue (which will likely have a different meaning now). An action? Slightly harder, but do it anyway!

Submission Guidelines:

- One entry per poster.
- All submissions must be written during the time of the challenge.
- Using the topic as the title of your piece is discouraged.
- Keep to the word count!

Voting Guidelines:

- Three votes per voter. Please denote in your voting your 1st (3 pts), 2nd (2 pts), and 3rd (1 pt) place votes.
- Please read all submissions before voting.
- You must vote in order to be eligible to win the challenge.
- When voting ends, the winner gets a collective pat on the back, and starts the new challenge.

NeoGAF Creative Writing Challenge FAQ


The Entries:

Aaron - "Sign of Damascus"
ZephyrFate - "Godcraft"
JambiBum - "The Chase"
bakemono - "Glass Coffin"
ronito - "Good Morning Motherfuckers"
Ward - "Common Knowledge"
Ashes1396 - "They came from out of space or Citizen K"
bengraven - "Finding Family"
crowphoenix - "The Watched Path"
Cyan - "A Happy Chance"
DunbNameD - "Taking a Chance"

The Results:

1st Place: bengraven - "Finding Family"
2nd Place: Cyan - "A Happy Chance"
3rd Place (tie): ZephyrFate - "Godcraft"
3rd Place (tie): DumbNameD - "Taking a Chance"

I'm in.

Thanks for the heads up Cyan.

This will be brilliant.

Yes yes yes

The gears are already beginning to turn. Looks like I've had enough rest.

crowphoenix said:

The gears are already beginning to turn. Looks like I've had enough rest.

Click to expand...

Excellent!

So how did the apps go? You finished with all that now?

Timedog will have a heyday with this one.

Oh, I found what the title of that sort of ending was.

Circular Endings

Beginning and ending connect in a circular story. In such a story, the end and the beginning are much more alike than they are to the middle. This is because the end reflects the promise of the beginning. Framed stories use the same technique, except the beginning and end "frame" are more like bookends, supporting the story from the outside and made of a visibly different structure (e.g., often portrayed in prologue and epilogue fashion and often in different POV, tense, style, etc.).

Click to expand...

Not trying to be a know-it-all, was just curious, since we're all wanna-be writers and all.

bengraven said:

Oh, I found what the title of that sort of ending was.



Not trying to be a know-it-all, was just curious, since we're all wanna-be writers and all.

Click to expand...

Wait, I totally did know that! Guess I was just being dumb.

Thanks for that.

Cyan said:

Wait, I totally did know that! Guess I was just being dumb.

Thanks for that.

Click to expand...

No problem man.

Maybe... I'll see how I go.

Cyan said:

Excellent!

So how did the apps go? You finished with all that now?

Click to expand...

I got them submitted two weeks ago. I really underestimated the amount of time it took to finish everything up. The last week or so I did nothing but proof, fill out apps, and rewrite the statements of purpose.

But thanks, man. I meant to send you and Ronito a PM thanking you both, but I just ended up in lala land.

And thanks to everyone else that critiqued my stories in the past. You were all a big help.

crowphoenix said:

I got them submitted two weeks ago. I really underestimated the amount of time it took to finish everything up. The last week or so I did nothing but proof, fill out apps, and rewrite the statements of purpose.

But thanks, man. I meant to send you and Ronito a PM thanking you both, but I just ended up in lala land.

And thanks to everyone else that critiqued my stories in the past. You were all a big help.

Click to expand...

No problem, dude. And glad you can get back to writing now.

I'll be really curious to see how everything goes for you. I've occasionally thought about going back to school, but... well, I like my freedom. Such as it is.

I.

Have.

A.

FANTASTIC.

IDEA.

FOR THIS.

HOLY SHIT CYAN I LOVE YOU.

Sign of Damascus

This is going to end badly.

Jack Damascus braved a lopsided grin as one of the imposing temple guards yanked off his borrowed hood, exposing the full head of hair and chin stubble he really should have taken care of before infiltrating this cult of hairless demon worshippers. Now he could hear their ritual reaching an ear-shattering climax, leaving the gruff professor of religious studies mere moments to prevent them from calling forth some monstrosity from another world.

So he... what the hell does he do?

"That's the longest text I've seen. Who you sending it to?"

David Thom glanced away from his phone, and up into the curious eyes of the middle-aged waitress, her plump body testing the seams of her uniform. She had a full face, sated by the simple pleasures of a suburban town. He knew his own expression was stiff with nervous tension as he admitted, "To myself."

Writer's block was a weight pressed against his skull. A hack writer of a long-running adventure series of some note with even a few books making it into the bestsellers list. Then his creativity dried up, and it had been nothing but scraps like this for a year. Mostly out of pity, a friend offered him a columnist gig, but that meant a trip to New York. Not owning a car, he rode the trains as an excuse to stop in small towns, to rest and hope for some spark of inspiration.

The diner was old. It was covered over in a layer of old grime that no amount of scrubbing could wash away. The few people there were sullen and silent, except for the clink of their utensils. The only bright spot was this waitress at his shoulder, brandishing the lunch her barely remembered ordering.

"Burger, fries, and a Coke. That should fill you up," she spoke with a confident grin as she laid out the steaming meal before him, with a great hunk of cooked beef poking out from beneath the bun.

David was about to offer his insincere thanks when his phone bleeped with an incoming text message. Expecting another passive-aggressive note from his agent, he stared puzzled at the large font and simple phrase, 'Watch out for broken glass.'

"Don't need to worry about this one, honey. This is plastic," the waitress informed him with a grin as she tapped the perspiring Coke in a cheap plastic glass, clouded from years of washing machine abuse.

Feeling odd having this woman hovering over his shoulder, David fumbled to put his phone away, and bit into the burger with more gusto than he actually felt. She left to see to the other customers, and he realized he hadn't even noticed who sent him that odd text. Though it took time to chew up the too big hunk of beef, washing it down with the soda he had sworn off a year ago, to reach for his phone again.

Then the sky grew dim, shifting from blue to rust orange. The air felt thick as the people seemed grey, turning to look and freezing as if the sight turned them to stone. David looked at the large glass panes that made up most of two walls, and shouted, "Everyone duck!"

Huddled under the table from some primal fear, David felt the particle board smash against the back of his skull as the force of the explosion lifted him from the floor to flop like a fish as small shards of broken glass rained down upon him.

"What the fuck was that?" an old man shouted. The rest of the patrons seemed just as confused and trembling.

David checked his phone, but it was dead. Same as his watch. Even the clock on the wall had stopped, and the TV was black. The sky outside was red, and there were sounds of fire burning out of sight, but not a scream of terror or shout of pain. No sounds of any people at all. He found himself moving towards the door as if in a dream, deaf to the other patrons that implored him remain inside with the illusion of safety.

A gas main had been punctured, sending out a steady flame over the cracked pavement, but this was only the aftershock of the crater that dominated the intersection of the town's main road. A meteor rested there, one larger than David expected for this near lack of devastation. He hovered on the lip of the crater, straining to see it through the haze of smoke as it folded in on itself like some origami illusion. He gasped to see what it contained.

So he... what the hell did he see?

"That's the longest text I've seen. Who you sending it to?"

David Thom glanced away from his phone, and up into the curious eyes of the middle-aged waitress, her slim body leaving her uniform to sag. She had a sallow face, undernourished by the simple pleasures of a suburban town. Though he only shrugged, feeling a splitting headache caused by a long travel. So he picked at the burger and fries she served without much appetite, paying and leaving quietly if only to escape the heavy air.

The moment he stepped outside, a vaguely familiar car started up and honked its horn to get his attention. Guessing it was some determined fan, David moved to walk on when he caught sight of the driver. A dark-skinned man with perpetually red-rimmed eyes, but always neatly kept otherwise, not having changed much since high school. "Lucas? What are you doing here?"

"What? I texted you I was driving into New York, and you told me to come pick you up. So here I am," Lucas replied as he shoved open the passenger door of his yellow '86 piece-of-shit box. Cracked leather interior, lingering cigarette smell, and the scattered wrappers from a fast food chain that closed five years ago.

David's phone confirmed it. The only two texts for the day was Lucas's message and his own curt reply. Still, he hesitated to get in, his eyes looking past the car to the town's main intersection for some reason, though it looked no different than any other. Lucas whistled in his odd way of showing impatience, so David merely shrugged and got in, slamming the door behind him.

"Is everything all right? You don't look good," Lucas broke the near silence after driving for ten minutes or so. The car's radio was busted, picking up no more than distortions and static. He always had it on anyway. "Don't let this writer's block get you down. You had a good run with old Jack Damascus in what, eight books? Maybe it's time for something new."

"Like what?" David asked with a helpless shrug. Lucas had been there from the beginning, even helping to name the character while he had been struggling with the first book in college. He had been throwing in the occasional suggestion ever since, usually some absurd twist that David thought was too outside the pale, but the fans always ate it up. The stranger, the better.

"It's hard to top that name. Funny thing about Damacus steel. It was the best shit you could get five hundred years ago, but to this day no one knows how they made it," Lucas remarked in what seemed an odd digression as his car passed under a bridge, leaving them momentarily in darkness. "In fact, scientists studying the metal found it contained nanotubes. Do you know what that is?"

"No. What?" David asked in confusion, which deepened when the shadows pulled back to discover they were now driving through a featureless concrete tunnel, with no sign of the open streets and pleasant homes they had been passing before. "Where are we?"

"You heard of Area 51, right? Roswell? Rumors of some crashed spaceship full of little green men... bullshit. One hundred percent pure bullshit," Lucas declared as he smacked the steering wheel with a wide grin of white teeth. "It's a dodge, you know. A distraction. The pretty assistant for a crooked stage magician. Only this isn't about sawing a woman in half or other worthless shit. This is about taking fiction and making it seem true, and then taking the truth to make it seem like fiction."

"Aliens, huh?" David responded listlessly as an image flashed in his head; of a smoking meteor folding in on itself somehow to reveal creatures like he had never seen before. Like a nightmare mixture of H.P. Lovecraft and LSD.

"They usually land outside the towns, in places where it doesn't cause such a fuss, but things go wrong sometimes. Some assholes make things go wrong, like what happened five hundred years ago," Lucas explained with his first hint of bitterness.

"'Watch out for broken glass,'" David repeated the text he had received, and somehow vanished from his phone when all electronics were shut down. He didn't know what the hell was going on, but it was clear his old friend was up to his neck in it. "You must have sent me that warning then."

"What? I didn't send you no warning," Lucas snapped as he slammed on the breaks and killed the motor, leaving them motionless in this featureless tunnel. His eyes were wild when he turned back to David. Sinister. "You motherfucker. You were right there. You must have interfered with the landing! What Sign are you working for? Gideon? Osiris? Those fifth fucks?"

"I don't have any idea what you're talking about," David spoke slowly, even as he felt his panic rising like bile. He yanked off the seatbelt to shove the heavy door open and stumble into the tunnel. Yet it seemed to stretch a mile in either direction with no way out. Turning back, he saw Lucas slowly step out, gripping what looked like an ordinary .357 revolver made of plain steel. "What is that?"

"It's a revolver. It fires bullets that kill people. Sorry it's no raygun or other made up shit," Lucas spoke with a jumble of emotion, as if on the verge of laughter or tears. "This a good day for me. With a little training and plastic surgery, one of ours can take your place, and infiltrate your Sign... whatever it is."

The curved wall of concrete was cold as David pressed his back against it, listening to the echo of the gun's hammer being pulled back. He had wrote about this sort of situation at least two dozen times. Jack always found a way out, but his clumsy creator could only think of one thing:

This is going to end badly.

To (maybe) be continued.

Got my idea.

Dang Aaron, you're fast.

Wow, we've got an entry already. Good to have you back, Aaron!

ZephyrFate said:

I.

Have.

A.

FANTASTIC.

IDEA.

FOR THIS.

HOLY SHIT CYAN I LOVE YOU.

Click to expand...

Right on.

Godcraft

Word Count: 1800

I took a slow drag off the cigarette and exhaled. The smoke came out in zig-zag jets of tobacco, whirled around my face, and I felt the renewed headrush.

I saw him then, while I was standing at the abandoned bus stop, waiting for the last bus of the day to take me home despite the after-blizzard conditions. Snowstorm hit the outskirts of New York just a few hours ago, and seeing all the cars parked in their little suburban homes made me desperately crave the heat of my lonely apartment. He was walking over to my bus stop, presumably to get on the same bus as me. Couldn't tell what he looked like, aside from his face, which seemed to be chiseled and cut from the cloth of gods. His eyes like polished lapis lazuli, somewhat subdued in this wintry, cold environment.

I probably shouldn't have stared so long, but how could I not? He looked like Ian Somerhalder or some shit, and that was enough of a turn on. He was a little taller, a little beefier, though. And even that was alluring me somewhat. Keep it under control. Ya may be in New York, but that don't mean that he is even remotely gay. Just keep it in yer pants, Alex. He looked over at me curiously, maybe inquiring with his eyes as to why I wasn't covered in as many layers as he was. Sure, I had a dark hoodie over a couple layers of shirts, and maybe that hoodie was unzipped. Even still, I only had dark black khakis on, and my socks were pretty thin, not wooly or whatever. And maybe my shoes were Converses.

So? I can wear whatever I damn well want. Frigid temperatures be damned. The cigarette helps, even if -- like, scientifically or some shit -- it's probably doing me more harm than good in this damn freeze. I looked back over at him. Our gazes met once more. I checked him out a little, in my brief window of time before some uneasy or awkward conversation. He was wearing a large snow jacket over at least three layers of clothes, and his pants were made of some thick fabric, and he was probably wearing two or three layers of boxers, just enough to cover his... god dammit, stop going there. He had some thick snow boots on, too. His head was covered in a semi-expensive wool hat, and some scruff was running down from the sides of his face around his neck and chin. A rugged man, probably got lotsa muscle under all those cloth---

“Hey, can I get a cig, man?”

The icebreaker. Hah, how ironic...

“Uh... yeah. Sure.” I broke open the package, withdrawing a fresh cigarette. My hands shook a little, either from the cold or from my own nervousness that I could be giving something to this... whatever he was. Somewhat hot guy? I dunno. As he reached for it, I hastily dropped it. Fuck you, Alex. Fuck you fuck you fuck you.

“Oh, fuck! Sorry!” I reached down to grab it but he stopped me. His hand casually brushed my own, and I could swear I became a fucking Tesla coil (or whatever, I saw it on a website once and it looked kinda cool), all that lightning and electricity running through my skin, traveling between the hairs on my arm. The touch lasted all of a second before he plucked the cigarette out of the fresh snow.

“It's alright, man. Don't worry about it.” He brushed off a little of the ice that had stuck to the cigarette, and pulled a lighter out of his jacket. Despite being layered in enough accoutrements to clothe a small family, he strangely didn't wear gloves. Could explain the shock I felt just by touching his skin. Shoving my mind off the subject, I watched him light the thing up. He was careful, methodical. He sheltered the cigarette from the breeze with as much delicacy as one would give to a newborn child, and the way he lit the thing, it burned with almost a perfect fire. He surreptitiously glanced up from lighting the cig, and as he did, he smirked a little, his mouth still wrapped around the cig. I turned away, patting the top of my cig to get rid of the ashes. A few moments passed by in silence, an awkward silence I was perpetuating without knowing why. Had to break the ice again, 'cuz it reformed in all this fucking cold.

“So... you waitin' for the bus, too?” I asked, a slight nervous tick in my voice accentuating the 'too' part, making me sound like some sorta flamer.

“Yeah... when's it coming?”

“Um... I checked the time on my phone, but... I dunno, this snow could delay it a bit. It was s'posed to come about twenty minutes ago.”

“Well, I guess we're waitin' here for a while, then.” He left a brief pause before opening his mouth again. “My name's Michael. What's yours?” He asked, his hand reaching outwards.

I grasped it, hesitant once more. “Alex.”

“So, Alex, why are you waitin' out here, for a bus that might not come?”

“S'my only way home. My friends're all gettin' trashed for the new year, n' so I don't got a ride home. The bus is all I got.”

“I'm kind of in the same boat. My car's in the shop and I lost my phone... again. I have the worst luck when it comes to cellphones. I think God made 'em so that I could lose 'em.”

I couldn't help but laugh a little, a grin spreading across my face. Don't let your guard down too much, don't get too... excited.

“Yeah I know what ya mean. I've lost like... two, three phones in the past year? Fuckers're too small these days.” The more I spoke to him, the more my accent was bleeding out... I didn't wanna sound like a hick, but I couldn't help that I didn't grow up here. This place still seems so new. I can't wait for this damn accent to die.

He laughed, nodding his head, taking a long drag of his cig. He blew out a large puff of smoke, and I watched on, my ogling increasing, and he noticed it too, looking back at me as he exhaled all that tobacco and the god-knows-what-else chemicals in these death-sticks. We continued to look at each other, neither of us knowing what our next moves would be. I'm playing checkers like I don't know any of the rules, and this hot guy in front of me has the rulebook. He's withholding it from me, and god dammit, now he's smiling again! That smile is fuckin' killer...

Michael started to walk away from the bus stop, and as he did, he turned to me, nudging his head towards a bench far off that overlooked a large river. I couldn't remember the river's name, but I didn't care. As I followed him, my eyes mesmerized by his footprints, I noticed that nighttime was beginning to fall. Time to moonlight as a ninja and get the fuck away from this guy, he's gettin' me all interested. Last time this happened... walked away with broken ribs and broken face bones and a broken heart. He stopped in front of the bench and sat down, and more smoke ejected from his mouth as he did. I cautiously sat down next to him, staring out into the wide swath of water.

“I come here a lot, when I'm not goin' places. The river's kinda calm, and even more relaxing now. I love it when the fog rolls in like this, just enough to kinda obscure light. Like that bridge over there, that suspension bridge. The lights that run along the wires are all fogged over and you can barely see that they're there. I like that. I like when the fog and the snow come in... they hide things. Hide actions.” He said, tossing the cigarette away as he finished it, turning to look at me.

I gulped, audibly. I had no idea where this was going, and if it was going where I thought it was... and what with my heart beatin' a mile a minute, I didn't want to know where it was going.

“Y-yeah... I like it too.”

“I know you want me.” He said, flat out, blunt as a slap to the face.

“I... what?” Fuckin' idiot. Don't sound like a retard right now.

“Don't worry. To be honest, I was kinda curious as to why you'd be out here, and when I talked to you, I knew that... well, you might possibly be... gay and all. And I'm fine with that. In fact, that curiousity... more than just, uh, well, I guess you could say I wanna see what it's all about. We don't got much time, but...”

Words silenced. I stopped him with a prolonged kiss. Our tongues battled in a war they desperately wanted to be a part of. His hands went to my chest, unbuttoned my overshirt, then reached underneath the second one to grasp my chest, pull at my nipples. I did the same to him, too, clawed my way through all his layers, unleashed his inconceivably hot upper half to the frigid expanse. At some point, words became useless and so did time; we somehow found ourselves on a snow-covered bench with every layer of shirt and jacket off, kissing and groping with reckless abandon. He whispered empty words and promises with each moan and I didn't even pay attention to them, so focused on this guy in front of me. I traced fingers down the ridges of his chest, mapped out the contours like a cartographer.

Then it stopped, just as a snowflake fell between us, just as the snow flurry returned.

“I... I gotta go. This was... hot. Amazing. I hope I didn't make you fall for me... but I... I gotta go back to my wife. I dunno if I'm quite ready to like guys yet...” He said, his breathing still trying to normalize after the vigorous, intense makeout session.

I was completely nonplussed. At least... at least he didn't hit me. At least he didn't say anything fucked up and angry...

“Hope I see you again. Maybe you should come back to this bench someday...”

He hastily threw on his jackets and shirts, and dashed to the bus, which just arrived. I watched the snow hide him, forevermore.

I sighed, and lit another cigarette, taking a long drag.

Happy New Year, everyone!

I hope one of your resolutions is to do more writing this year. And if so, what better place to get started than the year's first writing challenge?

Anyway, plenty of time to get something written for the challenge, so no excuses!

The Chase

The last thing she said to me was "I'm sorry". That was years ago though, today I am in a new place in my life. A different man. I've moved on from that part of my life. The part where I chase after love instead of just letting it come naturally. You see, at one point in my life I was a sucker for love. And for good reason. I used to be engaged to this wonderful girl named Megan. Everything in my life at that time was perfect. I had a good job, close friends, and most importantly, a beautiful woman at my side. We had planned on marrying in August of that year. I never thought my life could be that perfect. Turns out everything weren’t as perfect as I thought it was.

One unusually cold July night we were out at a friend's house just chit-chatting with people when I noticed that Megan seemed quite upset about something. I asked her what was wrong and of course, being of the female gender, she said nothing was wrong. I took her outside to my car where we had the conversation that would change my life forever.

My memory fails me now, or as I like to put it, my head purposely hides things from itself in order to protect my general well being, but as I recall the conversation went a little something like this. "Baby is everything ok?" "No not really. The entire time we have been together I have been seeing someone else." That's all my mind will let me remember of that moment in time. Which I suppose is for the better because my entire world came crashing down around me after that moment. We fought for months and months after that. I tried to do everything in my power to fix things. Nothing I did could stop the train wreck that was our relationship. That leads me to where I am today.

It took me close to two years to get over that moment in time. Went through a stint in the military which I thought would help me. It didn't. What it did do was land me in Tokyo and I haven't looked back ever since.

I am an English teacher now and I love my life. I'm still single but that's fine with me. I let my students keep me company. Every Friday I go out to one of the local bars and enjoy the night life. The night life is one thing I really love about Tokyo. I stand out in this place but I don't mind. I come here so often that the bartenders all know me by name. I have even managed to start teaching a couple of them some English on nights that they are slow.

It's Friday night now and after a painfully slow week I'm thinking about heading home instead of going to the bar. I don't want my friends to worry about me so I decide to stop by for a bit. As soon as I walk in the door the bartender, Kenji, waves for me to come over to him. This confuses me as it's the first time in my many nights that I have been coming here that Kenji has ever done this. As I walk up to the bar Kenji hands me a shot of sake and says in the best English he can muster "There is a woman here asking for you". Puzzled, I ask him "Are you sure she is here for me and not someone else?" He points to a woman sitting at the far end of the bar and says "She asked for an American man named Tom, not only are you the only American that frequents my bar, you are also the only American named Tom that I know of." I shake my head in astonishment and thank him for letting me know. I make my way towards the far end of the bar trying to think of who could possibly be here to see me. I can't for the life of me think of who it is. And then I see her. The one woman whom I thought I would never see again in my life. Megan. I drop my sake glass in shock. Kenji sees this and sends a bar hand over to help me out. Making a mental note to leave Kenji a rather large tip, I take a seat next to her at the bar.

My body tightens as I sit next to her. I can't even muster enough strength to look her in the eyes. All I can manage is a measly "Hi''. She turns her head towards me and asks me to look at her. I do. She begins to tell me about her life post us. How she has never fallen for someone the way she fell for me. I stop her in mid sentence and say to her "That's because you started to chase love instead of letting it chase you." and then I begin to walk away. Before I am out of earshot she says to me the last thing I would ever hear her say. "I'm sorry".

Cyan said:

Happy New Year, everyone!

I hope one of your resolutions is to do more writing this year. And if so, what better place to get started than the year's first writing challenge?

Anyway, plenty of time to get something written for the challenge, so no excuses!

Click to expand...

My sister gave me a bunch of books and magazines on fiction and the trade, so I'll be diving in to those. Going to have to change how I live a bit, but hey, you've got to learn to crawl before you can walk. So, this year, I hope to learn how to walk.

crowphoenix said:

My sister gave me a bunch of books and magazines on fiction and the trade, so I'll be diving in to those. Going to have to change how I live a bit, but hey, you've got to learn to crawl before you can walk. So, this year, I hope to learn how to walk.

Click to expand...

Nice. Writing books are something of a double-edged sword, I've found. On the one hand, they can be full of great insights and ideas. On the other, they're sometimes crammed so full that it's hard to remember the really good stuff. And if you read them too much, you never get any writing done!

My writing goal last year was to get a short story published in a semi-pro or pro market. It didn't happen, partly due to my being busy with tons of stuff, so it's going to be my goal again this year. I've only got one story out making the rounds right now, so I've got to get writing!

Cyan said:

Nice. Writing books are something of a double-edged sword, I've found. On the one hand, they can be full of great insights and ideas. On the other, they're sometimes crammed so full that it's hard to remember the really good stuff. And if you read them too much, you never get any writing done!

Click to expand...

I find that they usually make me question whether I'm living my life right. You know, reading enough, reading the right kind of things, writing enough, thinking about things in the right way. The answer to that is usually no, or at least far enough away from something sorta correct to be worrisome. It always leaves me feeling a bit dejected by the daunting task of making all those changes.

Currently trying to get back into writing everyday. I'm starting with 300 little words, which I can do in about 30 minutes. Of course, I've over shot it everyday, but until I get myself back on a rhythm, I'll keep my standards low.

Of course, I have to read something before I can write, so that will help me read more, and I'm editing a bit before I start the next section, so that should, over time, help.

My writing goal last year was to get a short story published in a semi-pro or pro market. It didn't happen, partly due to my being busy with tons of stuff, so it's going to be my goal again this year. I've only got one story out making the rounds right now, so I've got to get writing!

Click to expand...

Yeah, my sister told me that she wanted to see me published by the end of the year. Not sure if I'll make that. I'm still just learning to crawl as a writer (or maybe stand up and flop back down), and there is a lot I still can't do well. Such as editing, for instance.

Oh, I can go through a piece and throw out a sentence here and there or tweak a line to make it say what I want or be more readable, but actually knowing when to throw out whole sections of dialogue or when to rewrite still elude me.

That will come in time, I hope.

crowphoenix said:

I find that they usually make me question whether I'm living my life right. You know, reading enough, reading the right kind of things, writing enough, thinking about things in the right way. The answer to that is usually no, or at least far enough away from something sorta correct to be worrisome. It always leaves me feeling a bit dejected by the daunting task of making all those changes.

Click to expand...

Yeah, I think that's part of the double-edged sword. It's good to get inspired, it's unhelpful to get daunted.

Currently trying to get back into writing everyday. I'm starting with 300 little words, which I can do in about 30 minutes. Of course, I've over shot it everyday, but until I get myself back on a rhythm, I'll keep my standards low.

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Awesome, I really need to do this too.

Yeah, my sister told me that she wanted to see me published by the end of the year. Not sure if I'll make that. I'm still just learning to crawl as a writer (or maybe stand up and flop back down), and there is a lot I still can't do well.

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Maybe so, but I think setting high goals is the best way to improve. High goals and plenty of practice.

My problem is that I'm not doing much writing outside the challenges. I mean, the challenges are great for practicing and staying in good writing form, but they're not a big stretch for me anymore. In the sense that writing a challenge story is now usually well within my comfort zone.

Maybe I need to choose more difficult stories to write or something. I don't know, I'm not entirely sure what I'm trying to say.

Thing is... if you're just doing the challenges, you're doing a ton of writing anyways! I mean, every now and then I'll write something that I won't post here -- such as my second uber-emotional piece that I feel like you guys might like, but doesn't fit any challenge themes so far -- but I looked back at all that I wrote last year and was just awestruck at the amount. The challenges have fed my Muses, and given me so many ideas that I think it has been positive overall.

I'm going to attempt to get my NaNoWriMo novel published this year, by the way.

ZephyrFate said:

Thing is... if you're just doing the challenges, you're doing a ton of writing anyways! I mean, every now and then I'll write something that I won't post here -- such as my second uber-emotional piece that I feel like you guys might like, but doesn't fit any challenge themes so far -- but I looked back at all that I wrote last year and was just awestruck at the amount. The challenges have fed my Muses, and given me so many ideas that I think it has been positive overall.

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No, you're right. I know that doing the challenges has really helped me as a writer. I guess what I mean is that I feel I'm not stretching myself enough any more. In the beginning, just writing a challenge story at all was a big stretch--no longer.

The secondary objectives help, but I think the only recent story that I've really challenged myself with was "Lion of Laiwa."

I'm going to attempt to get my NaNoWriMo novel published this year, by the way.

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Awesome! Good luck, man.

Just experiment with different writing styles.

I have an idea for you! Try some stream-of-consciousness next piece. I bet that'll be fun.

I wonder if I'm ever going to submit something for these challenges again. It seems nearly impossible to stay focused ever since I upgraded to High-Speed. (And the absence of these challenges during NaNoWriMo.)

Maybe this challenge will mark the unwanted return of my crappy pieces.

Irish said:

I wonder if I'm ever going to submit something for these challenges again. It seems nearly impossible to stay focused ever since I upgraded to High-Speed. (And the absence of these challenges during NaNoWriMo.)

Maybe this challenge will mark the unwanted return of my crappy pieces.

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You're one of us now, and fiction demands tribute. Get back in here.

crowphoenix said:

You're one of us now, and fiction demands tribute. Get back in here.

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As the kids these days like to say, this.

Write something and submit it, even if you aren't sure it's any good. Only way to get back on the wagon is to get back on the wagon. So do it.

Oh, I already know it will suck, it's just trying to find the time to put it to... um... screen. The internet is such a relentless distraction. Luckily, I've got an idea forming in my head and plan on "unplugging" later this week.

Anyone else planning to write something?

Here's kind of a nifty story for some inspiration: The Things by Peter Watts. As I said in the watcha-reading thread, a must-read if you're a John Carpenter fan.

I've been horribly sick, yet through the haze of Nyquil and other "medicines" my brain came up with a crazy idea. I'm nearly done with it, really unlike anything I've done before.

ronito said:

I've been horribly sick, yet through the haze of Nyquil and other "medicines" my brain came up with a crazy idea. I'm nearly done with it, really unlike anything I've done before.

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A Nyquil story, huh? Could be cool. Look forward to it.

write shit, hoes

ZephyrFate said:

write shit, hoes

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Still thinking. So far the only ideas I've had are pretty standard.

Cyan said:

As the kids these days like to say, this.

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Cyan said:

Here's kind of a nifty story for some inspiration: The Things by Peter Watts.

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I knew it, Cyan is John Scalzi in disguise.

ZephyrFate said:

write shit, hoes

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Just did... for SPREAD.

I've been meaning to enter one of these, but I realize that my stories wouldnt nearly be of the caliber as the entries regularly are. Maybe next one though.

One plus to my little scheme of writing 300 words a day, besides the fact that it's very quick, is that it's just not enough words. I always end feeling hungry for more.

AnkitT said:

I've been meaning to enter one of these, but I realize that my stories wouldnt nearly be of the caliber as the entries regularly are. Maybe next one though.

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Pshaw. You've just got to do it. The first time is tough, but it gets easier and easier until you become a regular and you have people wondering where you've gone.

Like Irish and Scribble. Get back in here guys.

crowphoenix said:

Still thinking. So far the only ideas I've had are pretty standard.

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Nothing wrong with writing standard stories once in a while. Still good practice.

Tim the Wiz said:

I knew it, Cyan is John Scalzi in disguise.

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:lol Oh shit, called out! Yeah, I found that story through Whatever. Didn't even realize I was echoing a Scalzi post with that quote!

AnkitT said:

I've been meaning to enter one of these, but I realize that my stories wouldnt nearly be of the caliber as the entries regularly are. Maybe next one though.

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You've got plenty of time still. Go for it! Also, I say this every time, but: if you do enter and keep entering, then your stories will eventually be of a much higher caliber. Few of us here started out writing at a high level.

crowphoenix said:

Pshaw. You've just got to do it. The first time is tough, but it gets easier and easier until you become a regular and you have people wondering where you've gone.

Like Irish and Scribble. Get back in here guys.

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As the Scalzis these days like to say, this.

Tim the Wiz said:

I knew it, Cyan is John Scalzi in disguise.



Just did... for SPREAD.

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Goodie. We need to get SPREAD rolling along.

I've got an idea. It's probably a good ways beyond my abilities, but I'm eager to see if I can pull something like this off.

crowphoenix said:

I've got an idea. It's probably a good ways beyond my abilities, but I'm eager to see if I can pull something like this off.

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Those are always the best ones. Sometimes you'll crash and burn, but sometimes you'll write something totally awesome that you had no idea you were capable of.

Good luck.

Ever since nanowrimo, writing has been a bit of a chore. I've already written a piece for this weeks challenge, a prologue to an earlier piece, but inspiration has struck and I think I'm going to toss it for a new idea.

Hopefully I have enough time to reach my goals with some level of satisfaction.

Ward said:

Ever since nanowrimo, writing has been a bit of a chore.

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Really? That's kind of surprising; my experience has always been the opposite. Did you get burned out, and just don't feel like doing much writing? Or is it something else?

Damnit. I tend to notice the new challenges the night before the deadline.

Fuckit, I'm going for it.

She slept a dreamless slumber as she drifted through space silently.

At the edge of charted known territories and almost at the threshold of nameless things, Ludvika’s pod spun slowly. A dot of pale grey against infinite void. A tiny speck. Almost nothing. Almost.

Beep.

Her body was inert, peaceful. Only the shallowest breath disturbed her form.

Beep.

Sleeping Beauty in her glass coffin.

Beep.



“What’s that beeping, Ovid?”

“Good morning, Simon. It is five-oh-four. A. M.”

Simon did not sleep anymore. Nor was he awake. He had forgotten when it started but he had entered a perpetual state of consciousness where he was both awake and asleep at the same time. They said space does funny things to the mind. But maybe they were only imaginary people in his head. It was hard to make the difference. He had been solitary for fourteen months and twelve days. It was hard.

“Our proximity radar has picked up an identifiable craft. A safety pod.”

“This far out? Is it a probe?”

Beep.

“A safety pod.”

Simon scratched his wiry beard and dragged himself to his console.

“Check for life signs, Ovid.”

Beep.



Three hours later and after a substantial effort of piloting, Simon managed to maneuver his shuttle to Ludvika’s pod. He aligned the two spacecrafts with the delicacy of a brain surgeon. His bony arms were chilled to the bone as he worked his skeletal fingers on the control sticks. Simon licked his lower lip frequently as he worked. Patiently, patiently. Finally he had them where he wanted.

“Ovid. The tug. Now. Now.”

Simon watched raptly, brushing his pale russet hair back, as Ovid took the little pod into the ship’s holding bay. His pale eyes followed every little movement, every jolt and hitch.

Ovid completed the task and closed the bay’s doors.

“Object successfully stowed.”

Simon jumped a little in rapture and made a small squeak involuntarily. He settled back down into his seat, smiling wide.



She was more beautiful than any woman Simon had ever met. She had a face fit for the pages of the magazines. Deep chocolate hair and clear skin. Simon sat and watched her sleep. Time and time again, he wiped down the glass cover of her cryo-pod and sighed.

“Incredible.”

Simon was afraid. Maybe it was best not to wake her.

“Simon. Analysis indicates life will no longer be preserved in two hundred and seven hours. Temperature control is failing. The pod is reaching its nominal operational life time.”

Simon covered his ears.



Ludvika woke with a start. There was a clammy feel on her face. It was Simon’s lips on hers. She wanted to push him away but she was still just a head. The rest of her body felt far away and alien. She felt sick. She gritted her teeth close against the inquiring tongue. She waited for it to end.

Simon pulled back and smiled at her. Ludvika stared.

“Welcome back, Princess.”

Ludvika’s senses and motor functions were returning slowly to her. She rolled her head about carefully and then she sat up. Simon rushed to help her. She tried to push his hands away but she was too weak. His skinny arm went around her waist and took her out of her pod.

“You smell like… primroses. English highlands.”

Simon’s hands undid Ludvika’s cryo-dress eagerly and she stood naked in front of him, swaying a little. She was so beautiful that he had cried.



They sat down to eat. Ludvika was hungry, very hungry. Simon smiled to himself as he watched her wolfed down the oatmeal.

“I’m Simon. Simon Geller.”

Ludvika looked up at him from her plate and fixed her dark eyes on his scrawny face.

“ETA to base?”

Simon recoiled a little. He darted his eyes left and away from the table. He stabbed at his porridge and then he looked back at her. She wore one of his old shirts and shorts. Her legs were shapely and her toes perfect.

“You’re very pretty. Very pretty.”

“I asked you a question.”

“We will be very happy together, Princess. You and I. Together.”

Ludvika shoved her plates away and stood up.

“Where are the other crews? This is a towboat, is it not?”

Simon thought that she should not have raised her voice. It was most unpleasant. He did not like her tones at all. He rose slowly and before she knew it, his deceptively fragile hands had closed around her neck. He was hissing and smiling.

“Are you real?”

Ludvika struggled for breath. She kicked and she punched, she clawed and she swore, yet she was trapped within the confines of his choking fingers. The last thing she heard before she sank into the dark was Simon’s small, restrained giggles.

“Am I real?”



Her head swam when she woke. She was naked again.

Simon woke besides her. He too, was bare. She moaned lowly and he applied an injection to her upper arm before she could react. Her limbs lost tension and fell apart around her. Her body softened. Ludvika opened.



She caught the tail of his sentences as she sat mutely in the reading room.

“… ave peas, then. Maybe carrots, too. I’m getting rather good. Growing things.”

His back was to her and he was tending a small box of seeds. They were always nude. Ludvika rolled her head and she caught one of the ship’s computer screens with the corner of her eyes, where the flight summary was. The date and time of the day flickered back at her. She had been here for weeks. It felt like a lifetime. It felt like a few seconds.

“… ortnight I will have to realign the solar panels. Don’t worry about it. I’ve done it many times. Don’t worry. I’ll be back safe and sound by dinner time.”

Simon finished up and rose. He turned around and gathered her into his arms carefully. Her limbs fell over lifelessly over his embrace.

“Thank you for worrying for me. You’re the sweetest thing. It is time for bath now, Princess.”



Simon had been waiting for the pinprick of light to grow for a long time. Finally, the new star was now close enough. Simon peered at it as he donned his spacesuit. It was a red dwarf, but it should suffice. The ship’s solar panels would milk its dying breath as it travelled through this cluster. Simon smiled wistfully.

“Hello, new mother. Please love us. Love us dearly. Love us best.”

Simon took one last look at Ludvika, sitting docilely with her dark brown hair spilling over her breasts, before he fastened his head gear on.

“You’re a tease, Princess. We can do all that when I am back. For now, I have to do this. Or we will run out of power. And that would be very bad. Very, very bad.”

He made his way to the dock and opened the inner door.

“Ovid, turn off all panels now. Operate on conserved energy.”

The ship blinked and woke up in soft red lighting.

Simon stepped into the corridor and closed the inner door. Ludvika could hear his breathing through the communication channel. He opened the outer door and stepped out into space.

“Ovid, I am on my way to the power units. Prepare for reset.”

He secured a line to the handle by the door’s side and started his arduous task. One by one the glass face turned to face their new mother.

“Just like tiny little birds. So hungry, so hungry.”

Simon smiled to himself. A thought suddenly crossed his minds. His own little children. Maybe, one day. Maybe, soon. Little princelings and little princesses.

He was happy.



Ludvika was crying.

She finally had control over her own limbs again. She had been faking for awhile. Her body had developed a tolerance level against the drug. She was waiting for the one chance. She stood up and shook herself. Every bit of her felt dirty. There was no time for that now. She made her way to the dock and donned a spacesuit.

Outside she detached Simon’s umbilical cable and secured her own. She made her way to where he was, quietly, patiently. She waited, gathered her strength, balled up her resolve. She felt tiny and inconsolable. She watched. Space was never ending and Simon had found her, against all odds. The man who had saved her. The man who had condemned her. She watched.

He stretched up as he completed the rearrangement. He turned around, his smile still painted on his face, and Ludvika kicked him as hard as she could. She put all of her strength into the ball of her foot and she threw him off into the void. The force of her aggression was such that she herself was sent hurling in its momentum. Ludvika’s safety cable was a string of loose white entrails from the middle of her figure as she floated in the dark. It reached the end of its length and it snapped and pulled her back. She jerked, flailing wildly, the screams of Simon filling up the space within her helmet. She caught hold of her life line and followed it urgently back to the door.

She grabbed the handle by the entrance’s side and hit the manual control with her fist.
Ludvika tumbled inside and shut space out behind her. She crawled inside the belly of the ship and closed the inner door down. She wrenched the head gear off. Threw it away. It clattered against the wall. He was screaming, screaming, screaming.

Ludvika was crying.



The ship was not programmed for her commands.

Ludvika yelled and banged at the control panels. She was alone. Like Simon was. She shook her head. No, she would not end up crazy. She would not allow it.

She inspected the ship inside out, everything. There was only one life pod left. Ludvika checked the logs. There were once six in the crews’ register. She wondered what happened idly. No matter. She would only need the one pod. Ludvika rubbed her face. She was tired. She could not remember the last time she had slept well. She sniffled a little and then she looked for the pod’s manual.

She found the mottled book and sat with her head into it. Yet the only thing that kept coming into her was his voice. The screaming. The crying. And then, the giggling. The strange, small, almost girlish giggling.

“Are you real?”

Ludvika stared blankly.

“Am I real?”



She slept a dreamless slumber as she drifted through space silently.

At the edge of charted known territories and almost at the threshold of nameless things, Ludvika’s pod spun slowly. A dot of pale grey against infinite void. A tiny speck. Almost nothing. Almost.

Beep.

Two more days, peeps!

Got my piece in rough draft form, and boy is it rough. I'm glad I have another day to put this thing under the iron.

I'm working on it, working on it.

crowphoenix said:

Got my piece in rough draft form, and boy is it rough. I'm glad I have another day to put this thing under the iron.

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Well, you're a step ahead of me. :lol Still trying to think what the hell I'm going to write about. Who came up with this topic, anyway?