The introduction/Beginning of a futuristic, post-apoc. novel I am (probably) going to write
8 replies, posted
Took me a few hours to write this, ive rewritten the entire thing at least 4 times, and have made major additions and edits several times, and just about every time I read it I change some of the words and/or phrasing.
Here ya go!
Running, again, one thing I seem to be doing too much of lately. Necrotic trees whir past on either side of me - the only indication of progress within this envelope of charcoal-black night. Having only meters of visibility, avoiding a head-on collision is difficult, but necessary. Stopping, even slowing, for a moment could mean certain death. Skeletal claws scratch and tear as I move, the groundwood under foot scatters with each frenzied stride. I am thankful for the damp air - it muffles sounds, stops the ubiquitous twigs from snapping each time my boots fall heavily. I am indebted to the night - it obscures the path of broken and scattered vegetation I have undoubtedly left behind.
Pleading to the Gods that I might not be blinded - a fatal stultification - by a protruding branch. I push on though my lungs beg for mercy. Each laboured breath ferociously searing along my throat. The ravine must be close now, I can smell it. The only place I stand a chance. Fiery exhaustion seeps evermore into my legs, my abdomen, my arms, my body. A trio of sharp cracks from the south, piercing the veil of quiet, renews my energy reserves and kindles the panicked urgency driving me. With rapid thudding of both blood in my ears and boots on the ground, I push on into the darkness.
The ash clouds above break for an instant, the pallor of the Pearled Moons weaves through long-dead treetops. Noiselessly it falls broken upon the uneven forest floor. Briefly illuminated are the decaying wooden spires from which are formed the graveyard of a forest. The eery sight and revealing light is gone all too quickly, and before I realize how enthralled I have become in the lunar splendor, the ground disappears from beneath my feet.
Before I hit the bottom, the deathly stench hits me - it swarms about and invades my nostrils, chokes the breath in my lungs. The shattering explosion of pain eloping my left hand distracts me from the smell. Air escapes my lips in the form of an antagonized yelp. The force of impact is focused into my single limb, which is driven into the bed of the depression where thick mud swallows it whole and hungrily. Gritting my teeth, clenching every muscle against the pain I draw my arm back forcefully before I am consumed any further. Pulled free, the momentum forces me into a sitting position, legs outstretched. Labouring my boots into the mud I push myself back against the steep shale bank, through which ancient roots have pushed their way.
We had chosen this spot as our best escape point in the event of being caught. Havalk and I had been here only a half-day ago, when the late violet rays of the Sun had cascaded down into the landscape. Though invisible in the darkness, I knew that the ravine was deep enough for ether of us to stand in the middle and be well hidden from any observer on the plateau, and wide enough at the bottom for a man to lay flat with arms outstretched. This visual cover however, was not what had determined the suitability of this hiding spot. It was Havalk’s keen eye and sound judgement. He was both a blessing and a curse; my sole companion and potentially a most dangerous enemy.
We had been travelling together for several weeks, not more than two moons. We did not often speak – we did not often need to. We both followed the same signs and saw the same marks. He watched my back and I watched his. But I had seen him kill in cold blood, I had seen him murder for fun. I slept facing him. I slept with fingers wrapped around a knifehandle. I took stock of my meagre possessions each time I awoke. This was a symbiosis born of necessity and advantage, and a drawn-out duel of wits, of exhaustion. I could not kill him unless he aggressed against me first, but I could not allow him the opportunity. We had saved each other’s lives, we had broken bread. All of it purely symbolic and for the sake of staying alive.
I draw a deep breath. Bad idea. I cough and splutter because of the density of the odour which seems to displace air instead of mixing with. The cramps in my gut double in intensity with the involuntary expulsion of breath. Breathe slower. Steady the heart rate. Hemoglobin basks in the glory of oxygen and pathetically I feel somewhat renewed. Draw several long breaths through my mouth slowly and controlled. The beating rhythm stops playing against my eardrums. Post-exertion weakness sets in. Then I feel them – footsteps - reverberating beneath the ground, through the riverbank and into my back. Weak at first, stronger every second.
Gruesome death pounds towards me - vengeful, fueled by hate, and with beastly abandon.
But the ragged pace is that of only one beast, and my pursuers are many. Could it be? Closer, closer. I cover my head with my arms and brace for the impact of a knobbed sole upon the crown of my skull - and only two arm-lengths away, a wild spectre slips into the ravine, breathing wretchedly. Havalk!
“Are they far?” I whisper, too loudly. In circumstances as dire as now it seems like a siren’s torch which beckons all things unwelcome towards us. The sound startles him, and he draws instinctively away from my voice, too weak to attack. He tries to speak between coughs and hacks, exhuming phlegm air and slobber alike. But I have my answer too soon, too readily. Piercing between the sounds of our heavy breathing, the excited warcry of hounds strikes my senses. Images of razor-sharp fangs, dripping with saliva. Knifelike talons eager to inflict grievous wounds. A terrible and magnificent animal often as large as a human being, sometimes larger. Always faster. The terrorizing howls are escorted by the sensation of footstep travelling beneath the earth – this time there are many pounding feet. Loose pebbles can be heard tumbling from the top of the parapet and very soon it is a ceaseless cacophony which corrodes all thought.
Gruesome death pounces towards us.
The voices follow; savage, bloodthirsty, they taunt us in laughter – there is no thinly veiled horror behind them. This is their sport. This is their justice. My heart tries to escape from my ribcage. A mass evacuation of sweat pours from my brow my hands my feet my neck. I try to make myself small, I work myself into a groove of the riverbank, dig myself into the mud, wondering all the while if the hounds can hear my insane heartbeat. If they smell the fear crawling between my flesh. I hoped not. We counted on the vileness of the ravine to throw the dogs off our trail, for in this darkness the dogs are our first concern and our most dangerous enemy. Or so I thought. The light of a portable lamp zigzags through the fog, shifting with each pace of it’s carrier.
Closer still the voices scurry, growing clearer, more menacing, more real.
I must defeat the paralytic grip of sub-zero blood, veins gripped in fear, muscles seized in alarm. I use my last moments on this earth to cover myself as best I can in the disgusting filth which constitutes the riverbed. Parasites and disease are of no consequence if one is already dead. And then it happens. They pass us.
They see the ravine with their expensive portable lamps and leap over it, moving at breakneck speed. Several lamps to each dozen feet, one hunting beast per several lamps. Only by their silhouettes against the bleak dark sky and the noise of their passage are we aware of their movement. We are safe; until a dome of fluorescent light lands upon the uncovered Havalk.
Surprised at first, excited next, and further driven to bloodthirst the rearmost member of the hunting group spots him. I can see only his expression of horror in the pressing darkness, the expression of someone without hope and without cause. The Finder puts his fingers to his mouth and whistles. The alarum raises goosebumps along my skin. Fate prods icy fingers into my spine.
Suddenly we are swarmed. I know this is the end. The Melters have found us. The guardsman does not move his spotlight from Havalk, who remains frozen in fear, in hope that he is hidden from view by some paranormal force. But reality sets in. A troupe of twenty hunters reverses direction and descends upon him. He makes an attempt to rise up, to fight, but the mud holds him in place.
At some time they were humans, like I, like Havalk. And at sometime they decided to change that. With adamant weapons grafted surgically and mechanically to their rotting bones, the Melters set upon my only companion. It took every ounce of effort and every datum of fear to keep my silence. I could not do anything for him now. He was not theirs, but I could not free him. A ripgun could not have saved him.
By metal and by flesh they set about him, to render him crippled and unconscious, that they might have their revenge. The sickening thwack of metal onto flesh, they beat him. The hound-heelers held their distance; if their query was devoured, no information – or pleasure – could be divulged from so abhorrent a death as they had planned.
The bile in my empty stomach ascends, and is forced back down by will. A great scream of terror holds in my throat. My eyes are wrenched tight against the scene which I cannot flee. Again and again metallic limbs are brought down upon him. Breaking, rending, tearing. He is unconscious quickly which is a good thing for his sake. His initial bellows of pure agony are drowned by the sounds of the Melters. They do not laugh now. They exhale heavily with each blow, reverent ardour. The chase has ended, the game is over. Now their diligent work begins.
************
Please be very harsh and straightforward with your comments and critique, however please try to be constructive (dont say it sucked, tell me WHY it sucked).
I don't have time to break the whole text right down, so all I'll say is that in your attempts to be as visceral as you can you're coming off really long-winded. Also consider that this protagonist isn't going to be waxing lyrical about every damn thing when he's running away - at several points you have him explaining elements of your world directly to the reader. This [B]never[/B] rings true, it brings the reader straight out of the story because he/she is being addressed by the author. This is something really common that separates an author from an amateur. You have to be careful with exposition; using character dialogue to flesh out your world is usually the best bet. Your current style of writing is known as "idiot lecturing".
One more thing - it's plain to see that you're doing your best to convey things [i]exactly[/i] as they play out in your head. At times this is making your sentences too wordy, or showing that you're trying too hard. Be concise sometimes. Not vague, and not poetic or literary verbal diarrhea, just to the point.
The reason I mention the moonlight in particular detail is because I want it to stand out significantly in the readers memory, but have them unaware of it's exact importance. I plan to employ "the Pearled Moons" as a major theme and setting prop later on.
I've had other critics tell me that the descriptiveness of the piece is, to them, actually very immersive and a rather balanced level of detail vs rapidity.
What you mean by exposition, I'm not sure I understand. Instead of using the phrasing "It was a sunny day", use the phrasing "I saw the sun in the sky shining bright"?
I'm going to have to agree with Mako here, it's long winded, so much so that i gave up about half way through. Look up Purple Prose, you tend to over explain things too.
I just read the whole thing through, there's no hook man. I read this, and i think "What?" instead of "What happens next?". Also, i dislike your use of a cold opening. Cold openings are hard, they are used on TV to prevent viewers from switching away, but if they don't have a hook, it won't work at all. Think about it, do you really want this to be a cold opening? Anyway, i like some of your language, but it can be a little neurotic, sometimes to dive into every detail, others it's very dry.
By the way, in action scenes, to much detail takes away from the action, ripping the immersion away from them. Use dry detail, don't over do it man.
[QUOTE=ShootEvryRapper;38109818]The reason I mention the moonlight in particular detail is because I want it to stand out significantly in the readers memory, but have them unaware of it's exact importance. I plan to employ "the Pearled Moons" as a major theme and setting prop later on.[/QUOTE]
I meant the whole thing, didn't specify that bit
[QUOTE=ShootEvryRapper;38109818]
I've had other critics tell me that the descriptiveness of the piece is, to them, actually very immersive and a rather balanced level of detail vs rapidity.[/QUOTE]
Well, you asked for blunt criticism. If you're going to try and bounce it back while citing other sources, why bother requesting the critique at all?
And on detail vs. rapidity of events, I could summarise what happened in maybe two short sentences. You've got 18 paragraphs up there. So think how much of that is extraneous freeze-frame narration from your overbearingly verbose protagonist versus things that are actually occurring.
[QUOTE=ShootEvryRapper;38109818]What you mean by exposition, I'm not sure I understand. Instead of using the phrasing "It was a sunny day", use the phrasing "I saw the sun in the sky shining bright"?[/QUOTE]
I... don't see how you got that at all
Just read all of what I wrote ignoring the words "with exposition", and what I was saying to you should make perfect sense
Feels unnatural as fuck. It sounds more like a guy trying too hard to make good sounding sentences/poetry/trying to sound deep rather than someone actually recalling events to somehow discharge himself of the weight. The worst part is the labelling.
You could try to analyze your very environement first.
Never, ever write a story in first person present tense. You are not Chuck Palahniuk.
[QUOTE=pMnky;38114967]Feels unnatural as fuck. It sounds more like a guy trying too hard to make good sounding sentences/poetry/trying to sound deep rather than someone actually recalling events to somehow discharge himself of the weight. The worst part is the labelling.
You could try to analyze your very environement first.[/QUOTE]
This - you spend too long telling us adjectives instead of getting to the damn point already. Stories are meant to give some detail of the surrounding to allow the reader to create their own individual vision of the setting, but in this case you tell them all these things about necrotic trees and a ravine, spending too long dumping metaphors and posh words in rather than actually telling us WHERE the guy is.
Thanks for the advice people. I'll give it a less tryhard go sometime soon and let you tear into it when I do, thanks again!
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