[QUOTE=OrionChronicles;40599782]Anyone want to look at mine?[/QUOTE]
Post it. Someone'll give it a look over.
We need more people to post material, but we also need more effort on the critiquing part. I know people are interested in a creative writing thread here, but so many people are just posting one piece, then never visiting again.
We need both [i]longer pieces of writing[/i] and [i]longer critiques[/i] of that writing. If you don't present at least a page or two's worth of text, it's difficult to make any substantial comments on it. The lowest requirement I've had in a creative writing class was about 8 double-spaced pages. That's enough to keep the whole class talking for at least half the period, but also enough that everyone could write a one-page response to it.
When I post something on here, I would [b]love[/b] to get that kind of a response again. But the way things are going, it looks like I'd be lucky to get two responses at all, let alone a response with any kind of detail.
So just post any work at all. Even if it's old and/or you hate it. If you think it's bad, it might help to find out if other people find it bad for the same reasons. Or maybe somebody will help you see the good side of it. Even if it's something you wrote when you were 7 years old, at least it might give us a laugh.
And if you want more responses, feel free to let everyone know. This way we know you are actually interested and aren't just a dump-and-run-er.
[QUOTE=Loofiloo;40614082]We need more people to post material, but we also need more effort on the critiquing part. I know people are interested in a creative writing thread here, but so many people are just posting one piece, then never visiting again.
We need both [I]longer pieces of writing[/I] and [I]longer critiques[/I] of that writing. If you don't present at least a page or two's worth of text, it's difficult to make any substantial comments on it. The lowest requirement I've had in a creative writing class was about 8 double-spaced pages. That's enough to keep the whole class talking for at least half the period, but also enough that everyone could write a one-page response to it.
When I post something on here, I would [B]love[/B] to get that kind of a response again. But the way things are going, it looks like I'd be lucky to get two responses at all, let alone a response with any kind of detail.
So just post any work at all. Even if it's old and/or you hate it. If you think it's bad, it might help to find out if other people find it bad for the same reasons. Or maybe somebody will help you see the good side of it. Even if it's something you wrote when you were 7 years old, at least it might give us a laugh.
And if you want more responses, feel free to let everyone know. This way we know you are actually interested and aren't just a dump-and-run-er.[/QUOTE]
[U][B]
Edit:[/B][/U]
It is now finished and here for review.
It is very similar to Steven Spielberg's Hook in many ways.
A few things added in like descriptions of characters and setting. New material which adds to the Introduction. I never planned this story out which is why it has taken me a while, also why it surprises me as to how long it is so far.
[QUOTE=Katos;40614974]
"My name is Eric Hooper and it happened on September 20[SUP]th[/SUP] 2007. I was with my wife and daughter at the Salvation Army with a box of old junk I’d been dying to get rid of. There were old paper backs, some VHS Cassette tapes, records and most importantly an old toy I held sacred since I was a boy.
Ryan Marshal Poe, as I had named him, was a tattered old stuffed monkey. Bright orange which had faded over the years, small beady black eyes and long stringy arms, reminded me of a muppet when I think about it. It was hard for me to let go of him; although he was the reason I was bulled through early school, I used to lose him all the time and I used to think he talked too much. Still, Ryan was my best friend. My only friend until I met my buddies in high school and things went normally. He always had the best advice; he told the funniest jokes and did the best Richard Nixon impression. I never had more fun with someone in my entire life really.
I never told ANYONE of this. Not a soul. I never knew how to, I thought it might have been a dream. A nightmare that lasted a long time, I can’t recall how long. I never thought it really happened. It was crazy and stupid really. But I am going to reveal this secret I have held within myself for thirty years. This is the experience that introduced me to Ryan.
It went like this:
[I]I awoke from my bed to hear a tingling, a bell sound. It was coming from outside my bedroom window. I got up and out of my bed, quietly I moved to the window. From the second story window down into the street, I saw a carriage. It was bright white with gold lining the window and doorway. No horse attached, there was just the cart. A pretty woman walked herself out, a long black dress contrasting her porcelain-like skin. She gazed upon me with pink eyes. I heard in a sweet sultry voice “Come downstairs Eric”. Her lips did not move her facial expression remained stiff. She must have communicated to me telepathically. [/I]
[I] I felt mesmerized by her charm and climbed out my window onto the balcony. I slowly climbed down as my sight fixed on preventing a fall. As I looked back, she stood there below. Her sweet red smile and pale skin reflecting in the moonlight, her arms out open. “Let yourself drop, I am here to catch you” she said. Feeling assured, I dropped and felt her arms catch me. They were strong but felt soft and gentle, I felt like an infant again. She held me in her arms and walked to the carriage, the open doorway displayed darkness inside. The darkness did not reveal itself as we got closer, but it loomed more until it consumed me.[/I]
[I]I was inside the carriage, the woman gone. I saw my home for not even three seconds before the door slammed shut. The mahogany table and red-leather interiors of the seats illuminated by warm yellow light from a lantern. In front of me, tall muscular Arabian man who sported a long thick moustache. He was staring at me with his big dark eyes, the gold from his great crown glistened in the light, feeling as if it pierced my retina. [/I]
[I] ”You must be Eric?” he said with a deep but soothing voice. I nodded quietly. “Your rest was disturbed, I apologize for this my child” he said. The carriage began to rock from the vibrations of movement. “You rest now, tomorrow will see good plans” he exclaimed with Authority. The cushioning below softened, a blanket to my right raised onto me as I felt myself sink away into tiredness. The last I heard in this sleep was the echoed repeated whisper, “Go to sleep”.[/I]
[I]I awoke in the carriage; the door was open revealing a bright light. The woman from earlier stood by the door. Her skin matched the marble floors in texture. “Out of the Cart, Eric” she said. I got up and hopped out, I nearly slipped on this shiny marble floor at landing.[/I]
[I]The Palace was expansive, there seemed to be cloud above the ceiling. Once again more gold, where ever I looked. Even the tar sticking the marble tiles had some specks of the stuff. [/I]
[I]“Eric, Welcome!” I heard in a booming voice. It was Prince Kalafa, seated at a shiny gold throne. “This you see here is my Palace, for two thousand years it has belonged to me, Prince Kalafa, and has been in my bloodline” he said. [/I]
[I]I felt amazed and in awe, I could not believe what I was seeing. “It is destined to go to you, the trusted and future Prince of the land” he exclaimed. I was shocked to hear this, such power given to me so early. “Forever?” I asked. He nodded and gave me a satisfied smile. “When I pass that will be, you are my new protégé, my Royal Heir”. [/I]
[I]The rings on his fingers glittered as he moved them. “It is all yours my new son, you will be the most powerful man in the Asaka Valley, whatever you want is yours”. I was presented by various waiting staff presenting all kinds of sweets; I was mesmerized with the perceived good taste of heaven that would be evoked. “Thank you Prince Kalafa” I said gleefully. “Call me Papa, my son” he said as he stood up, “Now give me a hug, Eric”. The waiters cleared, making way for Papa to get through. He got onto his knee, down to my level and clutched me with those big arms, but so softly I wrapped around him. It felt comforting, there was a sense of security and a love I didn’t feel from my own father at home.[/I]
[I]For what must have been a few hours I had the most fun I could think of as a kid. He let me play with BB guns and shoot anything i liked no matter how valuable it looked; he would chase me around the Palace and allowed me to watch Cartoons for as long as I wanted. I didn’t care for my own parents at this point, there was no fighting and no one told me off. It seemed like a kid’s heaven. [/I]
[I]I sat on a soft cushion by his throne as two blue-skinned men enacted a comical play, something about a man stealing bread and suffering a harsh punishment. It was medieval in style and dark now that I think about it. He laughed deep from the pit of his diaphragm, his kind of humor but not really mine I will say. My parents came back to mind, I was missing them. I felt curious as one should and asked “Papa, are my Mum and Dad gonna stay with us?” He stopped laughing and looked down upon me, he said “No of course not, they don’t wanna see you again”. A cold shock to my heart, I could feel it sink within my chest. I asked what he meant by it, he began to frown and try to ignore the question. The performers took note of his change in mood and seemed wary, but stilled continued the show. I pressed him on it again, his bad mood frozen this time, his right began to twitch. I asked once more and witnessed something inhuman, his Arabian colors changed to a dim grey and his eyes began to sink back into his skull. “They were getting rid of you, even considering selling you for food” he snarled. His colours returned and his eyes once again appeared but of course I didn’t feel any better. A tear jerked from my eye. Papa gritted his teeth, beginning to growl. “You should feel lucky kid, I am giving you a better life than they ever could” he snarled. “W-why do they hate me?” Tears running down my eyes. He seemed to not care, he wasn’t perturbed. His face only changed again to what it was earlier, the eyes sunk into his skull further as blackness appeared. His hair retreated into a wispy mess. His cheeks thinned out into boney, no nose or facial hair visible. He turned into a horrid twisted creature and gave out a blood curdling screech. It left me frozen in fear instead of sad.[/I]
[I]It changed back into Papa, he was still angry, the tone of his skin remained pale grey. “You are never to question what I tell you, you are to do as I say, they are the rules for living with me in my Palace and you will follow them” he growled. The blue men retreated and headed for the door, the creepy woman appeared staring at me with a big frown, and she started bending her neck in strange and contorted ways. Papa rose from his throne and faced me. I got out of the cushion chair; he grabbed me by the hair and raised me up high as I tried to escape. [/I]
[I]A door in the wall opened a dark claustrophobic room it led into. I struggled to get out of the strong man’s grip but to no avail. I was thrown into a small dirty cage as he yelled harsh insults. He accused me of being spoilt, ruining a good opportunity, why the people I loved hate me and that no one cared for me. I felt scared and abandoned. He stared me down through the bars with those dark eyes, changing into those retreated black pearls of doom. “Are you gonna cry little boy? Are you a man? You are not little boy, you are nothing” he seethed. The big man rose to his feet, with a large gold club in hand he smacked the top of the cage making a loud echoing noise. It shocked and gave me a big enough fright to wet myself. I sat there in my own liquid filth, sobbing my eyes out. I heard him laugh as he exited through the door, slamming it shut and leaving the room dark.[/I]
[I]I whimpered and cried, calling for my parents to come for me, but they never came. Something scurried around the room, it had me at edge. A soft nasal voice filled the silence. “You aren’t alone kid, he does that to all of em” it said. It sounded close to the bars. “Who’s there?” I cried out. Suddenly a fire lit on a torch cleared through the darkness, a brightly orange creature holding the flame smiling back at me. “You can call me Ryan” he said assuredly. I just stared at him, bewildered. “I know I don’t look like anything you’re used to, but I am really here to help you, I am your friend” he said. I just stared back at him unsure of whether to believe his words. He sighed and said “I’m in a lot of trouble for being here so I’m just gonna do this quick, here is what you do…” and from then he began to whisper an unusual command and a good means for escaping the Palace. [/I]
[I]I stood up reaching the top of the cage, standing hunchbacked, I yelled at the top of my lungs “Kalafa you come back here, you big bully!” No response. Ryan put out the flame and disappeared. I yelled out again “I have something to say to…” before he burst in and interrupted. I fell to the floor again in fear, he was so dominating and his skin was grey now. “I have asked you to call me Papa, you have not learned haven’t you, rat” he seethed. I stood as high as I could, look up to meet his terrible gaze and said “You don’t scare me, let me out of here right now or you’ll be sorry, my dad is going to be here soon and will beat you up”. I didn’t believe any of this, but I was convinced this would get Papa here, suiting for Ryan’s plan. “Let me out and you won’t go to the big boy jail” I said firmly. He turned back to his olive skin color, a smirk behind that bushy moustache. He began to laugh and said “You are the man I want to trust with this land, is that right? A man with such bravery to talk to me like that, I will let you out then little MAN”. And so with a snap of his fingers the cage door squeaked open, I crawled out, but above me he turned white as his eyes ran back and darkened into black. His hands balled up as the muscles wasted away. “You are going to learn a true lesson about speaking to Royalty like that” he said, his voice getting raspier and thinner. His face elongated, the horrid creature returns, the gold crown atop its head. His cold long hand gripped my shoulders and neck, ready to hoist me up until…[/I]
[I]“Ding ding ding!” I heard from Ryan. Papa released me from his clutches as he had Ryan’s stringy arms wrapped around his face, pulling the little hair he had. The monkey was the size of Papas head. The creature screeched in anger and pain, the little monkey climbing up and down his back kicking different areas. Papa tore chunks of his own skin as he tried to shake Ryan off. Up on his shoulder, the orange monkey looked down at me and yelled “This is your chance kid, through the hole in the wall behind you”. I turned around and saw the hole; it was small enough for me to crawl through. As I rushed through I felt an arm pull me back, the dark eyes looking through, Papa was back. I heard “No desert till you finish the main course!” then what sounded like a large rock hitting a watermelon. The hand let go and slithered back into the room as I crawled away; I felt the hole begin to step down until eventually I slided down through like in a tube. [/I]
[I]I fell into a muddy ravine. A lush but misty forest around me, fairies watched me as they landed on flower to flower. I got up and walked from the back of the palace through the forest. I heard the sound of creaking, not just any, but that you hear from bones. It faded away. I heard things scurrying through the bush around me, squawking from birds and distant screeches from Papa. I picked up the pace.[/I]
[I]Behind I heard more scurrying, this time it sounded like something gaining on me. It was getting faster before it stopped; now I could hear it in the trees, something moving through them. “Eric” Ryan called out. I stopped and looked around, then saw Ryan dangling from the tree. He jumped down; he was only as tall as my knee. He whispered “We are not done, Papa won’t chase any more, but you need to follow me, there is a road down…” he pointed to his right and my left, “that way”. We slowly stepped the way he suggested. “I need to get you out of these woods, stay away from the trees and don’t make eye contact with the people” he whispered urgently. I said “What people?” Then as I looked around, I saw pale children behind the trees watching. “Don’t look into their eyes, those are Lost kids, like you they got away, but these woods misguide you” he explained. I tried to look at the ground, but in the corner of my eyes they were getting closer, moving on all fours because of their twisted chicken legs. “They won’t hurt you, they won’t touch you, just ignore them” he said. We got to a dirt road, wide enough for an all-terrain vehicle. We followed it up and down bumpy hills, the tree branches seemed to reach over to the road. I looked around as the lost kids followed us; they walked around on all fours, it reminded me of dogs. [/I]
[I]The road lead us into the windy plains, the last time I Looked the lost kids were gone. There were long grey clouds shaped like various knives slowly cutting across the sky. In the horizon were a massive lake and a small island in the middle, a feudally clad Sasquatch rowed towards us on a long boat. Ryan told me to hop on to meet the Biami the Wise Elder, who would take me home. The water was crystal clear; I could see the reefs and massive fish beneath. Silently the ape-man rowed towards this small island where I saw Biami. He looked like a gigantic mountain of grey hair, taller than my house. As we landed he let out a thunderous grunt as he hoisted himself around to face us. I was instructed to kneel down before the giant Orangutan, who gave me a glance then inhaled. “Marmoo!” he tiredly bellowed. I looked at the ape-man, he looked at his feet. “Keep looking down, its my native name” Ryan said. “What do you present to me? Biami roared. He was not angry, but you could feel his low voice move through the Earth below. “Kalafa has attained the magic to enter other realms, this boy proves it” Ryan yelled. A vibrating groan. “This kind of travel is impossible; did you find this creature in the lost woods?” Biami said. “He was imprisoned in his personal dungeon, tortured into fear and away from home!” he said. “So a human child after all, as was always suspected, Kalafa has sought after their young to nourish the psychic wounds all demon kind possess”. It was always evident that Papa was not human, but the fact was that I was not the only one, it was a well established trait of this thing. “He will be filled with a lasting rage that will fuel his power, he will attack against all perceived at fault, you have brought upon a bounty onto yourself and this boy, Marmoo, he is relentless and cruel, you would be better off dead than in his possession”. A doorway rose from the dust, through the other side I could see my street where I was taken. “Entering and tampering with the Earthly Realm is a punishable offense, he will be taken to the review of I and my brothers” he roared angrily. Ryan pulled me up to walk through the doorway; he turned up and looked at the great Elder. “But if Kalafa has the power to enter the Earthly Realm…” he asked. Biami cut him down when he said “Which is why you will escort him in, watch him like one of your Colonial siblings, I cannot fathom his new power and how it will compare against my kin, so you must be ready for him”. He inhaled once more, sucking in huge gaping masses of air. “Enter now!” he finalized with, and so we did.[/I]
[I]Through the door we went, I turned around and saw nothing behind. Ryan took my hand and led me back to the door of my house. He somehow got it open, and quietly we snuck upstairs. “Eric, listen to me, Papa is never coming back, I will never let it happen, you are my brother and I will always protect you” he explained. He hugged and laid next to me; I shivered as he talked to me for the rest of the night. [/I]
Back to now:
It was a dream. I was SURE of it. I knew nothing like that is real; no marble women, crazy Royalty or giant grey Orangutans.
Two children, twins Sam and Tom Smith went missing before me. Their mother claimed that one day they just weren’t in their bed, no one saw anything.
My parents tell me to this day that they have no idea where Ryan came from. One day I was different, not their boy anymore. I suddenly had a new orange toy. They thought I stole him at first, or was given him. They didn’t believe the real story of course. They didn’t take him away though because from there my grades improved and I became quite a confident kid, deflecting almost anything it seemed. I claimed it was because of Ryan, they didn’t really care since it seemed I was gaining something out of it.
I remember at age 10, he stopped talking to me; he claimed that he would always watch over me as a guardian. It saddened me, but I simply moved on like a regular boy does; I went to College and got a degree in medicine and have worked as a doctor up to now.
So here I am holding this guy over the children’s toy box, yet I can’t do it. He may be irrelevant to me now, but he played a crucial part to my childhood. Perhaps he could be a good retro gift for my daughter. I dumped all the other crap I had in some of those boxes then went home.
I saw in the news of the missing case of Justine Chang, a 7 year old girl who used to ride her bike past my house every morning for school. She was a big fitness fanatic and loved anything that involved a rush, my own daughter couldn’t keep up with her really. It sounded eerily like the Smith twins thirty years ago. Her father thought she had slept in like she usually did, but was disturbed to find the window open and his daughter not in bed. No one saw anything that night.
I was starting to remember the ‘dream’ again, denial set in. It couldn’t be true, what if she ran away? What if there were family issues she wanted to escape? What if a family member was involved?
I thought less about it over the next following days. My wife and I both work full time so the Maid Conchita takes care of our Laura. I received a call from home, Conchita maybe. Echoed deep breathing filled my ear; I took my ear from the phone as it loudened. “Conchita?” I asked. “Not adequate protection after all” said in a familiar deep-tone. “Who is this? Why are you on my house phone?” I asked. I heard the door open and the sound of a small child being gently hoisted up. “I never forgot you Eric” he finalized with before the phone hung up. I knew straight away that something had happened, and immediately I ran out. I told the nursing staff that something severe had happened at home, and it had to be handled. In my car, I floored it down the highway running several red lights, maybe a cop car too. I didn’t care.
I finally got home, all had seemed normal on the outside except the window to Laura’s room was fully open. However when I opened the door, Conchita was on the ground. Her body was pale, cold; her head twisted almost 180 degrees. Laura was nowhere. I grabbed my phone from my pocket when I saw Ryan at the other side to the room, Alive and breathing! “He’s stronger than expected, I couldn’t stop him this time” he said. Standing there, I dropped the phone on the table, the batteries flying out. I could only stare at him; he wasn’t as bright and fuzzy as in the dream. There was a scratch on the top of his head, a real organic scratch with blue liquid seeping out. “He has your daughter” he said before sitting back and nursing his wound.
Papa never forgot about me, the one that got away and escaped his Kingdom. He had gained power through his own rage. He has returned and taken my daughter; I must go back and face him."
[/QUOTE]
[QUOTE=Katos;40614974]Considering what you said, I present an unfinished Short Story.
It is very similar to Hook in many ways.[/QUOTE]
I'm not really good at constructive criticism, but I'm going to try my best here...
I never read Hook, but I really like the almost psychedelic nature of the setting and the characters, and I think that is something I would really want a little bit more developed in the story. The descriptions of the woman and the prince and the world seem a bit vague and I know I would personally want to know more about them. Although, I definitely like how you described the Prince when he was getting angrier. I'm kind of hesitant what to say about the introduction, or more specifically the events in the introduction. Like, why did the narrator stop becoming so dependent on the toy and finally moved on? Why does he feel compelled to get rid of it? Part of the reason might be the bullying, of course, but I feel like there was [i]some[/i] other reason for it.
Another thing I'm slightly confused about is why the Prince takes the boy specifically and takes him away to make him his own son? Although, since this is unfinished, you were probably planning on answering that question at some point.
All in all, I'd say this story has quite a lot of potential and I'd personally like to see it finished.
[QUOTE=Loofiloo;40614082]We need more people to post material, but we also need more effort on the critiquing part. I know people are interested in a creative writing thread here, but so many people are just posting one piece, then never visiting again.
We need both [i]longer pieces of writing[/i] and [i]longer critiques[/i] of that writing. If you don't present at least a page or two's worth of text, it's difficult to make any substantial comments on it. The lowest requirement I've had in a creative writing class was about 8 double-spaced pages. That's enough to keep the whole class talking for at least half the period, but also enough that everyone could write a one-page response to it.
When I post something on here, I would [b]love[/b] to get that kind of a response again. But the way things are going, it looks like I'd be lucky to get two responses at all, let alone a response with any kind of detail.
So just post any work at all. Even if it's old and/or you hate it. If you think it's bad, it might help to find out if other people find it bad for the same reasons. Or maybe somebody will help you see the good side of it. Even if it's something you wrote when you were 7 years old, at least it might give us a laugh.
And if you want more responses, feel free to let everyone know. This way we know you are actually interested and aren't just a dump-and-run-er.[/QUOTE]
i mostly lurk but i don't want this thread to die
i'll try to post more criticism and in the meantime, here's a rewrite of tower
[url]https://www.dropbox.com/s/4hjalv8ufcuglev/Towerdrft2.pdf[/url]
[QUOTE=inebriaticxp;40622703]i mostly lurk but i don't want this thread to die
i'll try to post more criticism and in the meantime, here's a rewrite of tower
[URL]https://www.dropbox.com/s/4hjalv8ufcuglev/Towerdrft2.pdf[/URL][/QUOTE]
I think names should have been introduced at the beginning rather than through the end. The first time Ma was introduced then it is fine to use capital letters but after it was unnecessary.
I don't know if you did it intentionally but I overall dislike the Mother due to her abusive nature, though mind you I understand the context well.
I liked the drama and the dialogue felt realistic, but I found the story to be too dark and depressing overall. I like a dark gritty setting but I do feel satisfied in some kind of creative turn out, if not something more positive.
The turnout in the end with the two guys I found was anti-climatic, although I like the red-herring aspect of their personalities.
I enter this thread, whats going through my head.
I'm not a good writer so I pick up a j and a lighter.
Gotta find my inspiration, now I'm getting this creative sensation.
My body and my mind are intertwined, at last I see the light.
Gotta give writing a shot man this feels right. Words flowing like a river its making me quiver.
This feeling is amazing, oh no my mom walks in, she caught me blazing.
I already posted this in another thread as I didn't see this one, but I suppose it'd fit better here. I'd highly appreciate some criticism.
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[tr][td]
[quote]
[B]A Crashing Wave[/B]
It was the first second of the long fall. His mind had not yet been able to comprehend what his body was doing, even though it had come up with the idea itself. Running through his mind was merely a slight feeling of surprise, no fear. You cannot be afraid when you realize that there is nothing to be afraid of. He was merely a man with a failure of a life, and had nothing to do with anything of greatness, so what did he have to fear? He did not believe anyone would disapprove of what he was doing anyway. They might even be happy about it.
He felt it tug at his feet, both the air he fell through and something else which he had forgotten about, but nothing could stop the fall now. 200 meters down below he saw waves moving across the water in a calm and rhythmic way. They had been there for countless of years, and would be there for countless more. He could attribute neither of the two to himself. He was merely something that could break their path for a few moments, but no matter what he did they would return to how they were now, until the end of days. He was nothing like a wave.
It had been two seconds since he took the step out into the empty air. He found the perfect word to be “gratifying”. That was the emotion which ran through his entire body as he fell through the air and felt the wind tug at everything that he was. He took notice of how everything, from his dark brown hair to his recently splintered toenail, his gray t-shirt and the scar on his back, seemed to want in the opposite direction. Just like his life, only the opposite. Before he was desperately trying to climb, to achieve great things, but ended up being pulled down toward darkness. It wasn't until now, when he was falling deliberately, that he was finally prevailing over everything else. It was going his way for once.
When he realized that he had made the choice to fall himself, the choice to take the step out from the Rio Grande Gorge Bridge, he was filled with some sort of joy. This is what he did as a child. Back then he was never as easily discouraged as he had been the last couple of years. Back then he was always enthusiastic, and it did not matter what the task at hand was.
As he got older however, the cliffs he was jumping off of grew slippery. He was over-thinking what he once did not think about twice. He threw the brake. Slowed down. Came to a halt. What once was a blooming flower had withered. What once was a train pushing forward in hundreds of miles per hour had now for the first time ever stopped. What once was a child with hopes and dreams had now become nothing but a husk. Forgotten were the dreams. Where had they gone?
During the six seconds the fall took he could only think of one logical answer: To fear. He now lived in fear of what might go wrong. He was wary, and doubtful.
When you are young nothing depends on your success. If you mess up a problem in math, you do it again until you get it right.
If you make a mistake with the girl you incorrectly think you love, it doesn't matter. You're still young and have plenty of years to go.
If you fall when jumping from a cliff to another, your mother will be there to blow the pain away.
When you have grown up, that changes. You start living in fear of what might go wrong, so the only thing you can do is watch as things do.
Three seconds had gone by since the fall began. As that third second passed, more images emerged from his memory, appearing if only for a millisecond. Images of how energized he was as a boy, with dreams of becoming an astronaut, or a movie star. Turns out life is as cruel as its people, and instead of reaching the stars or becoming one himself, he turned up in an office that he despised and never left. The best thing to happen to him during those years was Jay, but he had left him recently, after about two years, complaining about what he said was a lost sense of adventure. Complaining about the work he was doing. He had never understood what he meant, but Jay had been right, as he had always been.
Thinking about it, he found it ironic. He had been together with a man named Jay, a name carrying the meaning “blue crested bird”, for two whole years, and now he was falling after only days without him. Thinking of his past one and only did him no good, but only brought him onto thoughts he should have forgotten or at least suppressed long ago. He remembered the look of harsh disappointment in his Catholic father's eyes. The tears in his mother's. He never knew who they were meant for.
No need to think about it, as he had not met his parents in two years, but for some reason he could not imagine an image as easily imprinted in one's mind as a father's look as he shut the door to the house where his only son grew up, locking him out for what he knew would be an eternity. He shook it off in the air, it didn't matter.
Instead, as the fourth second of his fall began, he looked down. The wind hurt his eyes, but squinting he could see the calm and quiet waves come closer.
His eyes wet, and it annoyed him greatly. Strange how the human mind can prioritize feeling annoyance toward water in your eyes because you cannot see when the only thing you could possibly see is more water than ever emerged from those eyes approaching you in an impressive speed.
It was five seconds since he had taken the step off of the Rio Grande Gorge Bridge. Five seconds he had been falling. The waves came closer, and he was stung by a moment of fear. What if it did not work out the way it should? What if something went wrong? Would he be spending the rest of his useless life paralyzed, or would it be worse? Most likely the latter. It was only a moment, however. The fear was soon replaced by joy. Joy for falling.
Up and down his life had gone. Calmly or wildly, depending on how the wind was blowing. Interrupted by some, but always returning to its normal state sooner or later. He was more like a wave than anything else.
The final second of the fall he spent in peace. He closed his mouth and his eyes, silencing the scream which he had almost unconsciously kept up, and hiding his life which he knew was coming closer.
He could almost have heard the sound of the waves if not for the wind drowning every sound like he himself could drown in but a moment. His eyes were shut. His mind was clear. His love for life was as strong as when he was a child, jumping off of cliffs that were not slippery in the slightest. Jumping on a trampoline, pretending to be a bird in the air, not frightened of falling off and crying.
He was no bird, he could not fly. He was not meant to reach the top of the world. He was meant to fall.
With that realization he accepted what he was doing, and prepared for the impact. The calm water would become wild for a moment, it would form ripples, and then everything would be back to normal, only with a floating body taking the place of water. Then he would be one with his life, only seconds after losing it.
It never happened.
[/quote]
[/td][/tr][/table]
My goal was to write a short story that spanned no longer than ten seconds, and now I'm just looking to make it decent qualitywise as well. I feel like especially the ending would need to be improved.
Not a bad story, although "It never happened" seems a little unnecessary to the story.
Also, I'm hopefully going to typing up my short story and post it here. Are there any good hosting sites other than pastebin?
[editline]14th May 2013[/editline]
And it is a fairly long piece, so far at about 35 pages.
[QUOTE=The_J_Hat;40636252]Not a bad story, although "It never happened" seems a little unnecessary to the story.
Also, I'm hopefully going to typing up my short story and post it here. Are there any good hosting sites other than pastebin?
[editline]14th May 2013[/editline]
And it is a fairly long piece, so far at about 35 pages.[/QUOTE]
Well, it never did happen, he carried on with his life. Do you think I should clarify what went on, remove that last line, or just rewrite the story itself?
I don't know much about hosting sites, but I'll make sure to read your story when it shows up.
[QUOTE=Fhux;40637518]Well, it never did happen, he carried on with his life. Do you think I should clarify what went on, remove that last line, or just rewrite the story itself?[/QUOTE]
I honestly thought he carried out the suicide and the final line referred to how he was not one with his life. Maybe a little clarification at the end that tells us that it was only a fantasy.
[QUOTE=The_J_Hat;40638911]I honestly thought he carried out the suicide and the final line referred to how he was not one with his life. Maybe a little clarification at the end that tells us that it was only a fantasy.[/QUOTE]
It wasn't a fantasy though, I hate stories like that.
Would this be better?
[quote]And if he had kept on falling, there would soon be an impact. The calm water would become wild for a moment, it would form ripples, and then everything would be back to normal, only with a floating body taking some place. Then he would have been one with his life, only seconds after losing it.
Then it hit him, and he found himself oddly disappointed in his certain survival.[/quote]
That sounds better.
[URL="http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/The_J_Hat/1175414/"]http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/The_J_Hat/1175414/[/URL]
My short story.
[QUOTE=Katos;40614974][U][B]
Edit:[/B][/U]
Considering what you said, I present an unfinished Short Story.
It is very similar to Steven Spielberg's Hook in many ways.
A few things added in like descriptions of characters and setting. New material which adds to the Introduction. I never planned this story out which is why it has taken me a while, also why it surprises me as to how long it is so far.[/QUOTE]
I thought it was unusual that you specifically mentioned Hook instead of just Peter Pan in general. But I guess this story does have more in common with that adaptation. It sounds like there's some element of an adult man looking back on and shedding things he depended on as a child.
There were a few things slightly disorienting for me toward the beginning though. For example, when the flashback portion begins, I wasn't sure how long ago it was taking place. I thought the guy could have been a young schoolchild, a teenager, or even a young man. This does get answered later on, but for a few paragraphs I was just operating on a rough assumption.
The prince seemed like a really neurotic character, but this isn't exactly unfitting for what might as well be a child's fantasy, or especially a dream. It's reminiscent of something like The Wizard of Oz (the movie version) where the main character encounters exaggerated versions of real-life people based on how she feels toward them. In fact, I think that was also somewhat true of Peter Pan, where Captain Hook was supposed to represent the children's angry father.
I think this could be a really strong story if it keeps a unifying theme throughout. By the sound of it, it seems like this whole fantasy world would be serving the purpose of helping the narrator come to a gradual realization, and/or come out of it profoundly changed. Is that somewhere in the ballpark?
[editline]15th May 2013[/editline]
[QUOTE=inebriaticxp;40622703]i mostly lurk but i don't want this thread to die
i'll try to post more criticism and in the meantime, here's a rewrite of tower
[url]https://www.dropbox.com/s/4hjalv8ufcuglev/Towerdrft2.pdf[/url][/QUOTE]
I have a few issues with this piece's script/screenplay format. I mean, even if this is never intended to be filmed or performed, writing it in this format comes with certain requirements.
For example, scripts do not refer to primary characters as generic names like "Girl." This is [i]especially[/i] true if their names are revealed later on, as in this case. Movies and plays might take a long time to reveal somebody's name, but even though it hasn't been spoken by a character, the script needs to give it at the first appearance of the character. Scripts are written for the benefit of the performers, not the entertainment of a reader.
I could go into more intricate aspects, like some very novel-y descriptions. A script would not say "the world outside is dead," but would instead just indicate hard facts like crumbling buildings or an absence of plant life. Script writing is not a medium where your text gets metaphorical. But again, I hesitate to get too deeply into this, because I'm not sure what your intention was for the piece. Is it actually meant to be filmed or performed? Or is it just for reading? If it's just for reading, why apply the format of a script, and not just prose?
Another thing is that text like "Ma doesn't speak" and "silence" are not necessary. Especially not "for a moment" or "for a beat." The fact that no line is written there indicates that nobody is speaking and no noise is being made. A script is only about writing what happens, not writing what doesn't happen. The things that don't happen are implicit in that they aren't written.
There's a part on page 6 where the girl's dialogue is interspersed with several actions, but it isn't indicated that she's still the one speaking. I guess it's implied that it's still her since Ma isn't in the room, but it goes on for one more line even after she enters. But still, it could be a voiceover or a piece of written text or various other things, so that really has to be indicated.
In terms of story-related matters, I really have to call into question the logic of Ma shooting the girl near the end. They had [i]just[/i] been talking about traveling to some place 28 miles away, and given how dangerous everything is, this is going to do nothing but hinder both of them. I know Ma later finds that bag with enough supplies to last for "months" but a bad enough gunshot wound might [I]never[/I] completely heal. Plus there's the fact that they might have to flee their home at any given moment. This isn't the kind of move someone makes to discipline a child, it's the kind of thing a crazy person does. And up until this moment, Ma had been the sanest person in the story. I think it's an ultimately unnecessary distraction, especially given how soon the ending comes after that. She could have done any number of other things to serve the same purpose, instead of the single least-logical and least-practical course of action.
But anyway... I don't want to say any more until I hear a little more about the origin of the piece. Basically the questions I asked a few paragraphs ago.
[QUOTE=Loofiloo;40649896]Is it actually meant to be filmed or performed? Or is it just for reading? If it's just for reading, why apply the format of a script, and not just prose?[/QUOTE]
I'll get to some more pieces tomorrow probably.
I write like an 18th century diarist, even casually, so most of my work is unnecessarily verbose and largely very dry. I've been trying to work on that of late, by writing from the first person and therefore trying to adopt a more informal tone. This piece was written as part of that exercise, with a brief from my roommate:
[quote]The street lights are awfully bright tonight. An odd thing to notice, but it's 4 o'clock in the morning and I've yet to fully wake up, despite that glaring orange light piercing through my curtains. That's the thing with air travel - one needs to get to the airport four hours before checking in. It seems to be some kind of law.
With my bags packed, I hauled the heavy cases downstairs - no help from my husband, of course; he's 'busy' making sure the car's ready for the trip to Heathrow - and the grating sound of the kids' laughter is starting to get to me... or maybe it's the grating of the suitcase against the wooden step. Either way, it's far too noisy at such an early time. Just as I manage to get halfway down the mountain of a staircase, I hear my name called.
"JACKIE?!"
A cursory glance over the banister reveals that it's my husband. His brash tone suggests something's wrong, a feeling that's only exacerbated by the stern look on his face as he waits at the foot of the stair. Still not going to give me a hand, then? Alright.
"Yes, dearest?"
It's too early for sarcasm, but that's never stopped me before.
"Get a move on, or we're going to be late!"
Clearly the early hour is getting to him as well, because the tone of voice and expression he used are hardly worth wasting on such a trivial concern. I avoid any confrontation in front of the children seeing as they seem to be enjoying themselves (it was the laughter after all). The children, still laughing and hopping about with a level of energy unseen in people over 21, are ushered into the car while I'm still struggling with the cases. The horn sounds, and I wince at the loud sound.
"I'm coming!"
As fast as I can. These cases aren't light. Finally out of the door, I turn the key in the lock and hurry to the front of the house, the biting cold nipping at the few square inches of skin still exposed from beneath the scarves, coats, jackets and hats. It's a refreshing sensation, but I can't say I'll miss it while sipping a cocktail on the San Vito lo Capo. The thought alone is enough to make me smile. As I bundle my cases into the car, the thought of a warm beach and its beckoning hand are slapped away, revealing a tiny nagging doubt. Hang on... I could have sworn there was something up there. The beach is back. I couldn't care less. All snuggled up in the car, that biting English wind was tugging at the curtains through the open window, the lacy fabric billowing out like the veil of a bride on a blustery day, the light I left on (it deters burglars, so they say) swaying gently behind it, its meagre scraps of light trying desperately to burst through the intricate patterns with very little efficiency. The car pulls away, and I wave goodbye to the tiny house.
Wait! The phone chargers![/quote]
i wrote a rap because i got mad as hell earlier
[url]http://pastebin.com/jeXfX0XC[/url]
tell me what you think yo
For some reason I had the idea to write poetry on the night before my exam and couldn't get to sleep due to thinking about it so I thought I should get it out of my system and express it in at least it's most bare bones form (It's mainly written to be spoke but I haven't had time to practice and learn it off by heart) and it's mainly just a free verse poem of my thoughts on a few different matters.
[url]http://pastebin.com/E6zJ6SX7[/url]
Not a bad way to get feelings off your chest. I didn't read the poetry aloud, but in my head, it made some sense.
Wrote a short story for my Philosophy class. Liked how it turned out.
I would appreciate some criticism though.
[url]https://docs.google.com/document/d/1aQ5YStSkxoB9kKDzgHJc8a3DNw9m50A9dlwoWYbfPSU/edit?usp=sharing[/url]
I'd like to see what people think about this poem I wrote.
I wanted to personify the tendency of humans to abandon the happiness of simple lives and instead invest in material things. I feel like the story that I used was at least a bit unoriginal, and I feel like the flow or rhyme scheme isn't very great by any standard. I also know that it's kind of repetitive, but I'm not sure if that's a weakness.
At times when I try to sit myself down and write something, I fail miserably and just end up even less satisfied with my edited end-product. Much of the time I'm only happy with something I make on impulse - which is what I did here, before making little tweaks and revisions to make it more correct and understandable.
So it's here that I ask - where do you guys get your creative inspirations, and are there any general tips that you have to offer for dealing with frustration when editing your works?
[QUOTE]Pocketless man took his change in large sizes,
For quarters and nickels were his own demises.
T'was lost many dollars from dropping loose cents.
As he rose from a seat or had leapt o'er a fence.
Pocketless man kept his things in his fingers.
The taste of possessions on skin it would linger.
To pick one thing up was to put ten things down.
Within his scarce storage, great wisdom he'd found.
He shared what he'd had with the loves that he'd felt.
He'd take their soft hands in his own, filled with welts.
And the wealth that had come from his drying old lips.
Raised the hair on their necks from their roots to their tips.
Pocketless man harbored nary ill will,
His humbleness filled him with strength and with skill.
Till one summers day had his eyes been to goad,
A Benjamin bill laying down on the road.
Inspection was key to the pocketless man,
Surveying the bill in each of his hands.
He opened one palm to observe his old money,
Till drawn to a shop by cologne of sweet honey.
Following such he approached a new store,
With a deep-pocket man standing tall at the door.
The man saw less-pockets, and led him inside.
And told him a coat was the new thing to buy.
Pocketless man took a look at himself,
Then picked up a jacket off one of the shelves.
He tried the suit on and had welled up with pride.
Pocketless man now had places to hide.
He filled up his pockets and payed with Old Ben.
Then walked on the streets from dusk until ten.
And change he picked up soon had filled his new store.
Now-pockets man soon was craving for more.
He worked his allowance to purchase new space,
Dazzling rooms in a lovely new place.
But now-pockets man would soon reap as he'd sewn.
He'd then not had known how to pay back a loan.
Now-pockets man had more space than he'd need.
As time had passed on it had filled him with greed.
The void in his hands first so easily filled.
Was now such a mansion by which he'd be killed.
Empty were things that he'd found in his house.
Each whistle and widget and solid-white mouse.
What worth in his hands was now nothing at all.
So he'd sit by the phone and he'd wish one would call.
Now-pockets man soon had spent days alone.
He'd sit and think back on a joy he'd once known.
A lilting young flower that grew from concrete,
Crushed under overabundance of wheat.
Now-pockets man had been filled with despair.
The grey in his soul had now seeped to his hair.
The water poured down from the grey in the skies.
As tears had fell down from the pain in his eyes.
He gathered a handsomely grave sum of debt.
Inside he was now, no change he'd collect.
So soon they'd arrive to retake all his things.
And deep down inside he had felt a dull sting.
Now-pockets man's hollow riches were fleeting.
He'd found in those things at least some form of meaning.
But now he was poor without job, without home.
And still pockets man felt so, so alone.
Now-pockets man wanted life of old ages,
When all his possessions remained in hand-cages.
He trudged to the store through the rain and the muck.
Hoping and praying for one stroke of luck.
Now-pockets man needed cash to stay fed,
He showed the store-keep his old coat of old threads.
A rich life gave back, for Ben at that store.
Now-pockets man, pocketless, yet once more.[/QUOTE]
Ideas usually just pop up and if they're worth writing, they'll usually stick around in my head for a little while. If they aren't, sometime I'll set it up a bit by writing it down and waiting until it does flesh out.
[editline]25th May 2013[/editline]
And that's a pretty good poem. Captured the feel you were going for. Rhymes weren't bad or too distracting.
Do any of you try to develop a story in your head and then transfer that down onto paper? I get these great ideas to write about, but fail to actually write them since I never have a pen/paper near me.
[QUOTE=areolop;41016042]Do any of you try to develop a story in your head and then transfer that down onto paper? I get these great ideas to write about, but fail to actually write them since I never have a pen/paper near me.[/QUOTE]
I always keep a sketchbook in my jacket and two text files on my computer (one is more structured than the other). Whenever I catch myself running out of ideas, I spice it up with a hybrid of 3-4 ideas from that list.
It's rarely complete story ideas tho, more like concepts for pieces of world building.
I write poetry in the evenings sometimes after everyone in my house goes to bed. I've never shared any of it before, but I figure I should before I start taking this stuff seriously and end up disappointing myself.
[quote][b]Bane[/b]
They’re on the desk,
littering the space,
in my car, behind the seats,
polluting everything
Papers, in my hands,
denote obligations
and other trivialities,
and the ever-encroaching limits.
Inadequacy recorded,
copied,
and distributed.
[/quote]
[quote][b]All there is[/b]
another effort
another speck of paint on the wall
another infinitesimal impact
nothing ever so small
nothing ever so wasted
nothing ever seen again
another nothing
nothing other
[/quote]
[quote][b]Lily[/b]
We sat and watched the peacocks
wander across our shady lawn,
my arm over your back, your dark eyes
fixed on the passing shades of blue,
the same dark eyes I would photograph
on that last day we spent together.
Now I look again at that picture and I see
there was no fear of death in your eyes,
only curiosity- asking me why I worry
about the coming trip to the vet, the surgery.
Superstition aside, I must have known,
deep down, that you would not come back.
I wonder now, just as I did then,
and before, all the times we ever spent together,
how much you knew and if you understood
who you were and what you meant to us,
and I suddenly feel as if I’m not sure
what your absence really means.
I may not know for some time.
[/quote]
The first two were written months ago as I was finishing my second semester of college. I wrote the first one because I noticed one night coming home that the back seat of my jeep was still filled with papers from my last two jobs, both of which I was fired from, and the trig class I was forced to withdraw from. It made me feel like shit, not only because it reminded me of how badly I screwed myself up during that semester, but also because it reminded me of how disappointed my parents were with me, and I knew that I would be stuck with records of those mistakes for the rest of my life. I don't remember what prompted me to write the second one, but I think it was frustration with myself after rereading and deleting a bunch of older poems that I thought were terrible in hindsight.
The last one was written much more recently. Lily was an English bulldog that my household raised over the last couple of years. She was one of two, and we intended to breed them at one point, but things never really worked out with that. We noticed that she was becoming sick a few months ago, and was losing weight. She seemed reclusive and indifferent towards the attention we were giving her, so all of that prompted us to take her to the vet's office. Long story short, she was suffering from late-stage liver cancer, a rarity at her young age. When the diagnosis came out, they were in the middle of exploratory surgery so my father had Lily euthanized on the spot. It's much harder for me to write about how things felt at the time now that it's been roughly a month, but we were all completely shocked. Despite her reclusiveness, she was still occasionally playful, and apparently "ran excitedly" to my mother's car when she was being taken to the vet for the last time.
That's really heavy, I know. But if my poetry is honestly terrible, don't feel bad about telling me so. I can take it.
saw that short play i posted, in a full production yesterday
it went really well, we got the critique cards back afterwards
about half the cards HATED it, but a good portion loved it as well
was really cool to see my play fleshed out though, all in all i was really proud of it
Snip
My current project, currently roughly 5500 words and 12 pages, intend to keep going for a long while. I'm constantly updating it on a crappy fic site called Wattpad where I have another on hold story. Would love some critique from the wider community!
[url]http://pastebin.com/Dt9xUQUU[/url]
First two paragraphs:
[quote]
The golden sun peeked through the morning clouds and the air was still rife with the scent of rain from the previous night. The hustle and bustle of Steamridge was only beginning as vendors opened their doors and stalls and in various locations around the city the scent of freshly baked goods filled the air. The sunlight shone off of the dome of the Imperial Palace as trumpets sounded and a flock of birds emerged from the distant courtyard and the cities anthem began to play. Steamridge was one of the last and rapidly diminishing bastions of hope and neutrality in the Vergil Empire as troops approached from all sides. The city state of Steamridge had many strategical advantages in terms of placement and natural resources however the Emperor insisted on making his home there and keeping it somewhat pure. Naturally such an Emperor was not popular with those whose only interests were personal gain.
Elizabeth Sloan stood at the edge of the rooftop garden and watched all this occur, the garden was popular amongst the native species of birds which happened to be Doves, Elizabeth thought them to be majestic and clearly superior to other birds, however at times she doubted it due to the mess they would often leave behind in terms of excrement. Elizabeth paced up and down the rooftop garden admiring the abundant wildlife and flora present, she had to hand it to the Emperor, he had kept his promise about keeping the city beautiful. Whilst over continents prided themselves on their so called superior, 'Electricity' the Emperor insisted that Steam was superior, as such the Empire was the only one to have Vessels of which could transport people via the sky. These where much more popular than the common Motor Car though quite expensive. Elizabeth had used them on occasion and almost fallen off at least once. But still, it truly was something to enjoy and revel in.
[/quote]
I'm noticing a lot of "The X did Y" sentence structure there in the first paragraph and "Elizabeth did Y" in the second. Can't give you direct pointers tho since German's my first language and most English I read is but bits of net talk.
I do wonder why you wrote "the native species of birds which happened to be Doves" instead of "the native doves" and also feel like that sentence could've used more fullstops or conjunctions instead of simply commas.
Again, take that with some German salt.
Just a little something I did in the Civ V thread.
[quote]You're in your palace, stressed but confident as another day closes for you and your people. Your farmers providing food to grow your Capital, your miners working diligently to hasten work on your many projects, and your merchants, trading valuables to grow your treasury.
Everything is quiet tonight as you gaze over your grand city. On the dawn of a new era of Industry and Steam, you think about the other Countries that have already reached that level of technology, but there is one you focus on the most, one who could destroy you and all you had built if you so much as farted in his court. One who could send his mighty army to conquer not only your Empire, but the entire world as you know it.
As you think on this, the doors to your chambers burst open! As a panicked courier stands panting. You run to calm him as he collapses onto the floor. Eyes widened, frantically breathing, the messenger attempts to utter words to you, his King, stuttering about a great catastrophe on it's way to your shores. But your eyes are drawn to the holes painted all over this deliverer of words. Finally, formed words flow out of his bloody mouth, [i]"Not..Much..Time, take this."[/i], he says weakly as his hand reaches into his bag to pull out a message to you. You realize it's a declaration of war, but from who? The French, The Aztecs, the Germans?! Before you can ask, the courier dies in your arms, the message in your hand.
As if part of an orchestration, at the moment of his death, you hear drums in the distance beating, cymbals clashing, and the trumpets building; The Li Ling Si Han. Your city's alarm rings as soldiers grab their muskets, and prepare the trebuchets. As you slowly open the curled message, your eyes widen in fear. Fear that he has come, fear that your city and it's people are utterly doomed, fear that your grand empire will fall, to him. Him and his Ironclads, his machine guns, his cannons, and his grand calvary.
For he is the grand warlord.
The Grand General.
The Scourge of all Civilization as you know it.
He is...
[h2]ATILLA THE HUN![/h2]
[media]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yhWaufQD9Uo[/media][/quote]
Feel free to rip it a new one if it needs to be.
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