Bay 12 Games Forum

Finally... => Creative Projects => Topic started by: JoshuaFH on February 01, 2009, 08:51:48 pm

Title: Writing Workshop!
Post by: JoshuaFH on February 01, 2009, 08:51:48 pm

Once upon a time, as night fell over the hills and valleys of Michigan, Joshua, our rugged and handsome protagonist, was lounging comfortably in his rural home. Bored, he sat in front of his PC and went to the Bay 12 Games Forum, his favorite online forum.
Being familiar with the territory, Joshua swiftly made his way through the boards and checked up on the latest happenings in his favourite threads. The particular wit and intelligence of this forum's populace made it an attractive place to discuss, debate, and joke.
Something troubled Joshua on this day however, troubled him most deeply. One of Joshua's latest thread's has yielded an idea of epic proportions, an idea to create a community writing workshop, to forge the latent talent hidden within this place's forumers, where they will be supported and motivated to write, instead of dawdling about nonproductively.
However, no one has taken the initiative to create such a workshop, and this troubles Joshua. He is faced with a dilemma, should he or should he not create it, to spur the forumers into motion or wait for a messiah, with more expertise then He? After much deliberation, he knows he must do what must be done! He will cross the rubicon and never look back!

He goes to the forum's Various Nonsense board and clicks "NEW TOPIC"

He titles it 'Writing Workshop!' with exclamation point for added emphasis on how important this will be. He introduces his starting post by writing a shitty story, believing the irony to be welcoming to the specific brand of people that will be posting. From there, he outlines the somewhat lax rules and expectations, but makes it clear that only the serious should apply, for this is where the "Aspiring Writers" will prove their worth by showing their talent to the community!

Joshua remains tentative about this notion of his, about this course of action, but believes it ultimately necessary. After writing all that is essential, he points his mouse at the button underneath the text field, and clicks "Post".


Yes, after being inspired by my other topic (http://www.bay12games.com/forum/index.php?topic=30439.0), summed up with this quote:

Quote from: Jim Groovester on February 01, 2009, 12:36:21 am

Anyways, I think it would be an interesting idea to have a forum-organized self-imposed writing challenge, where a bunch of people commit to write something, set deadlines for each other, and over the course of a long period of time, write out and polish a piece of writing. There could be peer-review over each step of the process, there would be offers of advice and constructive criticism, and all the people involved could help motivate each other to actually finish writing something.

and so, I've decided to make this.

Post if your on board, designate exactly what you plan to be writing (a poem, a short story, a chapter, etc), and how long you believe it will take you. Be realistic, but remember, we're all in this together, and we'll be holding you to your word.

I'm not sure exactly sure if their is a website that will host our writings and allow us to view and critique them. I'm not particularly knowledgeable in that respect, so speak up if you have an idea, otherwise, post it anywhere where we can openly view it.

Any type of writing is accepted, so don't feel left out, but you must show your work, and leave it open to criticism. Constructive criticism is the most appreciated, of course.

If you have a serious intention to write in your lifetime, then prove it here.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Servant Corps on February 01, 2009, 08:54:44 pm

www.lulu.com

Or, you can try NaNo, but I don't have the link. (EDIT: got it. www.nanowrimo.org)

If this is going to be a "WRITE WRITE WRITE!" I'm going to need some encourgement for my little book on religious empires.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: deadlycairn on February 01, 2009, 09:01:57 pm

Can't we just write it on here instead of going on some other site?

I just realised that if we get a lot of sign-ups that actually manage to write something that may not work - unless we aim to surpass Nist Akath in size.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Little on February 01, 2009, 09:09:08 pm

I'm in, I do short stories. I could already submit a few!  ;D

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: JoshuaFH on February 01, 2009, 09:39:25 pm

Quote from: Servant Corps on February 01, 2009, 08:54:44 pm

www.lulu.com

Or, you can try NaNo, but I don't have the link. (EDIT: got it. www.nanowrimo.org)

If this is going to be a "WRITE WRITE WRITE!" I'm going to need some encourgement for my little book on religious empires.

I've taken a look at both of those, and I simply cannot figure out how to look at anyone's writing. NanoWrimo also might not be appropriate, because the whole website is based on the "write a 50,000 word novel in a month" idea.

And of course you'll be encouraged, that's the whole idea of writing together instead of alone.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Fenrir on February 01, 2009, 09:45:32 pm

Let us concern ourselves with moving to a different site when this one can no longer bear our efforts.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: penguinofhonor on February 01, 2009, 09:55:18 pm

Yeah, let's post everything here for now. Spoiler it if you think it's long enough to require that, and put it in multiple posts if it's really long (you'll know when it tells you it's too long for one post).

I have half of the first chapter of my only serious work so far done, and once I'm done revising this huge paper (due a week from tomorrow) I can get working on it. My RTD takes a lot of my writing time up, so I'll be a little slow.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: JoshuaFH on February 01, 2009, 09:59:22 pm

Yeah, I suppose we can play this one by ear.

I suppose I'll start the momentum on this workshop by declaring my first writing. I'll be writing a short story, maybe 2 or 3 pages in length, based on a daydream I had some time ago. It'll probably only take me 2 days to articulate the entire thing.

I'm looking forward to seeing yours, Penguinofhonor.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Little on February 01, 2009, 10:32:20 pm

I'll have a 2-3 page short story done tonight, started after I posted  ;D

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Servant Corps on February 01, 2009, 10:42:10 pm

Quote

I've taken a look at both of those, and I simply cannot figure out how to look at anyone's writing.

Oh. www.fanfiction.com is the place you want to go.

I was wondering of ways to provide encourgment, hence those two sites. Lulu.com in particular provides monetary incentive if you like vanity publishing. And providing spoilers for my work, might not exactly, er, work. Some of the stuff I'm writing aren't exactly...well...interesting. Mostly dry academic stuff.

I mean, I wrote a full chapter on an African religious empire, but that's about it.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: deadlycairn on February 01, 2009, 11:27:32 pm

Look at how popular J.R.R Tolkiens works were. Not all stories have to be action packed.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Strife26 on February 01, 2009, 11:37:59 pm

We'll have to give Nist a run for its money. If I get a chance, I'll type something up. Maybe.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Little on February 01, 2009, 11:40:01 pm

First Entry Enjoy! Not my best, but meh. Needs some editing.

Arson
By Little

Jason Larson smiled a smile that didn’t fit his face at all as he bent over the porch, can of gas extended in his hands. The night was dark, the only light he had was from the moon’s pale light, the house was black, and the gasoline smelled good. He stepped back on the dry wood, not worried about any signs he was leaving behind. He poured gas over his muddy foot prints, and takes a step towards the house, splashing gas on the walls of the building. He fumbles a book of matches out of his pocket, dropping the can of gas. He looked up, and the glass glinted. A sliding door. Easy to break, and probably not alarmed. Jason stood still for a moment, weighing his decision. He could leave now, never lighting a single red head, or he could shatter the door. Beyond would be combustible living rooms, flammable kitchens…

He picked up the can of gas and threw it at the glint. The door shattered with a loud noise, and Jason held his breath. He looked at the neighbouring houses, which could be mistaken for abandoned. Nobody looked out, and no lights turned on. He was okay. Jason reaches in through the gaping hole and finds a small lever. He flips it and tugs on a smooth metal handle. The door slides soundlessly. Jason smiles and steps inside, his black business shoes patting down the carpet.

He retrieves the can of gas, and flicks on a light. He squints for a moment or tow,, examining where he was. The room has a large couch, soft carpet, and a TV system with an admirable selection of game systems hooked up to it. On the far side of the room, next to two wooden doors is a large foosball table. On the wall across from the door is a mirror, with a cute note hung above it reading ‘WIPE YOUR SHOES’. Jason looks like a mess. He’s pale, black hair greasy from lack of a shower, and a layer of stubble covering his chin. His tie is loose, red and black pattern covered with pine needles acquired from when Jason leaped through a hedge to reach his jackpot. His office attire is slicked with mud, and his shoes are covered with smears of gas. Jason casts nagging doubts out of his mind and begins pouring gas onto the couch…

Jason ran out of gas after the living room and the hallways, so he raided the garage for more ‘supplies’. After pouring various liquids out of various cans all marked with ‘DANGER: CONTENT FLAMMABLE’ onto the floors and furniture of the dining room, master bedroom, boiler room(which, unbeknownst to Jason, contained a large cylinder filled with roughly five hundred galleons of heating oil) and something that looked like a palace converted to a walk-in closet, Jason fled back out onto the porch. He sniffs, detecting an odd musk under the odour of gas. He realizes it’s the smell of paint-thinner, emanating off him. It’s what he drenched the master bedroom in. Four empty cans of paint thinner lay discarded at the foot of a wooden staircase, numerous empty cans of gas scattered throughout the house, and a few empty cans of 10W30 oil piled on the maple table in the now oil-soaked dining room. Jason snickers, think, ‘The Saudi’s should come and plant a few wells in their dining room.’ He fishes the tattered book of matches back out of his pocket and draws out a single wooden stick. He draws in a shaky breath.

Why was he doing this? He had a job, a nice apartment, and didn’t normally like lighting things on fire in the earliest hours of the morning. He had just been walking to his car when he had spied a nice looking house, and the thought, ‘I wonder what it would look like on fire.’ had flown through his mind like a hurricane. He had looked the driveway, and there were no cars or recent marks. He figured they were on vacation, and before he had even completed the thought, another had popped in. This one was, ‘Just a little fire. Just a little one…’ and Jason had decided he had absolutely no business lighting anything on fire. Jason’s mind threw up a few counter arguments (which Jason, for the life of him, couldn’t remember now) and before he had known it, he was standing on the porch clutching a can of gas.

He sighed, wondered aloud what the hell he was doing, and struck the match. He dropped it onto the dry wooden porch and began to run. He feels alive.

___

Jason sat at his desk, gripping a cup of Starbuck’s coffee like it was a life buoy. His little cubicle was messy, and very plain, except for the few pictures Jason had put up. A picture of his family (Mom, Dad, and his brother, Mitch) a few funny quotes, and a calendar with a pictures of beautiful cars. He had groaned when the alarm had woken him up at 7:45 that morning. His head had been pounding, and he smelled like gas, although he couldn’t remember why. When he was taking a shower, he had remembered. In shock, he had almost called 911, but arson was something you get put away for, even if you plead temporary insanity.  While he shaved and put on fresh clothes, he wondered what the hell he was going to do. He had checked the news before leaving, and a suburban house exploding was the top story. Police said they had suspects, and that it was almost certainly arson. The word suspects had sent chills up his spine,  not used to the paranoia of that word associated with him. He shudders and spins his chair around to face his monitor. Elder needed a report by tomorrow. Jason cast all thoughts of his crime out of his mind with some difficulty, and tries to focus on his work.

___

Mark Johnson looked over the scorched remains of what used to be a auto-repair shop with a shake of his head. You could hardly tell it used to be a building, let alone a repair shop. They had cordoned off the area, and were combing it for clues. This was the fourth arson in the past three months, and Mark was getting worried. Each time was a more intense blaze, more calculated. Although mark had busted bigger cases then this, it still made him nervous when an arsonist was out there. He ducks under the yellow tape and walks over to a rookie, who was kneeled over and looking at a section of black earth intently. He walks up to the rookie (who obviously wasn’t with his Arson Unit, his men were much more professional) and flashes a winning smile.

“Mark Johnson, Arson Unit. What’d you find there?”
The rookie looks up, picking up what looks like what used to be part of a blasting cap. He gently rubs off a thin layer of charcoal, and smiles. A blearily smudge is on the piece of plastic.

“Mr. Johnson, I think I found a fingerprint.”

___

Jason taps a few keys on the time frantically. His forehead was beaded with sticky drops of sweat. This was his fifth ‘outing’ as he called them. Each time, the rush was bigger, and each time was a little more complex. He had gone from gas and matches to blasting caps and professional accelerants to timed charges. Each one drained his bank account progressively more as his equipment became more difficult to acquire, but Jason had stopped caring. He was on the roof of General Auto’s regional manufacturing and administration plant. He had attached a charge to one of the six massive oil tanks that powered the plant. He was ten stories up, and he could hear the faint blare of cars below. He felt giddy. He flicked the timer, set it for ten minutes and pressed the START button. He ran to the rickety elevator that had brought him up here, and it took him down five stories. He calmly stepped out of the rickety elevator and entered the normal one beside it. A businessman holding a black suitcase ran to catch the elevator. Jason cursed under his breath as the man run in, the doors reopening as they detected movement. The doors shut as the man ran his curious eyes over Jason.

The man says, “You don’t look so good. You okay?”
Jason replies, “Yeah.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah…”

Jason sighs with relief as the man leaves on the fourth floor. He looks at his watch, eight minutes and ten seconds left. He rushes out of the elevator as it reaches the first floor, pushing past several well-attired businessmen and a few rough-looking engineers. The small group looks after him as he darts around the corner. He looks around, and spots what he was looking for: a fire-alarm. He pulls it and starts running towards the front exit. He knows the assembly lines and computers would shut down, and the building would be evacuated. He would never actually kill someone. Jason sprints towards the exit, being joined by a panicking horde of office workers. He glances at his watch as he gets outside. Six minutes left.

___

Five minutes later, the large crowd that was formed of the evacuees was getting restless. Several line workers were loudly wondering if they got overtime pay for the time they wasted, while administration workers were complaining about missed appointments. Jason worriedly glanced at his watch. Less then thirty seconds left. As he eagerly watched the building, a hand clasps his shoulder. Jason spins around, startled. A kind looking man is holding out a wallet and smiling calmly. A card labelled with ‘Sergeant-Johnson’ is next to a gleaming police badge. The undercover cop says, “Mark Johnson, with the Arson Unit. Mr. Larson, we have a few questions that we’d like answered-”
 
The building explodes in a cataclysmic explosion of fire, spraying debris into the crowd. Several people scream, and the crowd lurches away from the building as fast as possible. Jason decides to run with them, but before he can do so, he is tackled by three more undercover cops. His head slams into the pavement. His head feels dizzy, but he can still feel his arms being handcuffed. Jason sighs as debris rains down and the pillar of fire slowly begins to diminish.

___

Jason Larson was sentenced to twenty years in prison for five charges of arson, destruction of personal property, possession of illegal materials, multiple charges related to debris wounds, and resisting arrest. He begged temporary insanity, but it was not granted. The media covered his case, and wrote him off as another insane arsonist. Their coverage matched the attitude. The police searched his filthy apartment and found twelve more charges…

Jason’s closing statement in the case was, “I don’t know what came over me. I would’ve never harmed anyone, I swear…”

He was unavailable for interview, which isn’t good, because I woke up last night smelling like gas. The news is covering a massive fire which consumed multiple beach houses, and I can’t recall where I was last night. The voices in my head aren’t my own…

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Jim Groovester on February 01, 2009, 11:42:32 pm

Since it was my brilliant idea, I guess I'll have to join.

I guess I will start by writing a short story, maybe twenty or thirty pages in length, and I will post the first draft at the first available opportunity on the 9th of February, a Monday, and then the final draft the first available opportunity on the 16th of February, the Monday after that.

I would encourage people who are somewhat hesitant because they think their schedules are too busy to give it a go anyway; with a self-imposed deadline, I think some might be surprised how much time they can find when under pressure.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Mulch Diggums on February 01, 2009, 11:53:03 pm

I guess I'll try and write somthing.. I never realy have writen any thing besides bios for a few characters in comunity forts and things.. But I could try my hand at this. Expect a story up in a week or two =] Perhaps less.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Little on February 01, 2009, 11:54:28 pm

Any comments on mine, btw?  :P  :D

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Mulch Diggums on February 01, 2009, 11:55:17 pm

Oh, right :D. I realy enjoyed it, but the last two lines confuse me a bit, whats that about?

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: JoshuaFH on February 01, 2009, 11:57:26 pm

I also really liked it, I thought it ended rather abruptly though. How did the police know he did it?

and the last couple lines confused me as well.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Strife26 on February 02, 2009, 12:04:54 am

I liked it, and I think that the last lines were supposed to be confusing. If you were to make it longer, some description of the investagation would be in order, although I rather like the protaginist not knowing that he was about to be arrested.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: penguinofhonor on February 02, 2009, 12:08:23 am

I like the story too, and I get what the last lines are supposed to mean, but they could really be worded better.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Little on February 02, 2009, 12:10:28 am

Description of investigation it is!  ;D

And they were supposed to be mildly confusing. They refer to the unknown author to start having that little voice that says, ‘I wonder what it would look like on fire.’   ;)

How could they be worded better?

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: deadlycairn on February 02, 2009, 12:11:40 am

I didn't find the last two lines confusing (though i may be reading it wrong). From what I read, it seems the story of Jason Narson is actually being narrated to you (by a reporter who covered the story), and the final lines are of the narrator speaking - basically saying that the same thing is happening to him. This suggests some kind of outside influence causing the arson perhaps? Ask Little, I'm sure he knows more than me. ;)

Oh, and I'll try to have something up within a week - either a short story, or a chapter from something bigger. School's coming up shortly, and boredom is my greatest motivator  :D

Also, Little, I'm amazed you managed to churn that out in a day, it was great!

Dangit, ninja'd twice, including one that ruins my explanation! I'll keep it anyway.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Little on February 02, 2009, 12:24:30 am

I was thinking maybe outside influence. I wanted it slightly...unknown.

Updated with a bit of investigation.

Thank you very much, Cairn. Churned it out in about an hour and a half :P

Edit: If anyone wants to read a few more Little (:P) stories, just PM me and I'll send you some of my older works.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: penguinofhonor on February 02, 2009, 12:27:03 am

About the last bit:

Quote from: Little

He was unavailable for interview, which isn’t good. I woke up last night smelling like gas. The news is covering a massive fire which consumed multiple beach houses live, and I can’t recall where I was last night. The voices in my head aren’t my own…

Okay, the main problem is this:

Quote from: Little

The news is covering a massive fire which consumed multiple beach houses live

Is the news currently covering the burning beach houses? Because if so, then the fire is still consuming the beach houses, and therefore it shouldn't be past tense.
Or if you mean the news is live, covering the beach houses that were burned last night? If this is it, then you should take out "live" as it emphasizes that something is going on right now, and this would be drawing attention away from the main action.

The second problem is this:

Quote from: Little

He was unavailable for interview, which isn’t good. I woke up last night smelling like gas.

The first sentence hits the reader with a bit of confusion (not the good kind) which isn't resolved immediately. It's hard to explain, but the end result is that this part seems awkward, and that would be solved by linking them together into "...which isn't good, because I woke..." because this emphasizes that they're related and makes the reader stop wondering about your grammar and start wondering about the events in the story.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Little on February 02, 2009, 12:34:26 am

Edited. Thank you Penguin!  :)

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Jim Groovester on February 02, 2009, 01:25:03 am

I have some recommendations for critiquing someone's story: be honest and thorough. It serves them no good if you tell them you like it without telling them why, and likewise, it serves them no good if you tell them you dislike it without further elaboration.

As an example of what I think should be done (to some extent, anyway), I will critique Little's story.

Spoiler: Critique ahead! (click to show/hide)

Little: You are brave being the first person to post something in this thread. Firstly,

Quote from: Little on February 01, 2009, 11:40:01 pm

First Entry Enjoy! Not my best, but meh. Needs some editing.

This is not meant to be disparaging, but I don't want to review a half-effort. If you know you can improve something, or polish it up, or edit it in places, do all that before you put it up for review. Whether or not it's your best work is not my concern, whether it's your best effort is.

Moving on.

Quote from: Arson by Little

...the only light he had was from the moon’s pale light the house was black,...

He poured gas over his muddy foot prints, and takes a step towards the house...

Grammar mistakes. Fix those. What's wrong in the first example should be obvious. In the second, your verbs must agree in tense, especially if they are describing a sequence of events. Your work is filled with other mistakes, so fix them all.

Quote from: Arson by Little

Jason sat at his desk, ...

This paragraph is unnecessary. I briefly grappled with it, trying to justify its existence by rationalizing that Jason needs a moment where he considers the magnitude of his crime, but he already had second thoughts in the previous paragraph. Your tale will flow better without this redundant paragraph.

Quote from: Arson by Little

The building explodes in a cataclysmic explosion of fire...

So the building explodes in an explosion? This phrase is redundant within itself. Edit it with that in mind, and examine the rest of your work for redundant phrases and descriptions.

Quote from: Arson by Little

Jason Larson was sentenced...

This paragraph bugs me. While most of it makes sense, the police searching his apartment comes after his sentence and media coverage? The sequence of events needs to be reorganized.

Your last paragraph annoys me. The point of view switches from an omniscient third-person narrator to a non-omniscient narrator afflicted with Jason's same itch. Also,

Quote from: Arson by Little

The voices in my head aren’t my own…

ARGH CLICHE

On the whole, yours is a decent tale that suffers from being hastily constructed. This causes it to have grammar and other structural mistakes that could be avoided with a more thorough examination of your work before posting.

There, I'm done. I'm sure that we can hone our critiquing skills as we hone our writing skills.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: deadlycairn on February 02, 2009, 01:29:18 am

I think I've read too much H.P Lovecraft. I'm seeing it - or references/allusions to it, in everything. Your ending reminds me of his stories, even though I know that kind of ending is common in short stories. His works were the thing that sprang to mind when I thought of 'outside influences' affecting the narrator.

And it has been months since I read one of his stories.

This has nothing to do with my story. However, I find it slightly disturbing that Mr Lovecraft's stories could affect me in such a manner.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Strife26 on February 02, 2009, 01:34:05 am

That must have been what made the tale unsettling, the tense switched places a few times I think. It's the sort of thing that I have a bad habit of doing.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Aqizzar on February 02, 2009, 07:53:55 am

I was going to rattle off some critiques of Little's story with the friendly admonishment that critiquing is by definition pointing out problems, but Jim Groovester beat me to all of it.

My addition to this- Your story suffers from the same sort of problem I see in a lot of amateur (not an insult) writing.  Even when it's grammatically correct (and there are problems there), there's lines in the text that just don't sound like the normal way the language would be used.  My biggest piece of advice to writing is, periodically step back and read the whole thing out loud.  Don't just scan it with your eyes, however meticulously, actually speak all the words in the order you wrote them.  That's a good way to catch both grammatical errors, and weird constructions like "exploded in an explosion".


Anyway, I guess I should make a writing commitment myself, given that I spurred this thing on.  However, I'm taking a couple essay-heavy classes, and writing for my Martian survival forum game (http://www.bay12games.com/forum/index.php?topic=29038.0), which takes more effort than it looks like.  At least for a slacker like me.  On that note, I should mention my short lived stint as GM of Evolution (http://www.bay12games.com/forum/index.php?topic=24600.0), which involved a lot of writing as well.

But I had an idea for a story today, one I can write bits and pieces of and come back to as I please.  It's not a terribly original idea (in fact, I could swear I was inspired by a similar work somewhere), but I like it, and it'll let me branch my thinking.  I will tell the story of a rambling band of goblins, zombies, gargoyles, and other fantasy baddies and cannon fodder, settling dungeons and being slaughtered by heroic adventurers.  I know I want to use first-person journals to tell some of the story, if not the whole thing.  Just not sure when I'll have time to get to it.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Fenrir on February 02, 2009, 08:21:11 am

I hate when I get an idea for one character or a single scene and have no plot for it, like right now.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Little on February 02, 2009, 07:00:58 pm

Least somebody saw the lovecraft refrences. I was wondering when that'd pop up.

Heavy editing tonight!

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: deadlycairn on February 02, 2009, 10:16:35 pm

You actually put Lovecraft references in there? I'm not crazy! :D

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Zai on February 02, 2009, 10:35:43 pm

I'd "sign up" but I know I wouldn't be able to commit.

I may post some short stories set in my fantasy universe (no, not the one I live in) later, though.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Gunner-Chan on February 02, 2009, 10:38:00 pm

I would love to contribute, but I write incredibly slowly. The icecaps will have melted by the time I finish a story.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Mulch Diggums on February 03, 2009, 02:50:17 am

I spent an hour or so writing, I should have a story withen in the next few days. Its dwarf fortress related, and rather long. =]

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: JoshuaFH on February 03, 2009, 03:46:55 pm

This is gonna take a little longer than I thought, I overestimated my ability to make time to write.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Alexhans on February 03, 2009, 04:21:46 pm

I keep telling you... Lets use this page.

www.thestories.net (http://www.thestories.net)

It's been abandoned for lack of advertising and has a great interface for commenting and awarding points.  And endless one page forums.  ;)

Some poems of mine. http://www.thestories.net/stories/local/bmfy_alexhans/ (http://www.thestories.net/stories/local/bmfy_alexhans/)

I started once a large story about vampires in my ol  laptop but I dropped it from 2 meters and it never worked again trapping my story... forever?

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Impending Doom on February 03, 2009, 08:49:10 pm

Ah, a place to vent my creativity! Now I can do something with the stacks of half-finished stories I've started and never had the heart to finish.

For starters, here's one of my more recent one.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

“That’d be it over there,” the driver told me. He pointed out the window of the cramped little buggy at a tall antenna array rising up from behind the hills like the mast of a ship disappearing over the horizon. The pale blue crescent of Earth provided the only light other than the dim glow of the beacons from the steel spire of the antenna. Out here, even the bright light from Armstrong Terminal had vanished behind the jagged lunar mountains. Not more than a day or so ago, I had been called in by a panel of NASA officials to perform an investigation of ‘unspecified circumstances’. Had I known they would be sending me here, I would never have said “yes.”

According to the documents given to me by my employers, I was to investigate an extremely bizarre incident that must be seen to be believed. Less than two months ago, the space program had established yet another isolated research outpost on our own moon, a few hundred kilometers from the Armstrong Terminal colony at Tranquility. The station’s introductory crew of six rode up to the base in the transit buggy (transportation to the outpost by flight was impossible; there was not a single patch of level ground to set down on nearby) about a week later for their extended forty-two day stay. Business proceeded as usual, and six weeks later, the research crew was ready to return home. The four scientists headed out to the terminal in the buggy, while the two maintenance crew members, Adrian Campbell and Yu Chang, remained behind. That’s when the problem started. About eight hours later, communications from the outpost stopped. There was no distress signal, no calls for help, they just stopped talking. The very next day, a team was sent to the outpost to investigate. When they arrived, Yu Chang was nowhere to be found. Adrian Campbell was dead.

I was to be the first person to enter the research outpost.  I must admit to a sudden feeling of, of something. A mixture of nerves and a nagging feeling that could have been fear.  The doorway was still holding its airtight seal and hissed as I entered the airlock. The interior of the base appeared cluttered and disorderly, with equipment of all kinds lining the walls, and leaning stacks of diskettes and papers shoved precariously into every available corner. As instructed, the preliminary search team had left everything exactly as it had been found. The whole place seemed so surreal, like everything had been frozen in time. Here, a tray of food, perfectly preserved in the bacteria-free air. There, a chessboard still set in mid-game. Proceeding further in, the scenery took a drastic change. The laboratory module was almost obsessively pristine, with everything stacked and ordered in neat little rows. The first two horticultural modules were just as perfect, filled with every species of plant imaginable in straight, perfect rows. As I walked up to the door of the third module, I vaguely realized something was amiss. The door was sealed and locked. Then I saw it. Looking through the viewport to the other side, I could see the collapsed translucent shell of the module scattered across the ground. There, in the center of it, lay the body of Adrian Campbell, preserved by the vacuum of space.

After this first examination, I divided my crew into teams of two to begin a thorough investigation and search of the base. I personally took my assistant William (never Bill or Billy) outside to recover and examine the body. We had to work carefully or risk damage to the evidence. All of the body’s soft tissue was frozen solid and as fragile as glass. The cause of death turned out to be a gunshot wound to the head. The shot had been inflicted by the worst type of weapon for our work: a caseless flechette round, likely from a frictionless coilgun, yielding no information on the type of weapon. Continuing the examination, I noticed something clutched in Campbell’s hand, a smallish electronic device of some kind. As I attempted to pry it free, the whole glove slipped free of the hand, still glued solidly to the device. This surprised me. All of the rest of the clothing had been exposed for so long that it would have shattered at the slightest touch. The gloves were still new and pliable, albeit somewhat stiff. I carefully peeled the glove free from the device and elected to save it as evidence. The device turned out to be an older model recorder, little more than a simple personal organizer. I believed that at least some hint of the reason for Campbell’s death would be held within. The recorder itself had been destroyed, most likely by the same weapon used to kill Adrian, but the memory units inside were still perfectly intact. Back inside, I pried the casing open and retrieved the memory, passing them off to one of my investigators to decode.

“What about surveillance footage?” I asked one of my investigators.

“No such luck. Nobody thinks about somebody being murdered on the moon.”

“Neither did I. Any sign of our disappearing friend?”

“None, sir, wherever he is, he’s not here.”

“Is there any way he could have left? Say someone killed Campbell and took Chang as a hostage?”

“Not likely. Both space suits are still in the airlock. There’s supposed to be an auxiliary buggy for emergency purposes, but…”

“But, what?” I prompted.

He paused, then said “The buggy’s just, just not here. No tracks, no wreckage, nothing.”

I was baffled. How could someone make a man – maybe two – and a two-ton vehicle disappear on the moon of all places? Perhaps our other findings could shed some light on this baffling mystery. The only items that appeared to be of any help were the two astronaut’s personal computers. Mr. Chang’s personal computer proved to be a little more difficult to find. In fact, it was absolutely nowhere on the base. During the search, however, we were able to recover Mr. Chang’s toothbrush. His hairbrush was found nearby, both buried under mounds of paperwork and data disks. I placed both of these items, plus the gloves found on Campbell’s body, into individually labeled, vacuum-sealed bags for protection until they could be sent off to be examined more thoroughly. I handed them off to William, telling him to “Put them somewhere until we can get them back to be tested.”

“Y’know, this stuff is starting to pile up around here,” he told me.

“Do you have any better ideas about what to do with it?”

“How about that box over there?” he said, indicating an empty rations container tossed into a corner. I decided it probably wouldn’t hurt, and seeing as how we had nowhere else to put anything I piled the items inside and left the box where it sat.

***

Sven Adams had more suit hours than my crew had life hours, it seemed. If it had been done in space, on the moon, or on any of the other colony worlds, he had been there. It was upon his shoulders that I had placed the task of searching the mountain ranges farthest from the base. He was the only person that I felt could venture out that far and return. He was an extremely gifted explorer, and if there was anything out there to be found, well then Sven would find it, one way or the other.

I had been at my examination of the base for fully thirty-six hours when the unmistakable face of Sven came onto the net. He would be returning with the missing buggy shortly, nothing follows. I was on the razor’s edge. What new facts could be taken from this vehicle that would make the pieces of the puzzle become more of a picture? I could do no more than wait. Knowing Sven, the wait would be short. Less than half an hour later, the roar of thrusters shook the station. Rushing to the viewport, the distinctive shape of Sven’s battered old shuttle came into view, with the elusive buggy clutched tightly under its belly. The ship hovered in place for a moment or two before dropping the buggy unceremoniously to the ground, sending up a cloud of dust. I rushed quickly to the airlock, finding Sven already inside. He pushed his faceplate up, sending a fine coating of dust from any of twenty worlds into the air. Upon seeing me, he grinned. “I believe this’s yours, then,” He said.

“Absolutely. Where exactly did you find it, may I ask?”

“O’er in the ranges to th’ south, ‘bout twenty klicks out. Yer friend must not’ve planned on comin’ back anytime soon.”

“I see. Was there anything in the buggy? Surely if he didn’t plan on returning, there would have been certain things he’d want to bring with him.”

“Oh, a few things here’n there: radio, suit; thought ah’ saw a couple a’ empty water tanks stashed in back.”

“Was there a weapon of any kind, a firearm specifically?”

“Y’mean this?” he held out a small pistol, obviously of military origin,”The clip’s empty. ‘splains how he ‘kicked.”

I was puzzled, “What exactly do you mean?”

“Yer friend’s done gone an’ put himself out. Blew the canopy out. He’s a corpse-sicle by now.”

I was stunned. Hadn’t we had enough of frozen bodies lately?

“Sven, it looks like we can’t do anything else here. Can you fit the rest of my crew into your shuttle?”

“Sure, they’ll fit.”

“Take them and the buggy back to Armstrong Terminal. William and I will join you shortly.”

One month later.

“Court reporter, transcribe the following interview with Mr. Stevens, Special Investigative Consultant, NASA Prime, in accordance with Governing Rules section 12-1-2002, sub-paragraph,  uh ... , well you know the language.”

“Mr. Stevens proceed with a concise narrative of your findings.”

From the box I removed each item as I detailed the story as I now knew it.

“Chang and Campbell were working for the Chinese Science Agency.  Chang had long been an agent; Campbell most probably was led to believe that his pay was to come from the black market proceeds the object would bring.  As no money was exchanged, no trails exist to lead us to whoever paid Chang...”

“Campbell’s gloves turned up nothing. He had put them on and disposed of his real gloves to remove any traces of evidence of what they were up to.”

“Tests on the toothbrush, hairbrush, and clothing all confirm that there were two Changs. They must have changed places when the researchers were transported to the moon just days prior to the incident.”

“Information from the com gear and personal computers record brief messages to a third party relating to an “object found”; “object moved to station”; “object at pickup point this date”; but not a single clue that suggests what they had found, nor where they had discovered it.”

“Campbell must have sent a message home about a large sum of money, because a letter, yes a letter, congratulates him on his soon to be life of passion and leisure.  We believe it was from a girlfriend; however we have not located the sender, just dropped off the scope, as it were.”

“The buggy and its contents were thoroughly analyzed by “people” at NASA Prime.”

 “The weapon that killed Campbell was black market junk, impossible to reliably trace.”

 “The com gear supports our findings that Chang took the object to a pickup point outside the coverage of our surface gear.  There he shot himself before he could be made to surrender the contests of this disk.  The data it contained must have been irreplaceable, maybe even how the object could be used or activated. A hole in the screen supports at least the theory that he killed himself. He must have shattered the disk into the pieces you now see shortly before he died.  Whatever it was, the object and nothing else was taken from the crawler.  One must assume that it is no longer on the moon, and is probably in the hands of the Chi-Sci group. There are too few facts to support an accusation, so we may never know.”

 “Lastly, letters taken from Chang’s body lead us to believe that he was a patriot. His actions were on orders from someone we have as yet to identify.  That’s what made him so elusive, he truly believed his actions were “samurai;” more than himself...  To Chang, Campbell was a friend, but a greedy man who could never be entirely trusted.  Chang believed that Campbell would brag about the operation, or, more likely, blackmail Chang’s government for more money.  He had to be quieted.”

“It appears that the Chi-Sci Agency felt just so about Chang.”

“A very clean operation with no real trace of who may have pulled the strings. Only the puppets they cut loose are left.”

“In conclusion this was a murder-suicide perpetrated to claim an object no bigger than this ration box I carried my evidence into this court room in. Government and greed appear to be the base motives.”

“Gentlemen, I will answer some questions from this board, but quickly, as I must return to NASA Prime upon an urgent request...” That’s when I had my final insight.  My evidence box was the same that Chang and Campbell had used.  No need to tell the board, no good would come of it.

It can be funny how the biggest mystery of a generation most often hinges on the simplest piece of evidence.  When I had collected the evidence at the station, I had needed a way to carry it all.  An empty box just large enough was there, used first by the keepers to transport rations to the base and then by me as an evidence carrier, this box was part of the story.  I didn’t know it then, so it was misused.  Whatever they had discovered had once been in this box, at least until it had been taken from the station by Chang.  This box, that has trailed the evidence from the station through the wide ranging series of tests, had never been tested itself.  What ever trace evidence it once had held is now gone beyond the best science to recall. 

 “Recorder, Transcribe”

Investigative post-script

     “It is now 14 days removed from the briefing before the lunar board.  I awoke to find I had received the following com:

      To Mr. Stevens via NASA Prime ComSat 1a: 
      Message follows:

      Mr. Stevens as to our last conversation on the surface, Sir it appears
      we have not done all here.  You are being requested to return on
      priority carrier.  You’re gonna love what I found. 

                          Sven Adams

     Remarkable man, Sven Adams, as I said a gifted explorer, if it can be found...well I guess it has been.

End Post script.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: deadlycairn on February 03, 2009, 10:11:33 pm

Nice, but a bit hard to follow at the "One Month Later" part.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: penguinofhonor on February 04, 2009, 01:04:12 am

Here's the first chapter of my currently untitled book. I'm pretty sure that it's not going to end up being a full-fledged book in the end, but it will be a good ten to fifteen chapters. If I ever end up publishing it, it'll be with a couple other similarly-sized stories.

The biggest problem I think there is would be that I don't exactly have the characters fully planned out. They're pretty flat now, and I'm wondering if a semi-parody can function well with no round characters. Luckily the first chapter doesn't need much characterization.

Also, the names are not finalized. They'll probably end up changing eventually.

Spoiler: Chapter 1: The Last Straw (click to show/hide)

A young boy ran across the playground, looking around nervously as he reached the chain link fence along the outside. Satisfied that nobody was looking, he crawled through a small hole in the fence. He continued crawling along a well-worn path through the bushes for several feet, where the path met a small child-made clearing in the forest, where all vegetation had been removed except a small tree on one side that was too big to knock down, and even it had been stripped of all low branches for good measure.

Two boys were already in the clearing, busying themselves by scouring the area for rogue plants. They both looked towards the new arrival, but payed him no more attention than was necessary to throw a couple berries.

“Hey, you two,” the new boy said calmly. “You have to respect your new leader.”

“You take too much pride in that, Victor,” one of the boys replied. He had short, brown hair and glasses. “Isn't one of our goals equality?”

“Exactly, which is why I've invited a new member to the resistance.”

The third boy looked up. “I think I know who he invited. Everyone's been talking about how he likes--” He was interrupted by Victor shoving a handful of leaves in his mouth.

“Gossiping, Jake?” Victor asked pointedly. “You know who gossips? Them.” He pointed a finger back towards the playground.

Jake spat out the leaves, kicking them into the bushes. He glared at Victor and stepped towards him, making all he could of the extra two inches of height he had. “You know who bullies anyone they want? Them.” He pushed Victor into the bushes. “Now you're going to lead us instead of just abusing your power and thinking you're cool just because you can boss us around. You know why? I'm not going to let you bully us anymore."

Victor began to cry, but stopped at the sound of twigs snapping. A girl's head popped out of the hole in the bushes.

“You invited her?” Jake shouted. “You traitor! You snake!”

“No, I invited Jessica!”

The girl spoke up: “I invited myself.” She stepped out of the passage and a kindergärtner followed, brushing the dirt off her jeans. The girl looked about ten years old, with long, flowing blond hair and a smile that could charm adults into doing about anything. She wore several plastic rings on each hand and at least as many jelly bracelets on each arm. Her clothing was brand name and her shirt as low cut as any shirt made for prepubescent girls. Her shoes had heels two inches high, impressive for someone in elementary school.

“Get out,” Victor said. “before I have to break my vow not to hit girls.”

“That's not a vow,” she replied, her calm demeanor not affected by the threat, “It's a rule. And you're no knight. You're just a loser who's bitter because he couldn't get into the Cool Kids Club.”

“Why are you here?”

“Why do you think I'm here? This is my secret base.”

“You already took the last one.”

“Yeah well we destroyed it. So we need a new one.”

Victor tried to think up a good response for a couple seconds and, failing that, got on his hands and knees and started to crawl into the entrance passage. The girl kicked him, knocking him on his face and probably giving him some nasty scratches as he collided with the bushes. She laughed cruelly, and the kindergärtner hurried to clean her shoe with a tattered tissue.

Jake pulled back his fist and aimed for the girl's face.

“You... you can't do that.” She was scared, just enough for Jake to notice. They stared at each other for a minute, and Victor decided to take advantage of the pause, quickly struggling to raise himself as much as he could. As he started to hurry through the bushes, intending to avoid any confrontation, Jake took a couple steps, bent down, and grabbed Victor's leg, dragging him back into the clearing.

“You're a coward,” Jake said to Victor, pushing him into another bush.

The girl smiled. “You could be part of the Cool Kids Club.”

“I'm above that and you know it. I would never associate with scum like you.”

“Pity,” she said, and clapped her hands twice. The bushes rustled and twigs snapped in the passage, and soon two large fifth grade boys emerged into the clearing. One wore a hockey jersey and the other was dressed in soccer gear.

“Princess Beautiful,” the both said, and bowed. The girl pointed at Jake and the boys started flexing their muscles as threateningly as they could manage and walked towards him.

“I'm not moving,” Jake said, glaring at the two boys, who responded by picking him up and shoving him through the entrance. They pushed Victor and the other boy into the passage behind him, giving him no choice but to leave the base.

And yes, the Cool Kids Club is a reference to Slackerz. It's only a joke they throw around occasionally, and I think I've done enough with it to make it my own.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Mulch Diggums on February 04, 2009, 01:27:32 am

Penguin that was the weirdest story I have ever read. What inspired you to write that?

er.. It was good though

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Mulch Diggums on February 04, 2009, 01:59:33 am

Arg...Damned tiredness..fucked up my post, so, delete.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Martian on February 04, 2009, 02:46:46 am

This seems like a good idea.

I'm in my final year of [home] school and taking English first language. My current story is to practice some mixed up chronological sequencing. In that spirit it's about a time traveller that is stuck in the past. It should be done by the end of today or at the latest by the end of the week. It has no definite length constraints but is looking to be about 3-5 pages. Feel free to be mercilessly critical.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: penguinofhonor on February 04, 2009, 05:14:25 pm

Thanks for the compliment, Mulch. It was supposed to be weird. I like taking things like kids fighting in school and making them a lot more interesting. I have an idea for a story about some snowplow truck drivers, inspired by seeing all the snowplow trucks around here after the crazy snow thing that has apparently killed 40 people throughout the Kentucky. None in my area though.

I was printing it out to give to people at school to critique, and I discovered that I used the phrase "boss us around" twice in about fifteen words, so I'm fixing that now. I'd like it if someone else would read over it and tell me how it is (Strife, where are you?). The biggest problem is word repetition, because I really don't like it and I'm afraid I missed some more. So if you see me using a word a lot in short time, then make sure to point it out.

I haven't read Mulch's yet because I have to revise this big paper, do some other school stuff, and do some non-school stuff like putting DF this USB drive wehtam gave me since his internet doesn't want to work and he's not to download a ton of stuff on his laptop because of virus paranoia, but I'll read it later. Also, if any of my other RTD-ers are reading this: I'll try to update that tonight too.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: deadlycairn on February 05, 2009, 01:43:13 am

I've put this off long enough! I'm writing now.

Oh, and it's a short story, the inspiration for which came from this very forum...

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Martian on February 06, 2009, 03:51:24 am

OK. I've finished my story. It's 1673 words.

EDIT: Split it into parts because of the character limit.

Superconductors and Virii part 1

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

He was upset. Very upset. So upset that he kicked the supporting leg of his invention rather hard and badly bruised his toe. With a beep and hissing noise his boots automatically deployed medicinal treatment or, to put it in the words the advertisement, “Ouch Ouch Ouch! Bust yourself up? No matter; With new fixit delux boots no more stubbed toes! Order now. While stocks last. [The rest came very fast] Fixit delux industries is not responsible for any dangerous mutations, extra toes, bone damage or skin removal resulting from use.” He thought, partly to take his mind off his present situation and partly because he was a incorrigible cynic, that advertisements have only gotten increasingly obnoxious since his birth in the year 2000.

That was really why he had built his time machine. To prove to people that there once was a golden age, when people bought things on recommendations by word of mouth. Of course, the theory for time travel had existed for a long time; it was simple first year university quantum mechanics. But the lack of time machine ads was rather good proof that nobody had gotten around to building it; mostly because they were to busy, in his opinion, making obnoxious advertisements or buying the things that were advertised.

But his frustration with ads had had always existed. No, the reason he was so blisteringly angry was because he was happily in the 20th century exploring and being glad about the lack of speaking billboards when he was rudely interrupted by a large motor vehicle. Which had promptly crashed into his time machine and destroyed a lot of padding and cracked the complicated Thingymajiggy Delux. In between the sporadic bouts of swearing he reflected that brand names had gotten a lot more dumbed down. He was at least thankful he made his time machine look like a motor vehicle on the outside, though it wasn't powered by anything as crude as hydrocarbons.

He had, of course, observed correct protocol for the time after the crash (including the apologetic extended middle finger) and then drove off. He couldn't time travel without his Thingymajiggy Delux and he didn't think there was a store nearby which sold thorium based superconductors. Not unless time machines were a lot more widespread than he thought.

To take his mind off things, and because he was running out of swearwords, he thought back to how he had felt when his machine was finally finished. How he celebrated to himself with a quick glass of pseuhanol (the latest “absolutely realistic fake alcohol”) and then set off on his mad adventure.

When he activated his machine it had felt like an infinity. There had come the horrible feeling of being pressed into ball along with the rest of the universe and then used to play a vigorous game of squash. He had floated in darkness for what seemed like years, thinking... panicking! Something must have gone wrong! He should simply have been instantaneously transported, time having been pulled out from under him like a large rug. A very large mostly black rug.

Tick... tock... the minutes had drifted away in his head. Then he had seen a light. He had thought it probably meant there was a fire breathing dragon near. Luckily he was absolutely right. And he was very glad to see it, because it meant he was simply dreaming and had been knocked unconscious by the trip.

He had tentatively opened and eye and saw out of his side window an antique driveway with a that had car backed out of it and into him. He had panicked and quickly driven off out of the pathetically small town. Upon investigating the damage in the more private countryside he had soon found he was stuck. This had put him in the afore mentioned mental state.

But now to resolve the problem. He couldn't repair the time machine so he'd have to make it so that it didn't need to be repaired. He needed to get a message to himself in the future before he departed for the past. He sighed, at least it was simpler than getting a message to the past from the future. He'd just buy a quick message tape... oh wait. They're not invented yet. Ah well then he'll just have to record a quick SoundBite Deluxe TM. Oh wait... that wasn't invented either. How did people in this age communicate?

But then he realized a much more pressing problem, even if he could compose a message how could he get it to himself? He wasn't born yet! Think... Think... Think... Thinky think-think thinka-thinky think! After stopping himself beatboxing he had an idea. Perhaps he could stop his parents meeting; then he'd never be born and never travel back in time and so not prevent his parents meeting. That would probably crash the universe and it would be reloaded from the midnight backup. Which was before he arrived.

Suddenly he had a brilliant insight, this time for real. All he had to do was to stop Thorium superconductors being invented. His time machine would then contain another type of superconductor. Hopefully one less fragile. Now, which company invented them... He checked the Bigger Better Really Complete Encyclopaedia 2030. It was Thingymajiggies inc. or formerly International Superconductors Retail and Development inc. Good now to sell a basic future idea to one of their competitors which would put them out of business. Wait, none of their competitors existed yet. Neither did they for that matter. But then again, the entire company started when some engineer made an accidental discovery and formed the company to sell his brand new room temperature superconductors. He had gotten his units mixed up between metric and imperial and by sheer chance discovered the correct mixture. Our protagonist gave a wolfish smile. Time to fix that error.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Martian on February 06, 2009, 04:06:04 am

Superconductors and Virii part 2

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

He quickly activated his retina implanted computer. As usual the thing had more virii than a biological weapons lab. They were all highly intelligent and self adapting. He quickly tweaked his computer to use the current primitive internet protocol, which was no challenge for someone as technically orientated as him. With a pang of guilt he opened up the International System of Unit's web site and waited five seconds.

Good old Ripper041 should start uploading itself. The horrid virus had crashed the internet twice until operating systems changed and the loophole it used was plugged. Then it adapted and continued crashing the internet about once a month. It was adapting itself about as fast as the multimillion dollar government organisation trying to stop it adapted PC's. In this primitive age it would go through the web like a hot knife through SimButter.

Suddenly the web browser crashed. Success. He had destroyed all of France's computer infrastructure. With the SI so badly delayed everyone would end up using feet and inches. Ghastly way to do it but he'd take that rather than be stuck.

In a future time a past version of our protagonist was building a time machine and having a ghastly time of it. “Insert rod 3 into Slot B. Measure to ensure length is 10 inches.” Simple enough except he kept hooking up the titanium superconductor the wrong way. A part of his mind was insisting that rod 3 goes in Slot C and was supposed to be 33 centimetres. Why he was thinking in that ancient system he didn't know. He sort of felt split in the middle, like he was building two different time machines. In any case at the end he managed to hook up the machine correctly. And went back in time.

This time the trip was uneventful. With a “WUMP” noise he appeared in the driveway and was hit by the reversing car. There was a horrible screech of metal against metal. He checked in his rear-view mirror and was glad to see that he had only received some torn padding. The other car had been badly smashed, his vehicle absorbing none of the force, unlike last time. “Huh? What last time? Certainly he had never time travelled before.” In any case, he obeyed protocol with an extended middle finger and drove off.

While driving through the countryside and admiring the view he was again rudely interrupted. Suddenly he hit an invisible barrier. His car slowed and bounced back for no apparent reason. He, having watched a lot of action films, instantly recognized it as a police vehicle halter. But why? There surely weren't any in this century. Speculation was put out of his mind when someone in a suit and sunglasses walked up to him. He had a motor vehicle parked on the edge of the street.

He spoke in precise measured tones. “You realized messing with history is a very serious offence. We don't have any laws against it; that would only encourage it. But sir I'm afraid you'll have to be transported to a facility for the remainder of your life. At least there's a nice view. You can see a T-Rex if your lucky.”

The protagonist thought quickly. He had only one way out and that wasn't pretty. He pretend to have trouble with his dented door. With the time he bought he sent Ripper041 to the current White house. The agent saw his eyes lose focus as he used the computer and, with a practised move, drew a gun. The muzzle flashed and suddenly everything was gone.

Yet another version of our protagonist was in the future driving home and wondering whether time travel was possible. But of course you needed a superconductor for that. They were still in development although some progress was being made. The great internet smash of '98 had seriously harmed technological progress. In the end the only solution was to replace every machine in the world with a brand new one unconnected with an infected pc in every way. The internet mark 2. At least Linux gained massive ground because it was cheaper.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: deadlycairn on February 06, 2009, 03:48:12 pm

I don't think its 1673 words - I'm pretty sure there is a 40 thousand character limit.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: deadlycairn on February 06, 2009, 09:14:45 pm

... I'm not sure I'll be able to meet my one week deadline. I've got a massive headache after playing Cave Story for 6 hours straight. Damn thats a good game. Anyway, if I don't churn something out today, I'll have written something by tomorrow, then all I gotta do is type it up and post it.

EDIT:
...Well I finished Cave Story - in the credits however, it mentioned a 'Red Demon, which only true heroes fight' or something along those lines. I never saw him, which tells me I missed something. Back on topic, I'm starting to write now.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Gigalith on February 06, 2009, 09:50:42 pm

Oh no, another of these threads. Maybe I can dig up some short story somewhere to finish and stick up here...

Little: An interesting story, but the first thing that nagged me was its tense. 'He fumbles a book of matches out of his pocket, dropping the can of gas.' is present. 'He looked up, and the glass glinted.' is past. Pick one or the other.

Side rant: Present tense is becoming a cliche. It was edgy back when Snow Crash came out, but now that everyone* uses it the charm is fleeting.

Continuing on, 'and' implies that the two clauses are related and happened in order. "I slammed him in the face and slit his throat as he fell" makes sense, "I built a steam-powered calculator in my fort and Barack Obama was elected" does not. The glass does not glint because Jason looked at it, he happens to see it because it does.

'(which, unbeknownst to Jason, contained a large cylinder filled with roughly five hundred galleons of heating oil)' If we are following the perspective of Jason, why do we get to know thing he doesn't? If the detail is intended as a surprise, why is it here? If it isn't relevant at all, why is it anywhere?

IMPORTANT SIDE RANT: If a detail doesn't help the story, don't include it. The best way to accomplish this is not to add details that don't.

'Cataclysmic explosion'. Adverbs in general. It's hard to do, but it is far far better to have the reader draw the conclusions you want them to rather than dealing them out. Ernest Hemmingway was the master of this, check out The Old Man and the Sea or one of his other works for how to write an entire Pulitzer Prize novella using 'slowly' and (I think) 'steadily' as the only adverbs.

Last lines: I was confused at bit about this, too. Again, it could be a little clearer. Is the reader to understand this is supposed to be the influence of some mysterious telepathic arson thing? If so, I would suggest one of two things:

A) Make it more clear that this influence isn't natural.
B) Set up the story as a mystery as to why an ordinary citizen would start burning down buildings, and fully reveal the arson monster at the end. I know, some how, this can be done without the reader guessing the secret right away, but I can't think exactly how right now...

But in any case, I enjoyed it. Keep up writing.

Impending doom: The passive tense often appears in your writing. The use of it can make your story stilted and clumsy. Sometimes the drama of sentences is lost. This can be corrected. The active voice is better.

Also, is this a finished story? You mentioned unfinished stories above, is this one of them? As it is, the story ends at an odd moment.

The box is too obvious. You mention it at the end of segment and put special attention on it. Why should the reader doubt at all that you intend for it to be a plot point later? If you want for it to be a surprise, you must hide it first.

Anyway, I'm going to stop my critique now, as I have a headache and it's late at night. Keep writing. I'll read the other stories tomorrow.

FINAL SIDE RANT APPROACHES:

Any of you planning a career in writing, or just planning to get any done: Take note. You need to say to yourself 'I'm going to write n hours today'. N can be 1, 2, 4, 0.3, whatever, it's too easy to not work up the effort for a deadline a week away. If you're planning on writing a book (which I did) there's no other way to finish it in a reasonable timeframe.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: deadlycairn on February 06, 2009, 11:46:48 pm

Here's hoping nothing goes screwy with the formatting.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Wasted

“Hey Jim, have a gander at this, would you? Looks like some of the Ancient English pictograms on this entry have survived. Any idea what they mean?”
“Didn’t bring my translator with me, but the pictures are reasonably easy to decode. Latest theory on the block is most Ancient Humans were illiterate – the symbols were understood by all of them, so they used them on signs and the like.”
“Whatever, just tell me what they mean!”
“Lessee, here we have their warning symbol – and some other one I’ve never seen before. Lots of pictures of dying humans though – it might be a curse on those who enter, or possibly a depiction of the punishments for unauthorised entry. Either way, not a problem for us.”

I motioned at Jim to move over so I could look at the pictograms myself. Nearly the entire column was covered by pictures of humans dying, wasting away, and sporting all kinds of unnatural deformities. No matter what the pictograms showed, I wasn’t going to turn back now. I’d worked hard on this dig, and if all went well, it may reveal more about mankind’s mysterious ancestors. They seemingly disappeared off the face of the Earth – leaving little of themselves behind. Here was the greatest discovery since the Washington dig, an Ancient Human building set deep inside a mountain. It had taken weeks to uncover the entry, and finally we could go inside.
“Jim, got your flashlight?”
“I’m not totally incompetent you know – I even brought spare cells in case this thing goes in deep."
“Well then, let’s go!”
The building seemed to be some kind of storage facility. All the walls had the same carvings as those on the entrance pillars, as clear as the day they were chiselled in.
“What do you think this place is, Jim?”
“Temple perhaps? Seems to go in pretty deep, it’s a good thing I brought those spare cells.”
“If this is a temple, I don’t want to meet the gods they were worshipping.”
I motioned at the carvings.
“Is it just me, or are they getting MORE gruesome?”
“No, they’re definitely getting worse. That other symbol is getting repeated more often too. What’s that!”
Jim’s flashlight illuminated a rusted pile of metal, the remains of some kind of machinery still distinguishable amongst the other scraps.
“Dunno, but I bet it’s important. Look at this, will you?”
I walked over to the pile of metal, and right past it, focusing on something else altogether. Strange cylindrical containers loomed out of the darkness, made out a corrugated metal, badly rusted. There was a strange symbol on the barrel, the same symbol that had been repeated so many times in the carvings, as well as some genuine Ancient English words!
“What do they say?”
“Damnit, why the hell do I always forget my translator? Ok, at least there are only two words. Lessee, D..A..N.. oh, it says Danger! The other word though, I got no idea. I’ll make a copy of it to show to the guys back at the lab, and to see if the translator comes up with anything.”
“Well, hurry, the people back home are gonna want to see this!”
I began the walk to the surface, already making notes to get a tech to get a sample from one of those containers, as Jim sketched out the words on the barrel.

DANGER! RADIOACTIVE!

Just a short 567 word affair. Been a while since I wrote like this. I've done a quick once over for spelling/grammatical errors, but stuff like faulty tenses will probably have eluded me. Oh, and you'll probably realise what thread I got the idea from by the end. Cookie to first person to name it!

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Mulch Diggums on February 07, 2009, 12:06:17 am

Wow.. Deadly, that realy was a joy to read, I must say. Very intresting, a surprising ending, I would never have guessed. Alittle on the short side for my taste, but still great.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Zai on February 07, 2009, 12:15:45 am

Short is good. I like short. Just not too short.

And I remember a thread recently where somebody mentioned something should be radioactive. Can't actually remember what it was, though, so no cookie for me. Good thing I'm not the Cookie Monster.

But yeah. Good read. =D

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: deadlycairn on February 07, 2009, 12:25:26 am

I'm waiting for someone to tell me something's wrong - not that I'm complaining about the praise, of course.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Mulch Diggums on February 07, 2009, 12:35:40 am

Uh.. It didnt have enough mummies. Going into this, thats what I thought it would be about. I was slightly disapointed.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Makrond on February 07, 2009, 01:41:35 am

My only critique would be that it's not particularly clear where they are. I would gather a radioactive waste storage facility, but what's up with all the pictograms of dying humans? Are we talking about danger signs that you often find in workplaces?

Also this sentence: "Strange cylindrical containers loomed out of the darkness, made out a corrugated metal, badly rusted." Pretty easy to miss.

Other than that, it's quite well-written, at least when I'm only casting a quick glance at it. The dialogue is believable; the ending is sudden but leaves you to consider the implications and the whole thing gives you a modern Egyptian tomb sort of feel until you realise what's going on.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: deadlycairn on February 07, 2009, 01:49:20 am

Since no one seems to know, the inspiration was from the 'America's Energy Dilemma' thread. At one point, when the storage of nuclear waste was being discussed, someone suggested having pictures of mutants etc. being drawn on the entry of a storage site so future generations wouldn't go and dig it up by accident.

I was trying to lead the reader to believe the explorers were searching some kind of tomb - that's what the explorers thought they were doing, after all.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Mulch Diggums on February 07, 2009, 02:48:39 am

Think you could write another story like that, maby even an extenstion of the story itself, though I dont know what you would write about.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: chaoticag on February 07, 2009, 07:06:09 am

Quote from: Little on February 01, 2009, 11:40:01 pm

Jason Larson was sentenced to twenty years in prison for five charges of arson...

For the sake of my sanity, allow me to rework the ending.

Spoiler: reworked ending (click to show/hide)

Jack Brendshaw was sitting at his poorly lit desk, in front of him was every local newspaper printed within the past week. He was following the story of "Larson the Arson" for something to write about in the Reporter, but had to admit defeat once his request for an intervew was turned down. He leaned back on his chair, and stared at the dark ceiling to rest his eyes and stretch out after hours of bending over article after article.

He had been over the details so many times, he could recite them: Average man leading an average life, a little on the quite side. No one new much about him other than the small hints of madness that started to pop up, such as the strong smell of gasoline. He was sentanced to twenty years in prison, on five charges of arson, destruction of private property and possession of illegal goods. His plea of temporary insanity fell on deaf ears and the damage he caused went well into millions of dollars. Some say the judge was lenient in this regard.

After a half hour of getting back to work Jack stands up and walks to the couch, fishes for the remote and starts flipping through the channels. He stops at the news, where there was a coverage of another case of arson, in this case beach houses, that happened yesterday. They had a shocking similarity to Larson's case, despite happening while Larson was in police custody.

Jack let out a sigh, he was tired of going over Jason's stories and wanted nothing to do with that case anymore. He turns off his television set in disgust and leaves his apartment for a walk and a breath of stagnant city air. He goes down two blocks, takes a turn left and continues walking untill he spots a house with two floors and a white picket fence with the sign "for sale" in front of it. The striking similarity to the beach houses was noticed.

What similarity you ask? Well, for starters, they would look absolutely stunning if set aflame.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: penguinofhonor on February 07, 2009, 02:00:47 pm

Chaoticag, that's a pretty good ending. I like Deadlycarn's and Martian's stories, but nobody seems to care about mine.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: chaoticag on February 07, 2009, 02:10:19 pm

I still haven't read it, but I'll see if I can tackle it sometime tommorow, but the general rule of thumb is that I'll be busy on most Sundays.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: rickvoid on February 07, 2009, 02:19:19 pm

This is a brilliant idea, and I'm totally signing up now.

I'll have a short story up in a few hours.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Zai on February 07, 2009, 11:16:43 pm

Quote from: penguinofhonor on February 07, 2009, 02:00:47 pm

Chaoticag, that's a pretty good ending. I like Deadlycarn's and Martian's stories, but nobody seems to care about mine.

Ah, don't be so negative. It's hardly a good trait to have. =P

Yours was good, too. Kind of weird, as has already been said about it, but in a normal way. Like...something you might see in a Saturday morning cartoon or something. But still good. =)

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: deadlycairn on February 08, 2009, 12:47:54 pm

I liked your story Penguin. It captures the essence of the crazy that is primary schools and the children that go to them. ;D

I'll try to write another story within a week, hopefully I can come up with another idea by then. To the forums for inspiration!  ;)

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: wehtamjd92 on February 08, 2009, 10:58:44 pm

Loved the story Penguin but i already told you what I think in real life.

If I get my co author to help clean and type I can have the first chapter of our story in about a week so thats what I'll shoot for.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Mulch Diggums on February 09, 2009, 02:14:18 am

Alright, Heres the pretty version of my story. No name for it yet, any suggestions?

Chapter One, Two Dwarves and a Stool.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

A blinding light entered  Reg's eyes. "Ah..wha.. Is it Avusalod already?" Reg sat up from his
bed, an old splintered wooden mattress, barely fit to be used as a table, let alone a bed. As
his eyes adjusted to the light Reg saw Bomrek, his best friend since he was a child, siting there
holding a small iron lantern. "No its not Avusalod yet, its Brewsday morning!". Reg gave Bomrek a
surprised look, which quickly melted into anger. Reg quickly glanced at the large waterclock
embedded into his wall, It was government issue, exactly on time, and controlled by the
administraters in the High Catacomb, Reg always suspected the admins had these built in to
increase the steady stream of coins into their coffers, not the happiness of their people, but,
as a hauler, it wasn't his place to think of such things.


"Bomrek, its felsite and a half in the morning, you know I never get up this early on my day off.
Now get your ass out of my room and let me sleep." Reg got up out of his bed, quickly partway
lifted Bomrek onto his legs, and was pushing him tords the door. "Wait listen you blasted fool!
Look at the calendar!" Reg closed his eyes, and brought his fist up to head height into the air
and almost growled. He quickly turned around and looked at the rock slab leaning against his
small gabbro coffer. He looked at the slab with a sleepy fascination and turned back to face his
friend with an unconcerned look "Its the 26 of Hematite, who care-" He quickly stopped himself in
midsentance, mouth open, eyes as big as caveswallow eggs.


"Wait" was all he could mutter. He quickly spun himself back around, this time almost jumping
onto the slab, his eyes fixated at the clean cut white stone. His wide gape quickly turned into a
huge smile, so wide that you'd almost think his mouth to be a huge cave on the side of an
equally huge mountain if it weren't for all the flat shining teeth. Reg felt his body burst with
sudden energy, so much so that he hopped up onto his feet and started dancing. "Its here! Its
finally here! You ol' Soaper you why didn't you tell me the Dwarfitorium was coming to our
Sector!"Bomrek sighed and sat down on the only stool in Reg's home. While Reg was scrambling for
his coin sack Bomrek looked around his friend's room.


There was the bed, so old and splintery that no one knows what wood its made from any more. The
Gabbro cabinet, the gabbro coffer, the small statue of Thol, Reg's god, in the corner. His floor
could hardly be considered smooth, Reg couldn't afford professional engravers to come and smooth
out this place, hell, he would be lucky if he could even FIND a professional engraver in this
sector, so Reg decided to just do it himself, took him months to finish, but he did it. Not very
well of course, though. The ground had numerous holes where pieces of the rock broke off as Reg
chiseled, the walls were no better. His work could be compared to that of a Giant Molerat. Even
the government issued waterclock was looking bad, the clear glass was beginning to chip at the
bottom, probably from repeated collisions with the door. This house just wasn't designed for such
a modern thing to be placed in it. He'll have to remember to bring it up at the next section
gathering.


Bomrek was looking at a square of leather hanging off the wall, on it was a painting of a
dwarven family, it wasn't the best piece of art Bomrek had ever seen, but it was decent. It
depicted a young Reg and a his mother and father. Bomrek quickly turned his gaze to Reg, he
had his coin sack hung over his shoulder, and in his hands he held a medium sized iron chest.
"What's in the box?" Asked Bomrek as he braced himself on his pick and stood up. "Have a look
for yourself." Reg said, opening the chest. It was filled almost to the brim with odd nick-
nacks A few old metal mechanisms, a few rock crystals, numerous dwarven dominos scattered
about the chest, and some flat pieces of Olivine, fetches a nice price on the surface, a
rather large chunk of Tetrahedrite, and a leather sack. Reg sat his chest down on the ground
and pulled the leather container out and spilled its contents onto his hand.

Bomrek laughed and said "Marbles? Where in the 23 sectors did you find those? They'll fetch a
nice price at the Dwarfitorium Market." Bomrek said, taking the marbles from his friend and
examining them one by one. "A crate broke open just before my shift ended yesterday, This sack
and a few other fancy things were inside. That guy Ustuth just started grabbing things, so I
grabbed what I could." Bomrek smiled and handed the marbles back to Reg. "Come on, we should go,
don't want to miss the Dwarfitorium do you?". Reg pulled the chest up and followed Bomrek out the
door and down the hallway of his apartment complex.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: wehtamjd92 on February 09, 2009, 06:07:56 pm

I like it but you don't explain what is so great about whats happening or about the characters.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Jim Groovester on February 09, 2009, 06:10:35 pm

*sigh* I didn't meet my self-imposed deadline. I'll arbitrarily extend it to next week. I have a feeling that the thing I'm trying to write will be pretty bad, but I guess I'll wait and see, and scrap it and start over as necessary.

Anyways, I would critique the stories that have already been posted if I had the time and internet access at my home to do so.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Mulch Diggums on February 09, 2009, 06:13:21 pm

I know weht, the "Dwarfitourium" Will be explained a bit later. What exactly is there to explain about the characters? Their looks?

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: penguinofhonor on February 09, 2009, 07:04:09 pm

Quote from: Mulch Diggums on February 09, 2009, 02:14:18 am

Chapter One, Two Dwarves and a Stool.

I haven't read it yet, but I have already noticed this:
2 dwarves. 1 stool.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Mulch Diggums on February 09, 2009, 07:07:45 pm

I was hoping some one would pick that up :D

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: penguinofhonor on February 09, 2009, 07:10:25 pm

You're a sick man, Mulch.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: wehtamjd92 on February 09, 2009, 07:18:32 pm

I have a feeling I'm missing big inuendo here....

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Mulch Diggums on February 09, 2009, 07:22:26 pm

Google two girls one cup on google video and watch, its fucking funny heheh. Almost like monty python, only, well, better.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: penguinofhonor on February 09, 2009, 07:47:22 pm

DO NOT DO IT

I was saved by my tendency to look up seemingly infamous things on wikipedia before I check them out for real.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: wehtamjd92 on February 09, 2009, 08:17:49 pm

Wh did you have to post after I destroyed what was left of my pride by doing as he said.

*goes and sobs in the corner rocking back and forth*

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: JoshuaFH on February 09, 2009, 08:25:38 pm

Hey Mr. Gullible, go look up Lemon Party and Tub girl too, they are just the CUTEST and SWEETEST pictures on god's green earth.

I swear.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Mulch Diggums on February 09, 2009, 10:02:27 pm

Alrighty then, chapter two of my story. Enjoy?


Chapter Two, A Leap of Faith, Faith and Intoxication.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

 It was an old building, pipes of all kinds lined the ceiling, doors were obviously weathered,
the floor was unsmoothed when the apartment opened, but after years of hurried Dwarven feet it
had almost a smoothed stone feel, but it was, of course, terribly uneven. Reg walked around a
tired looking miner holding a dull pick, "Wow, they must work you guys to death out there in the
new mines, how could you stand it Bomrek?". "Hah, I just have an good work ethic. Like my father
and his father before him, I truely am an example of the good working dwarf, braving Animals,
caveins, floods, and melted rock all to bring you sissys a stone block." Reg smiled "I bet the
Sewerbrew helps to,eh Bomrek?" Reg gave him a friendly nudge and they both let out stifled
laughter.

They exited the hallway and walked out onto the side walk. The streets were alive with movement,
metal wagons being pulled along by EstCow, the merchants at their crude stands, selling petty
wares and poor quality food. Reg sighed, he would have to get himself a wife, a dwarf can only go
so long on stew and bread. His spirit quickly picked up as he thought of all the exotic treats
the Dwarfitourium had to sell. Every one seemed happy, and why shouldn't they? Today is  the
single happiest day of sector 7.

The Dwarfitorium, OrN‹r's (or Large Land as the surface dwellers call it) own caravan is coming.
It continuously travels around LargeLand and keeps the dwarves happy with its exotic trade goods,
exotic for the places it travels at least. LargeLand needs its own caravan simply because it is,
well, large. Large Land is the biggest dwarven fort in the world, home to more than 30 thousand
dwarves, covering 300 plus miles, the greatest national power in all the world. The territory is
split up into 27 different sections, each one with a section admin who manages every thing in the
section, basically a mayor. "Lets see if we can hop a transport cart, I dont feel much like
walking." Bomrek said as they crossed an intersection into a small shopping district. "I dono
Bomrek..I dont want to get caught hoppin' Ore transporters again. It was bad enough the first
time". "Fine, I'll see you at the Dwarfitourium then." Bomrek turned a corner into a smaller yet
still bustling tunnel. Reg cursed under his breath and followed along. "Oi! Wait for me Bomrek!"

Bomrek and Reg walked down ever shrinking tunnels, eventually entering a small one that was
sealed with a door marked "Section Employees Only" they of course ignored this warning, after
making sure no one was watching. They entered the small tunnel, so small infact that you had to
walk in single file. As Reg and Bomrek walked down the tunnel they could hear the booming
grinding noise of the wheels of the transporters moving down the tunnel at great speed. They
emerged into a large tunnel, the noise is even louder now. They were standing on a small walkway
on the side of the tunnel, there was a large channel in the center with two sets of track on
them. They could hear the sound of the transports getting louder, but they couldn't see down
the dark tunnel.

"You know what to do Reg" Said Bomrek as he strapped his pick to his back."Its
been a while Bomrek" They could see a large object moving in their direction on the track, as
it came into view they could see its features a bit better. Reg made a low groaning noise and
said "Damnit Bomrek, its loaded with coal. I'm going to be covered in soot by the time we're at
the fair." Bomrek replied "Hey, at least its a soft landing." Bomrek pulled a silver flask from
his coat pocket and took a long draft. "Now!" Bomrek yelled as he leaped off of the walkway, Reg
jumped off, grabing at Bomreks coattails. His final thought as he flew through the air was:
"This is retarded."

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: penguinofhonor on February 09, 2009, 11:38:28 pm

Quote from: chaoticjosh on February 09, 2009, 08:25:38 pm

Hey Mr. Gullible, go look up Lemon Party and Tub girl too, they are just the CUTEST and SWEETEST pictures on god's green earth.

I swear.

Chaoticjosh, you are a cruel yet hilarious man.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Mulch Diggums on February 10, 2009, 06:45:56 pm

So, uh, thoughts on my story?

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: wehtamjd92 on February 10, 2009, 08:09:38 pm

I still hate you for doing that to me but I liked the second part even better since it fills in the reader on whats happening.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Mulch Diggums on February 10, 2009, 08:16:07 pm

By the way, EstCow is a small, specialy bred, cave adapted version of the normal human cow. Its smaller (Est means small in the dwarven languge), easier to see because its bread to be pure white, sees better in the dark, and lives off plump helmats and muddy water much better than surface cows. Of course I made all that up :P but yeah.

..Man, this is geting detailed, like, Tolkien detailed.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: penguinofhonor on February 10, 2009, 09:05:26 pm

Good story. But some spelling and grammar errors here and there. By "here and there" I mean in practically every sentence.

Quote from: Mulch Diggums

"Wow, they must work you guys to death out there in the new mines, how could you stand it Bomrek?"

There's a comma before addressing someone at the end of a sentence. Also that is two sentences, not one. Also, the "could" implies something in the past, while the action is clearly taking place in the present because Bomrek still works in the mines.
It should be "Wow, they must work you guys to death out there in the new mines. How can you stand it, Bomrek?"

Quote from: Mulch Diggums

"Hah, I just have an good work ethic. Like my father and his father before him, I truely am an example of the good working dwarf, braving Animals, caveins, floods, and melted rock all to bring you sissys a stone block."

First off, misspellings: truly, cave-ins, sissies. Those are proper spellings. Also, "animals" should not be capitalized.

Quote from: Mulch Diggums

Reg smiled "I bet the Sewerbrew helps to,eh Bomrek?"

Reg is not smiling his words, so it should be either "Reg smiled. 'I bet...'" or "Reg smiled and said, 'I bet...'". Also, sewer brew is two words. And it's not capitalized, because it's a type of alcohol like wine or gin, not a brand of alcohol. And that "to" should be "too" because it's helping him "as well". And there should be a space in between the comma and "eh" because you put spaces after commas.

I'll do more if you want. I'm a pretty good grammar nazi.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: wehtamjd92 on February 10, 2009, 09:07:17 pm

He is he often shoves my works into ovens because they arn't good enough for him...

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: penguinofhonor on February 10, 2009, 09:09:17 pm

If you can't put three words together right, then nobody will publish your work.

Of course, wehtam, in your case the problem is going through an entire paragraph without any punctuation.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: wehtamjd92 on February 10, 2009, 09:14:06 pm

Blah, Blah, Blah...wait what's that I couldn't hear you over all my puntuation.:;!?

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: penguinofhonor on February 10, 2009, 09:19:32 pm

Quote from: wehtamjd92 on February 10, 2009, 09:14:06 pm

Blah, Blah, Blah...wait what's that I couldn't hear you over all my puntuation.:;!?

The irony is that you just painfully merged two sentences into one by forgetting some punctuation that's actually necessary.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Mulch Diggums on February 10, 2009, 09:25:31 pm

More grammar mistakes would be nice, spelling mistakes, not so much. I'll be runing this through a spell checker when I feel the need, later on.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: wehtamjd92 on February 10, 2009, 09:31:32 pm

Don't laugh at me I never learned proper english grammar.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: deadlycairn on February 10, 2009, 10:11:06 pm

I got an idea for my next piece of writing - but it's nothing like the first. Also, the inspiration was schoolwork. I have a feeling nothing good can come of this...

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Mulch Diggums on February 10, 2009, 10:26:44 pm

I have faith in you.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: deadlycairn on February 11, 2009, 02:47:12 am

Also, one of my most used (in my head at least) characters also scored a 66 on a Mary Sue Litmus Test. Not sure about the reliability of that, but that's still a BIG score. Having afterwards looked up the definition of the Mary Sue, it seems that it is anyone who either has everything perfect/better for them or who has everything worse. I think part of the culprit was the test scoring for both at the same time, as well as scoring fantasy characters higher. And now I feel conflicted because now I'm just trying to justify the score. :-\

Oh well, he won't show up in this piece of writing (maybe I should call him Gary though :P)

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Aqizzar on February 11, 2009, 05:22:17 am

Just got a 62 on a principle original character I've been bouncing around.

The thing is, any experience with writing or book on character development will tell you that about a quarter of those questions are perfectly valid hooks.  Let's face it - unusual people are interesting, and it is damn hard to write an interesting story about an ordinary person going through ordinary events.  That's exactly why the words Interesting and Ordinary exist.  I think a character who came out under 20 or so would be flatly dull.

Now 62 might be a bit much, but a good chunk of the character interaction and development revolves around being a bit odd.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Strife26 on February 11, 2009, 08:00:28 am

Here is a poem I wrote for English. It was supposed to be based off of "Spoon River."
So it's a guy talking from beyond the grave. I decided to take a different slant with it.


Maximilian Trifes
One Who Pondered

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

What is the nature of that final embrace?
I had always wondered how death would feel
Not knowing what to do, I enlisted
I worked hard, yet never focused
I deployed to the desert, where I fought

I never saw it coming
I had expected my own death
Yet that chopper-hitting rocket took me by surprise
I didn’t have time to fire a last goodbye
When we crashed into the sand

I think that I died upon impact
Yet, if I’m dead, is this it?
Not what I expected:
A heaven, a hell, or a fiddler’s green.
I thought only of death for this?

I doubt that I could have changed my life.
But why then, am I speaking from beyond the grave?
Who can hear this?
Is this death?
Or a fourth wall?

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: JoshuaFH on February 11, 2009, 12:59:29 pm

I'm no poem afficionado, but I liked it. Sorta awkward how you openly admit to breaking the fourth wall through.

and anyone worrying about the possibility of the their character being a Mary Sue should remember: Tropes are not bad. (http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/TropesAreNotBad)

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Mulch Diggums on February 11, 2009, 05:25:16 pm

What exactly is a Mary Sue?

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: inaluct on February 11, 2009, 05:33:07 pm

One of those characters who has naturally purple eyes and ash blond hair and is supernaturally beautiful and saves Hogwarts from a nuclear holocaust and has wings and and and

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: JoshuaFH on February 11, 2009, 05:41:09 pm

Quote from: Mulch Diggums on February 11, 2009, 05:25:16 pm

What exactly is a Mary Sue?

The definition varies from person to person, but as I understand it, it's a character that is so PERFECT that it pulls the reader out of the story. The plot literally bends around this character and accomodates to this characters desires. The story is unjustifiably disrupted by this characters existence, and no other character bats an eye at their behavior.

Of course, a character can be very beautiful, talented, and whathaveyou without being a mary sue, it's only when these characteristics consume and outshine every other character to the point where they might as well not even matter defines a Mary Sue.

The term Mary Sue comes from a Star Trek fanfiction about an original character named Mary Sue who trumped every other already established canon character in anything and everything.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Mulch Diggums on February 11, 2009, 06:08:40 pm

Thats why I dont read fanfics.. Might read DF fanfics if any ever gets made, though. =]

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Heavy Flak on February 11, 2009, 06:22:52 pm

Quote from: Mulch Diggums on February 11, 2009, 06:08:40 pm

Thats why I dont read fanfics.. Might read DF fanfics if any ever gets made, though. =]

Might I direct you to the DF Community Games and Stories (http://www.bay12games.com/forum/index.php?board=14.0) subsection?  :)

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Mulch Diggums on February 11, 2009, 06:26:40 pm

Those dont count :P

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: deadlycairn on February 11, 2009, 10:15:10 pm

I believe my character was scored highly for being a little bit (read: massively) overpowered. He's the main character and it's justified though, so ah well.

Also, I'm back to the drawing board for ideas. At this rate I will probably not get something out this week.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Strife26 on February 12, 2009, 12:11:57 am

Strife scored 56. And that is only using the Strife from the story I was going to write for this (who doesn't remember or have much of a backstory).

I cheated it down too.

I don't like MS tests!!

50+ was 'kill it dead'

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Mulch Diggums on February 12, 2009, 12:12:46 am

Uh..what are these scores from?

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Strife26 on February 12, 2009, 12:17:42 am

I googled mary sue li (suggestion box)

You'll get a site that'll let you check off parts of your character.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Martian on February 17, 2009, 05:23:23 am

OK. I'm resurrecting this thread to share my latest story. The question was to write a 600-800 word story describing the setting for a horror story. I used lots of long words trying to get the connotations right for a spooky atmosphere, but I think I may have overdone it.

The Grasping hands

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

The moon peeked out through the tortuous and swirling masses of dark and dreary clouds, like a terrified child from under a bed, and looked out upon the blighted landscape. The moonlight lit a scene that should have stayed unlit, hidden in the darkness.

A group of twisting landmasses raised just above the murky water was the main hallmark. They were near achromatic ash-coloured and slimy with things unknown. They were saturated with the water in which they were continuously immersed, and made up of a type of course clay that retained the water to an unhealthy degree. The clay itself was of a kind that facilitated smearing and irreparably tarnished all things it touched with a pallid smear.

And upon these soggy mounds were the dead skeletons of what were once massive trees, caricatures of what was once healthy and sound. Each now desiccated and reaching up out of the ground to claw at an uncaring grey sky with pointed talons. The moonlight shone through the terrific appendages and made grotesque shapes upon the ground. In one of these hideous shapes sat a forlorn bird, croaking harshly at the ruined place its home had become. It was a poignant reminder that once the place had a wholesome past.

The water that lapped at the land rising out of it was grey and dismal, with a frothy scum on top. Moonlight cast an eerie glow upon its surface, in which there were a few strangled plants growing. The rest of the water was entirely choked by poisonous algae which polluted the waters. Among the depths swam a few fish adapted to such conditions. These fish killed the alligators through lack of diet, as they were one of the few species who could live in such conditions. The water stank of death and decay and bubbled abhorrent gasses when disturbed. It is easy enough to imagine the bog mummies, killed thousands of years ago in pagan rites and preserved in the acidic depths, laying deep beneath the eerie water; entombed in the ooze that made up the bottom of the ghostly water.

Then there was the wind. It gusted through the bog, grasping at everything with its icy dead fingers. It made the skeletal trees groan and shake. It made waves in the water and caused the release of the aforementioned foul gasses from it. It howled around rocks and screeched through decaying logs. It blew the dead fish about and seemed to howl with delight at their destruction. It taunted the edges of the marsh with a whiff of goodness from the outside and carried the foul stench from inside far into the country beyond its edges.

In stark contrast to the wind was the moon: from behind the clouds the moonlight spreads its gentle glow through the scene; melancholy over the scene it witnessed. It gently touched at the standing skeletons and sadly stroked the slick ground. It's craggy, faintly luminous, face had witnessed the beauty that this place once was and seemed to be weeping at what it now is. It had risen above the same place thousands of years ago and had seen the brutal violence that had entombed the unfortunate individuals underneath the water. It weeps for them; and for the ancient hands, stained by tannins, that were now rising out of the water reaching at the full moon. Their owners seeking revenge for crimes commited thousands of years ago and willing to hunt ceaselessly, untiring, until they found the descendants of those who had wronged them.

In any case anyone was wondering how well I did with my time travel story: summarized my tutor said it was good but the ending was weak. And she asked who Linux was.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: JoshuaFH on February 17, 2009, 05:34:00 am

For what was basically a big description, I liked it. I'd complain of purple prose, (http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/PurpleProse) but in this particular instance, it seems unavoidable.

I feel so ashamed that I put off what I promised to write for so long, I will definitely get on it.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Makrond on February 17, 2009, 06:06:37 am

I know how you feel, Strife. I had a character who got 36. I then managed to get it down to about 20 or so by changing my characters to be less like idiot hangers-on to competent warriors in their own right. I'm in the process of getting a few injuries that make fighting harder. Should be fun!

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: NastyDiarrhoea on February 17, 2009, 10:02:27 am

Hi, I thought that it was really good and there were alot of words in there that I had to look up in Websters. There was some repetition (intentional?) but otherwise excellent!!  ;D

I though I'd might as well post a little (it is quite long) of my story up here and see what you guys think  because you all seem so nice.

Enjoy.


Prologue


   The thick fog enclosed around them, as the done-up double-decker bus drove through the car laden streets. All around were decaying husks of vehicles, but they were swept aside by the huge home-made snow plough welded to the front of the bus. All through the refurnished interior were the same anxious but stubborn expressions, the same white-knuckle grip on their rifles, the same flickering pupils that darted all over their eyes. The bus had been turned into a military vehicle after only five weeks of elbow-grease and material scavenging. They had outfitted it with stabilizers, so it couldn't be overturned by the bigger ones. It had been armed armoured to the teeth with thick metal to protect from the stronger ones. The seats had all been removed to make room for extra ammunition and supplies. Every passenger had been equipped with at least one firearm and had several designated firing areas. A ladder leading to the top of the bus also revealed the crown jewel of the now, armoured personnel  carrier, a (slightly outdated) Vulcan minigun with enough rounds to allow it to fire continuously for five minutes. It was attached to a swivel seat so the operator could fire more accurately. However it would have to be evacuated in case anything managed to get on top of the bus or if there was a flying threat.
   Luckily for this group of survivors their home village of St Peterson had been situated right next to a military base that had been evacuated-destroyed-overrun (in that order) after the bombs had fallen. The base was where they had picked up pretty much all of their munitions and ordinance. At first they had hoped that the military might still be operating there and that they could provide adequate protection, but they had found it completely abandoned with parts of the base completely caved in. Instead of protection though they found the means to protect themselves.

What do you guys think? (By the way it's not finished)

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: deadlycairn on February 17, 2009, 12:32:22 pm

Martian, at one pointe you spelled coarse as course (line 4). Other than that, it was fine. NastyD, on line 5 you wrote 'It had been armed armoured to the teeth'
other than that and a few other errors fine. Yes I'm a nitpicker/grammarnazi'

Now onto my real complaints. WHY MARTIAN? Why did you have to feed me descriptive writing? This last week I've been up to my ears in the stuff for a school assignment, and I'm in no mood to objectively judge any more. I don't particularly enjoy writing it, but don't mind reading it as long as it's well written.

Now for two questions:
1. What's purple prose?
2. What is the main harmful effect of radioactive waste?

I'm thinking about writing a sequel to my Wasted story, but coming from a nuclear - free country I know little about the consequences of unleashing radioactive waste upon the world. I'm guessing just masses of radiation, but how harmful can that be?

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: JoshuaFH on February 17, 2009, 03:38:04 pm

You'll notice that the word "purple prose" in my post is a link, leading to the page that explains it.

If that page is too long to read, then it's basically where the writer is being overly descriptive of every little thing.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Mulch Diggums on February 17, 2009, 07:59:35 pm

Nasty, I liked it alot. (Your names a bit..odd. Just thought I'd point that out.) Alot..But. A freaking minigun? One that has five minutes of ammo? It all seems a tad bit..Mary Sueish, but, im sure its fine. I've read alot of GREAT zombie storys where the character is very marrysue, but the read itself is still /great/. Good job, looking forward to the rest.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: JoshuaFH on February 17, 2009, 08:12:58 pm

Where does it mention 'Zombies' Mulch?

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Mulch Diggums on February 17, 2009, 08:16:21 pm

"They had outfitted it with stabilizers, so it couldn't be overturned by the bigger ones. It had been armed armoured to the teeth with thick metal to protect from the stronger ones."
That coupled with the setting = obvious zombies.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: JoshuaFH on February 17, 2009, 08:32:05 pm

How do you know it isn't the setting for a world conquered by coke-crazy professional wrestlers from outer space? HMMM???

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: penguinofhonor on February 17, 2009, 08:35:56 pm

Strife, your poem doesn't rhyme. Therefore I don't like it.

Yes, I am incredibly closed-minded when it comes to poetry.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Alexhans on February 17, 2009, 09:30:58 pm

I don't know if you could call this poetry but It's a way I express myself.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Fed Up
Another day,
Too mad to play,
No will to stay,
Can't hold my sway.
Im in a mood,
To scar and kill,
Lost in the wood,
Of damned and ill.
I wanna crash,
Wanna destroy,
Im gonna dash,
For easy joy.
I can't go by,
Im going down,
My will is to fly,
Out of this town.
If at this moment,
I had the power,
To bring up torment,
Into this world.
I wouldnt hesitate,
This is my guestimate,
I really can't tell.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Hope
Maybe I'm not even free,
Apart from who I want to be,
Denying what I ought to feel,
That you are the only one that fits.

Beside my place, just near me,
Across my path, your destiny,
But what do I do when you don't seek,
Me in anyway, I don't exist.

What's empty, Isn't broken,
But that's what it seems,
I'm only rotten,
When I don't believe.

That there's a hope,
In our world, like a tree,
Growing slowly,
Evolving, from a seed.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Drawing
Oh I wish I could draw you,
Not failing each time I try,
To resemble the traits of your face,
And so have them to die.
Why do I take you away,
Oh soon should be the day,
When I wish you hadnt held your sway,
And for your return, pray.
Could I have your smile,
To watch the sunshine in your face,
Could I draw your eyes,
And see the sunset everyday.
Knowing Im gonna loose you,
Knowing youll go away,
I would like to have your picture,
To remember how I failed.

Some more poems by me:
http://www.thestories.net/stories/local/bmfy_alexhans/ (http://www.thestories.net/stories/local/bmfy_alexhans/)
(This is a great but abandoned page, we should resurrect it)

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: JoshuaFH on February 17, 2009, 09:56:15 pm

I checked out that Mary Sue litmus test, and to all the guys getting the high scores, be sure to read the instructions, it says that not properly taking the test can lead to insanely high scores.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: deadlycairn on February 18, 2009, 12:36:49 am

So, no answer to my other question? The 'What effects does radioactive waste have' question? I know it's idiotic, but better now than in my story.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Martian on February 18, 2009, 12:47:03 am

Quote from: deadlycairn on February 18, 2009, 12:36:49 am

So, no answer to my other question? The 'What effects does radioactive waste have' question? I know it's idiotic, but better now than in my story.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Radiation_poisoning#Table_of_exposure_levels_and_symptoms (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Radiation_poisoning#Table_of_exposure_levels_and_symptoms)

The radioactive material is probably poisonous all by itself excluding radiation. Uranium for example 
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Uranium#Effects (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Uranium#Effects)

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: deadlycairn on February 18, 2009, 01:31:47 am

OK - it didn't tell me what I wanted to hear, so i'll make it up as I go along. Working on the basis that radiation can alter dna - causing mutations.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Martian on February 18, 2009, 02:29:11 am

Quote from: deadlycairn on February 18, 2009, 01:31:47 am

OK - it didn't tell me what I wanted to hear, so i'll make it up as I go along. Working on the basis that radiation can alter dna - causing mutations.

It will do that, but not your entire DNA (you have copies in every cell). It will thrash the DNA of cells where the radiation hit either killing them or causing them to reproduce madly and go insane in general. Which is cancer. You won't suddenly grow three arms; you'll just get sick and die or get sick and recover.

It will seriously harm the bone marrow. It will badly hit the immune system. Basically a lot of nasty stuff if you aren't killed by the waste being plain old poisonous first. Uranium is very bad for you. What kind of waste are you talking about?

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: deadlycairn on February 18, 2009, 12:49:28 pm

Radioactive waste, the kind dumped after it can be used as fuel no longer. What you said is EXACTLY what I wanted to hear. For a many celled organism, a few rogue DNA strands are bad. For a single celled organism, things would be even worse. (Can ya guess what I'm thinking yet?)

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Martian on February 18, 2009, 01:16:08 pm

Quote from: deadlycairn on February 18, 2009, 12:49:28 pm

Radioactive waste, the kind dumped after it can be used as fuel no longer. What you said is EXACTLY what I wanted to hear. For a many celled organism, a few rogue DNA strands are bad. For a single celled organism, things would be even worse. (Can ya guess what I'm thinking yet?)

Well depends on what kind of fuel. It could be Uranium, Polonium etc. But I don't think you'll get mad mutations. Radioactive waste is *very* radioactive. Doctors sometimes use radiation to sterilize equipment. It simply blasts through the single celled organism in a path of destruction. Cells in complex life are somewhat shielded by the other cells in front of them. But bacteria and the like would get full blast.

If your looking for a plot with single celled organisms try genetic engineering. Or maybe a super plague with bacteria that co-operate to form a Turing complete machine.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: wehtamjd92 on February 18, 2009, 09:43:06 pm

I has story!!!!

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

The Fires of Truth

Mikyl looked around; the fires burned brightly and he noticed that there were people standing all around him, though paying him no attention. His next realization was that he wasn’t just being ignored; it was as if he didn’t exist at all. He noticed that their features were strange, he looked at faces that he had never seen before and some he hoped he would never see again. He looked at one closely, and started to see something else in the face some thing that looked very much like the way a cat’s face does right after it has made a successful kill. Suddenly someone he hadn’t seen before stepped out of the shadows and started speaking to the rest of the group.
 

Mikyl quickly ran and hid behind an urn, he knew he couldn’t be seen but something about the man made him want to run from him, as he got himself settled he started to listen and what he heard didn’t seem to make sense, “The time to act is now. Long enough have we waited its time to take what is ours and show them all that it really those who laugh last that laugh hardest. It’s taken many years, but we’re ready and they’re not and if we don’t take advantage of the situation we’ll lose our chance to grab power from those who wield it lightly, and leave nothing but discontent and devastation from inaction in their wake. Once and for all we will take down this menace and insert true order among the peoples. The time to rise is now and it will be a hard fight, it will be a long fight, but in the end we will prevail because we have something they don’t.”
 The man quickly made and odd hand gesture and two more men came out of the shadows dragging along, from what he could see from around the urn, what seemed to be the form of a man his hands tied behind his back and a sack over his head. The man gave another signal and the sack was removed and … Suddenly he was drowning … no he was just in a cold sweat…
“No it’s not that either” he thought, he looked around still half asleep and saw his sister standing over him with an empty cup.
“Finally it took you long enough. I’ve been calling you and shaking you to wake up you were having one of your dreams again, so I went and got some water to wake you up” she said.
“Oh, yeah it was one of those dreams… hey you don’t have any food with you do you?” he asked.
“Actually I did bring you something. You always wake up half starved” she said.
“Thanks Melanie” Mikyl said taking the banana from her. His sister left him to dress and he sat in his wet clothes, eating the fruit and thinking about the dream he had had. Why was it that he could never see the bound mans face? He puzzled over it then gave up and got dressed. As he was leaving the room he stopped and turned back remembering to go back for his good luck charm he had been given on his last birthday. He never left without it, it just seemed to make things go right for him. He pulled it out from under his pillow and left the room.
As he went through his morning chores his thoughts kept drifting back to his dream. What did it all mean? Where was that place and why did everyone look so strange or angry? He put it out of his mind; he was already behind on his chores due to a late start and he had a lot to do today. Besides Melanie would kill him if he was late to dinner again. Suddenly he felt dizzy and sat down.
 

Mikyl took a drink from his water flask and said “If I keep this up I’m going to end up dead.” Suddenly he had a fleeting memory of his mother saying “If you don’t pace yourself you’ll work yourself to death.”
 He missed his mother; she had always been there for them with a bit of advice or a story. But they were alone now that she had died. He remembered sitting by her bed while she was racked by shakes from the sickness that had passed through the village. Now it was just him and Melanie. Melanie she was the one who took care of them now that mother was gone. He didn’t remember anything about his father except the stories his mother had told him and the fact that he had left the village. Now that he thought about it she had never told him why he had left the village.
“Well I had better get back to work. There’s still a lot to do.” He said to himself.
Later that evening as Mikyl sat eating dinner with Melanie he started to wonder if she remembered anything about their father since she was older than him. He pondered over just what he would say when suddenly she started talking.
“You know Terry the butchers son right?”
“Of course, he used to play with me when I was little. Why?” He asked.
“Well he’s asked me to marry him. It would be good for us and he’s a nice man. What do you think?” asked Melanie.
Mikyl was dumbfounded. He sat with his mouth hanging open trying to take it all in. It would be good for them and he knew that Terry was a good person as well as a good match for his sister. What he couldn’t get his head around was the fact that he had never noticed any change between the two beforehand, it was a total shock. He had never even thought of it before. Why wouldn’t she be like the other girls in the village and get married.
He managed to splutter out “I’m happy for you, you’ll make a great couple.”
She laughed relived “Oh good, I was so worried that you might feel badly toward this idea. Its good to know you’re ok with this, he’s always been very kind to us and he is rather handsome….”
After that what she said just seemed to fade out of his mind. He finished eating and put away his dishes and went to bed. Before he fell asleep he grasped his good luck charm his mother had given to him as a final gift a small stone ring in the shape of a spider saying “I guess it has a wider range of luck than I thought.”
The next morning he went out and completed his chores early and then began thinking of the previous nights events. Mikyl realized that having given his consent as the man of the family, having turned fifteen, the marriage would take place in three days time the usual time before a decided wedding. He decided to go tell the news to his friend Rizdon who was the son of the blacksmith. Rizdon was a good friend loyal and smart though a little cowardly. He was the same age as Mikyl and had a mind for invention and came up with all sorts of contraptions, most of which he couldn’t find any use for. He was one other thing a great lover of stories and if he heard a story once he knew it forever. Rizdon had also lost his mother to the great sickness that had passed through the village but he still had his father. Mikyl remembered their childhood together he considered them his extended family. He smiled he knew he would always had someone to turn to.
When he arrived at the smithy he knocked on the door and a loud boom sounded from inside. Big black smoke started to billow from around the door. Mikyl burst into the room.


“What happened? Is everyone ok?” he said.

“Cough…Yeah we’re ok…Cough.” said Rizdon

“Yeah sonny boy here was just showing me how this powder could be used to heat my forge but…Cough… It seems to cause an explosion in large amounts.” Said Rizdon’s father Buck

“Well at least no one was hurt this time.” said Mikyl. He remembered the last experiment Rizdon had tried. He had been there for that one he couldn’t keep his balance for a week and sometimes he still had a ringing sound in his ears.

“Ha Ha very funny” said Rizdon sarcastically “last time I checked you wanted to see me try that one so it’s your own fault.  They all began to laugh remembering some of the previous experiment and then started to clean up the smithy. Then Mikyl remembered why he was there.

“Hey Rizdon did you hear my sister is getting married” he said.

“Really that’s great” said Rizdon.

“Yeah it’s good to hear you two will be looked after” said Buck

“You both will be at the wedding right?” said Mikyl

“Of course we will we wouldn’t miss it for the world” Rizdon and Buck said in unison. They all laughed again. Mikyl knew that the wedding would turn out fine now that he would have some help from his extended family. He even started to look forward to staying with Terry’s family. But what he didn’t know was that the fates had decided to give him a greater story than even Rizdon had heard of and this was just the beginning. There was more to come for them both. . .  so much more.


               Chapter one
As the preparations were being made there was much to be done, a ceremony to be organized, clothing to be mended, and one of the more important functions, a feast to prepare. As it was, Mikyl had been paired with Rizdon to go and harvest a couple of sheep for the feast. Mikyl awoke the next day and he quickly threw on his clothes, a thick leather outfit. He figured if he was going to go harvesting sheep he had better be prepared to be bitten and butted by the guard ram. While it was not overly dangerous one still had to be careful the rams could do serious damage and it was best to bring a friend so one could distract the ram, and so the other could get the job done. Mikyl walked out into the kitchen and grabbed an apple as he headed out the door and headed toward the outer edge of the village where Rizdon’s house was situated. He stopped along the way at Terry’s house and stepped inside.


“Hello?” Mikyl asked, looking around the seemingly abandoned butchery.

“Hello yourself” Terry said stepping out of a back room. His normally very curly hair was plastered, straight, and shiny against his head.

“What have you done to your hair” Mikyl asked in disbelief at the sight of the usually very curly haired man.

“I wanted to look nice for the ceremony and decided I’d try and tame my hair. What?You don’t like it?” Terry asked in Mikyl’s silent wonder at how he had managed to tame his hair.

“What did you put in your hair to make it do that?” Mikyl asked pointing at his scalp.

“Just a little animal fat, why does it look bad?” Terry asked Mikyl a suddenly worried expression coming over his face.

“No it’s … fine just unusual” Mikyl said

“Oh, ok, well I wouldn’t want to confuse the bride by showing up looking too different” Terry said as he looked at Mikyls expression.

“But I might recommend getting that stuff out of your hair before it goes rancid too, otherwise she might not want to come near you” Mikyl said with a warning tone.

“Ahh you’re right, well then I’m off to get this goop out of my hair” Terry said turning to go.

“Oh wait before you go, I forgot to ask you, can I borrow a knife?” Mikyl asked

“Uh sure, but why do you need one, didn’t you get one for your last birthday?” Terry asked turning back around.

“Umm,” Mikyl started, avoiding his eyes and beginning to fidget.

“You lost it didn’t you” Terry said.

Before he could stop himself the whole thing came out at once “Well I was throwing at a tree and then the bush moved and I thought it was a rabbit and I threw the knife to see if I could get it but it was a wild boar and the knife got stuck and it started running and I chased it to get the knife back but it was faster and it got away and that’s how I lost the knife.”


“At least it comes with a good story” Terry said with a smile.

“So you’ll lend me a knife” Mikyl asked.

“Sure as long as you don’t lose it, but what do you need it for” Terry asked.

“As the head of my family it’s my duty for the ceremony to go harvest a prime sheep for the meal and I sort of
need a knife” Mikyl said

“Oh, well I’m not one to hold up a wedding feast especially my own, give me just a second and I’ll go get you a nice sharp one” Terry said as he turned and went into the back room. He came back a moment later with a blade about six inches in length honed to a razors edge and polished to a shine.

“You’re really going to lend me that” Mikyl asked entranced by the perfection of the blade.

“Sure you’ll need the best to get the best” Terry responded with a smile handing Mikyl the knife.
Mikyl didn’t give him a chance to change his mind but took the offered knife, gave his thanks and quickly rushed out the door. As he headed toward Rizdon’s house he couldn’t help but imagine the kind of sheep he and Rizdon would get. As he approached the smithy Rizdon was already outside waiting for him. If there was one thing about Rizdon that annoyed him it had to be that Rizdon was taller than him and had been as long as he could remember. But it wasn’t something he could hold against his closest friend since they were toddlers. When he got a little closer Rizdon noticed him and called out.

“Hey good morning about time you got here sleepy head”

“Hey I wasn’t asleep I had to stop by Terry’s and borrow a knife”

“Why did you need a knife you just got one for your birthday didn’t you?”

“It’s a long story, so I’ll tell you later”

“Well it better be a good one. I mean I ought to get something out of this whole deal”

“You do, a meal and it’s a good story, even Terry liked it”

“We should get started if we want to find a good one soon”

“Of course” agreed Mikyl, inwardly cringing.

To catch a sheep you had to first outwit the mother plant, this being made difficult by a particularly aggressive ram residing at the end of one of the tendrils.
Having made their preparations they headed out over the fields. They had been walking for several minutes when Rizdon deemed to speak his mind.

“You… probably should have brought a sling, you know. Won’t it be easier if we have a distraction?”

“Shaddup,” snapped Mikyl in reply, tightening his grip on the knife he now carried.

“It was this or nothing at all. Besides, I can always make one when we get there.”

“Yeah, well have fun avoiding the ram if you can’t…” Rizdon trailed off as Mikyl blanched.

“We’ll worry about that later,” said Mikyl. “Now we need to find a good plant. This sheep must be the best; it’s
for my sister’s wedding after all.”

“Think there’d be any up on Boulder Hill?” asked Rizdon

Mikyl thought for a moment, and then agreed. He’d never been there before, and figured that even if they didn’t find a sheep plant the experience would still be worth it. As they trudged upward, Mikyl picked up the sound of distant noises, that of sheep bleating. He and Rizdon crept closer, keeping to the ground so as not to alert the ram. They finally spotted the plant, and their mouths dropped open.
The plant had two rams.

“Uh… Mikyl?” whispered Rizdon. “Maybe we should go find another one…” He turned and was horrified to see the smile widening on Mikyl’s face.

“Only the best for my sister’s wedding,” he said grinning.

He took off his belt and snatched up a rock at his feet. Loading it into his makeshift sling, he twirled it above his head and let it fly. As he had hoped, the rock hit a tree on the other side of the clearing. Both rams glared warily in that direction, and began ambling threateningly toward the trees.
Mikyl and the nervous Rizdon took the opportunity to gaze on the veritable flock grazing vulnerable before them.

“Which one should I take…?” murmured Mikyl thoughtfully.

“Whichever ones closest!” blurted Rizdon. “Let’s just get it and scram!”

“Ah, where’s your sense of adventure? You’ve got no spine, Rizdon,” jeered Mikyl.

“Oh, so that’s how it’s gonna be?” snarled Rizdon. “I’ll make you eat those words. In fact I’ll shove them down your throat so hard your grandchildren are gonna get indigestion!”

And with that, he leaped into the clearing, brandishing his knife and heading for the nearest sheep. Upon seeing his approach it began bleating wildly, and the rams’ heads shot up. Their hate-filled eyes sought out the perpetrator and they charged snorting fiercely.
Micheal snatched up another stone and threw, hoping to distract the rams. All it did was anger them further as it bounced off one of the other sheep. The bell of the main plant began to turn an angry red as the rams charged. Rizdon dived from their path just before they bowled him over, and their momentum carried them deep into the thicket to Mikyl’s left. The tendrils attaching them to the main plant pulsed quickly as the rams tore their way out of the thorn bushes, their anger again doubled. Mikyl dove into the fray, twisting his leather sling about one ram’s legs and tying them together. As he gazed frantically about for Rizdon, the second ram pulled free and charged angrily at the one who immobilized its companion. Mikyl leaped desperately in the air, grabbing a tree branch and hoisting himself up and he felt the small branch wavering under his weight and he hoped it would hold. And so it did, to his relief, until the ram hit the tree. Running full-force, the ram shook the tree hard enough that the branch shook up and down until it broke. Mikyl fell down, flopping straight onto the ram’s back. He twisted himself and wrapped his arms around the ram’s neck as the beast took off, charging again at Mikyl’s companion. Rizdon, meanwhile, was sawing away at the tendril connecting a sheep to the main plant.

 “Come on, come on,” he growled, in a hurry to escape this horrid plant. He was halfway through the thick tendril when a cry from Mikyl made him look behind him . . .
. . . to stare straight into the crazed ram’s eyes as it ran him over. Purely by reflex, his hand shot out in an attempt to stop the beast before it caused too much damage. Unfortunately, it was the hand holding the knife.
   As the ram collapsed, nectar spilling from its wound, Mikyl leaped off its back and turned to face Rizdon.
   
“You idiot!” he cried. “You can’t kill the ram or the whole plant dies!”
   
“Well this one had two rams!” retorted Rizdon. Then a disturbing thought occurred to him and he added, “So what do you think happens if only one of the two dies?”

The two companions slowly turned to face the main plant. It was convulsing wildly, tremors beginning from its bell, shooting along the tendrils until they reached the sheep, tossing the sheep into the air to twirl around the bell, bleating wildly.
   
“Is it . . . breeding?” asked Mikyl in disbelief.
   
“Quick, grab a sheep!” yelled Rizdon, thinking quickly.

The two tackled a sheep as it soared past, pinning it to the ground. Suddenly the tendrils twitched, convulsed, separating the sheep from the ends and sending them all flying into the distance, save for the one pinned by Mikyl and Rizdon. Miles away, a starving village was saved by the sudden arrival of an airborne flock of sheep.
   
“Think this’ll do?” asked Rizdon, looking sadly at the remaining sheep.
   
“After all we went through, it better,” groaned Mikyl.

The sheep slung over his shoulders, Mikyl trekked back through the forest with Rizdon on his heels. Suddenly, he saw a flash of red through the trees in the valley far below. Abruptly changing direction, he headed toward the cliffs, leaving a mildly confused Rizdon behind. After a brief pause, Rizdon crashed through the ferns after him.
   

Eventually, he caught up with Mikyl on a hill overlooking the main road. Following his friend’s astonished gaze into the valley below, his eyes widened as he beheld the strangest creature he had ever seen. Like a caterpillar, it crawled along the valley floor, its back a bright, jaunty red and its sides a shade of yellow that hurt to look at.
   
“What is it?” asked Rizdon, stunned.
   
“Let’s find out,” replied Mikyl, and without further ado he bounded down the slope, the sheep bouncing weirdly on his shoulders. When they reached the valley floor, they found to their disappointment that the ‘caterpillar’ was no more than a peculiar string of carts, headed by muzzled bears and a motley crew of men and women, some of whom wore hooded cloaks, concealing their faces.
   

One of the leading men’s eyes narrowed as he caught sight of the pair, and he steered his bear over toward them. “And who might you gentlemen be?” he asked, his eyes taking in their patched jerkins and scuffed, dirty skin, finally coming to rest staring directly into their eyes.
   
“Hunters for Boulden, our village,” said Mikyl, shifting the sheep on his shoulders. The man seemed to relax somewhat, so Mikyl asked tentatively, “Who are you?”
   
“We’re traders,” replied the man. “We travel between cities, selling and buying goods as we find them. We come from all corners of the continent, hence our…varied appearances.” He nodded toward the hooded people. “I wouldn’t mess with them too much, they don’t take kindly to people nagging them about what’s under the hoods.”
   
“If you travel from city to city, then why haven’t we seen you before?” asked Rizdon.
   
“No offense, but we didn’t know you existed. You’re hidden back in the mountains, through several treacherous passes and similar dangers. We’ve heard about bandit activity recently in the mountains, but we were forced to come this way because our normal pass was blocked by a landslide this year.” He looked over his shoulder.

“Look, we’d best be on our way. Perhaps you could lead us to this Boulden. I’m sure you’d be interested in our wares.”
   
Mikyl and Rizdon shared a glance. Neither of them saw any harm in trading, so they accepted. “It’s this way,” said Mikyl, pointing back up over the hills, the way he and Rizdon had come.
   The trader looked at him like he was insane. “How are we supposed to get wagons over those?” he asked incredulously. “We’ll need some sort of road.”
   
“Oh. That’s fine too,” Rizdon said. “It’ll just take a lot longer. We should get there a little after noon tomorrow if we take the road.”
   
“You’re welcome to spend the night with us,” offered the trader, gesturing at the setting sun. “You can tell us a bit more about your village.” Mikyl and Rizdon gratefully accepted, neither of whom much enjoyed the prospect of traveling across the mountains at night.
   
Later, the traders stopped for the night, arranging their wagons in a circle to prevent wild animals from entering the campsite while they were asleep. Sitting around the fire, Mikyl couldn’t help but stare discreetly at the mysterious hooded men. Many of them had strange protrusions bulging from the hoods: one had a large curved ridge running horizontally across the top of his head, like there were two triangular features beneath. Another’s hood bulged out so far from his face it would seem almost like he had horns, but Mikyl dismissed this as ridiculous. The traders fed him and Rizdon well, and the two slept soundly.
   
Chapter Two

   The next day, the sun was at its peak when Boulden came into view. The traders brightened and increased their pace. Rizdon ran ahead to alert the townspeople of the situation, and when the first cart rolled into town it met many wide-eyed stares and ecstatic grins from the peasants. As the first caravan to travel to their run-down little town, many felt that this was a sign of impending prosperity. This happiness was short-lived, however, for just as the caravan was halfway through the wooden gates, a rough arrow arced through the air, embedding itself in the ground a few feet away from a startled Rizdon.
   
As one, the traders whirled, reaching for their weapons as a group of men charged from the mountains, swords and axes in hand, with archers posted in trees to keep the townspeople pinned. With their weapons ready, the traders hurried the wagons through the gates, keeping a cautious eye on the approaching bandits.


Mikyl, Rizdon, and the traders just made it through the gates in time before another arrow hammered into the large wooden doors.
Ean the trader started up “I thought you said you weren’t bandits you deceitful little ---“
Before he was cut off by Melanie running forward and throwing her arms around Mikyl

“Oh, you’re ok, thank goodness” she said in a worried tone.

Ean had been about to protest the intrusion, but quickly shut his mouth looking chastised.
Two of the caravan guards quickly climbed to the top of the wall and looked out at what was quickly becoming a siege on the town.

“How many are there” Ean asked.

“About twenty” called down one of the guards.

There was suddenly the sharp twang of a crossbow bolt being released followed by a report from the other guard.

“Nineteen”

“Nineteen” Ean asked.

“Well usually you don’t survive a bolt through the neck” The guard replied.

 Ok I fixed some stuff see if its better. Also sheep plant a bush with tendrils leading from it to plant/sheep and one ram. If you kill the ram the plant dies and they taste nasty unlike the other tasty sheep.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: deadlycairn on February 18, 2009, 09:57:43 pm

I'm actually using nanomachines as the plot point - imagine a grey goo scenario inside your body as the mutated nanomachines replicate out of control.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: penguinofhonor on February 18, 2009, 10:03:36 pm

Micheal's name changes to Mikyl for part of the story. And you say "To be continued, when we get around to it" before the story ends. Also, you seem to have the inability to punctuate quotes properly. Every time there's a quotation mark, a little force field must surround your comma, period, and question mark keys, because you're missing at least two dozen.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: deadlycairn on February 19, 2009, 12:53:23 am

I respect your ability to read that wall of text - I'm having much difficulty forcing myself to read ANYTHING at this time.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: JoshuaFH on February 19, 2009, 01:05:13 am

I got sorta confused at the part when the EPIC fight against the rams was taking place. You kept mentioning a "plant" and when Michael stabs one, everything goes crazy. Was the "plant" cursed or something? it sounded like some magic stuff was going down when that Ram got stabbed and it threw me off.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: penguinofhonor on February 19, 2009, 07:38:00 am

Yeah, there's a couple parts he seems to be missing. There's supposed to be a part where one of the guys goes "Woah, two rams? They're only supposed to have one."

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: wehtamjd92 on February 19, 2009, 07:12:02 pm

Fixed some stuff try it again.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Will Foley on February 19, 2009, 09:35:07 pm

Yeah. wehtam's co-author here...basically, if you kill the ram of the plant, which is its natural defense system, the whole plant dies. However, this plant had two rams, so the outcome of killing one was totally unpredictable. They found out, obviously, after stabbing one. And, yeah, penguin when we said we'd get around to the rest when we felt like it, we put down the story for a while, then came back and wrote a little more, forgetting in the process to erase the 'we'll get around to the rest when we feel like it' part. To make a long story short...it still needs a hell of a lot of editing. We'll get around to it eventually, though it might help if wehtam learned to use punctuation. You were doing well in your RTD, man, what happened? Anyway, we'll fix the problems, and if you see anything else just tell us and we'll take care of it pronto.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Psyco Jelly on February 19, 2009, 09:48:02 pm

   Dorran was angry. It had been five years,  five damned years, since he had been able to return to his home. Terapai was sealed off for five years due to the recent outbreaks, but few could even prove there were any outbreaks. He had no idea if his wife was even alive anymore, and the state of things in the city were unknown to most of the realm. What idiot chose to build a city on an island? Dorran thought to himself, grimacing at the smell of unwashed bodies aboard the ship.
   The ship was good enough, it was the people that were the problem. Dorran never cared much for people, he saw them as loud, annoying, stupid, and dangerous. The exception to this rule was his wife, Anna. She was nice enough, at least she didn’t ask questions about his work. The two of them really only paired up to appear normal. He was a thaumaturge, and she was a seamstress, at least that was what she told him.
   It was a gloomy day, the sky was overcast, and a thin mist settled over the ocean. The ship Dorran was placed upon was simply another of those nameless vessels, with a rather shifty looking crew. No one would care if it were to sink right now. Dorran was surprised by his own fatalism, but he was in a bitter mood, having to share a boat with fifty other imbeciles, most of whom he would never see again. Dorran preformed a small cantrip under his breath. A warm cup of tea appeared in his hand, from which he took a small sip. If only there were a spell that could conjure some sugar.

I typed this up after a random bolt of inspiration, do you like?

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Will Foley on February 19, 2009, 10:09:36 pm

Hey, random bolts of inspiration are often the best kind. Now, outbreaks...zombies? Magic + zombies = chaotic fun.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Mulch Diggums on February 19, 2009, 10:10:17 pm

Not bad jelly. Though I have no idea what a thaumaturge, short of a person that can conjure up items. Also, it kind of left me wondering, wondering in a bad way, what happened to this city exactly.. If there are rumors of outbreaks, why are people going there, ect. Im hoping its got somthing to do with zombies, oh, how I love zombie stories. But I doubt it. =)


-edit- also, damnit will, you ninja'd ahead of me. =[

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: penguinofhonor on February 19, 2009, 10:18:00 pm

Quote from: Will Foley on February 19, 2009, 10:09:36 pm

Hey, random bolts of inspiration are often the best kind. Now, outbreaks...zombies? Magic + zombies = chaotic fun.

Not necessarily Zombies. Though that would be interesting. Psycho Jelly, you should write a little more. Except with different kinds of outbreaks. Mysterious diseases, zombies, bees, or secret government conspiracies. A few different stories for the same beginning.

I have some more of my story done. Apparently the first chapter was perfect, so I'm optimistic.

Spoiler: Chapter 2: The Resistance (click to show/hide)

Jake and Victor walked along the edge of the playground, followed by a small group of various children. They crowd was watching the boys, waiting for then to say something. They were whispering to each other.

“Victor, we need a plan. You’re a smart kid,” Jake said.

“The smartest,” Victor began, but he saw Jake’s glare and stopped. “Yeah, I guess I am. What kind of plan?"

“We need to take down the Cool Kids Club. And we need to do it for good this time, so no messing around.”

“We can’t do that. We don’t have enough people, or any weapons or anything.”

“Well then that’s what you’re supposed to be planning. Do this right and I won’t tell anyone that I took your leadership because you’re a coward.” They spoke to each other for a couple minutes about which people would be most likely to join. They were discussing a few boys that spent their recesses wandering the playground and playing sports with whoever would let them when Victor spoke up.

“I just realized who we can invite that would double our numbers.”

“Who?” Jake asked. “We already talked about most of the guys in the class.”

“That's the point. Most of the guys.” Many of the girls that weren't blond, skinny, or a cheerleader weren't in the Cool Kids Club. They could be a valuable source of soldiers.

“No.”

“You won't even consider it?”

“Of course not. You're stupid if you think we're going to join forces with girls. We'd get cooties. You can't fight the Cool Kids Club when you have cooties. You'll end up asking them to a tea party.”    “I don't think cooties are real, Jake.”

“Of course they are. Why else do you think we don't get near them?”

“Because nobody tries? We sit here talking about cooties when we don't even know if they exist.”

“That's because we'd have to get cooties to prove they do. And nobody wants to get cooties. End of story.” Before Victor could reply, Jake turned to the crowd nearby. “We need more people. Find everyone who doesn't like the Cool Kids Club and get them to join us. Victor is in charge of recruiting, so go to him if you need to know something.” He started pointing to specific children. “Spencer, you get the two kickball kids. No, the ones that aren't on the football team. You know the guys. George, you know those kids that like to play with bugs out by the fence? Get them.”

He handed out a few more instructions and watched the group disperse. Victor was running around several groups, happy that he was given some power. Jake scanned the playground, watching people talk to each other. There was a large group of people on the playground, with a blond girl talking to them from the top of a slide, occasionally losing her balance because of her high heels. “The Cool Kids Club is up to something,” he said aloud. “But it couldn't have anything to do with us. There's no way they could know by now, even with the best gossipers they have. She's probably just telling them to beat up more first graders or something.” With that, he put it out of his mind.

He continued his scan of the playground, making sure that he didn't miss anybody. He saw a boy fly out from behind the corner of a building, landing face-first in the dirt. He got back up and charged someone. Jake saw another boy walk behind the corner.

Jake jumped to his feet. “Of course,” he said.

“Of course what?” a boy who had walked up to him said. He had probably brought a new recruit.

“I can't talk now,” he said, and started to run. “Good job if you recruited someone!”

 

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Will Foley on February 19, 2009, 10:21:50 pm

Lol my bad mulch. I love the dancing kitten, by the way. It's addicting to watch.
And penguin, I like it so far, keep up the good work.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Psyco Jelly on February 19, 2009, 11:00:29 pm

I didn't have zombies in mind. I will continue this, I may even write a full fledged story.

I hope that a callous and elitist wizard isn't too much of a stereotype.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Will Foley on February 19, 2009, 11:02:44 pm

It has been used, but I've never actually seen one be the MAIN character. Usually they're the nemesis or something. As for stereotypical...there really is no established stereotype for wizard, and if there was one, it died when Harry Potter was born.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: penguinofhonor on February 19, 2009, 11:06:06 pm

And then a new one was created from Harry Potter.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Mulch Diggums on February 19, 2009, 11:06:38 pm

And then it died again once they revealed Gandalf was gay.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: penguinofhonor on February 19, 2009, 11:07:48 pm

And then they just went back to copying mysterious wizards from the Lord of the Rings.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Psyco Jelly on February 19, 2009, 11:44:51 pm

   His small feat seemed to attract the attention of a rather gruff looking man with broad shoulders, heavy brown eyebrows, and a slightly brutish look about him.
  “De’ you jus’ make tha’ cup o’ tea from nowhere?” The gruff man looked somewhat puzzled, analyzing the cup.
  “Hello. My name is Dorran. And yours would be..?” I hope he doesn’t ask me-
  “By th’ fifth gate! How de’ yeh do that?” Dorran ground his teeth slightly in frustration. How would I explain this without being deemed heathen?
  “I’ve had  it with me earlier, did you not notice?”
  “As a ma’er of fact, I de’ not.”
  “I have business to attend to.” Annoyed, Dorran walked toward his cabin. He was somewhat appreciative of the fact he could afford one separate from the rest of the passengers.
Three days had passed before the captain had declared their arrival. The cloud cover had lifted, and the sun was shining brightly as Dorran left the confines of his cabin. The people were organized into lines, and ushered off of the boat by armed guards. They are quite concerned about security! It’s been so long since the outbreaks started. Dorran felt slightly guilty about leaving his wife here. Guilt was a feeling to which he was not accustomed. One of us had to remain, or we’d lose our holdings, and you just conjure up a house!
   As he left the boat, one of the guards placed both hands upon him, which startled Dorran. “You’re clear. Continue.”
   “That seemed unnecessary, why would people from the mainland carry the disease?”
   “Standard procedure, the cleaners say that no incoming vessels may be infected.”
   “The cleaners?”
   “You’re holding up the line sir, move along.”
Dorran continued onto the dock, it looked as though it hadn’t been used in quite some time, in contrast to the cities tendencies to trade with many different nations. The dock was vast, at least eighteen furlongs in length. The city looked as lively as ever, showing no sign of the alleged “scourge” that was said to have hit it.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: penguinofhonor on February 20, 2009, 12:02:50 am

I'm liking it so far, Jelly. No real criticism yet.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Mulch Diggums on February 20, 2009, 12:19:15 am

Indeed. Continue please.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Martian on February 20, 2009, 12:45:39 am

Wow, that story is beginning to shape up nicely Jelly. I like the main character.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: JoshuaFH on February 20, 2009, 12:48:38 am

I like how he can just decide "Ya know what? I'm done fucking talking to you, go away", and they go away!

It is amazing.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Mulch Diggums on February 20, 2009, 12:53:37 am

Another chapter in, this one took an ass load of time due to laziness and me going through it all and making minor changes/straightening the lines out.


Chapter Three, The Dangerous Shortcut and Newfound Friend.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Reg closed his eyes and felt is body hit something, the side of the Ore Cart! He quickly scrambled
to grab the edge of the cart, but he didn't want to drop his chest of treasures, oh what a choice!
Reg was about to give up and just drop the chest when a strong familiar hand reached down and
lifted him up onto the cart. "Thanks Bomrek, I almost dropped my chest" Reg said, leaning forward
to adjust for the wind hitting his body. "Reg, remind me some time in the future to take you with
me on mining trips, its great training for things like that." "Haha..We'll see Bomrek."
An Ore Transporter is basically a huge mine cart being pulled along by a rope, which would be
winched up from where the thing was supposed to go, as its name implies the OreTransporter takes
rocks and things from the mine's warehouse, and brings them to the TravelTunnel's Warehouse.

Bomrek laid belly down in the coal and looked over the side of the cart, even with the lantern
it was very hard to make out the markings. "It says.. Coal Mine number five to Travel Tunnel
number seven. Travel tunnel seven is about ... a block from the public statue garden isn't it?"
said Bomrek as he dusted off his coat. "Bomrek, I have no idea. You know I don't read the tunnel
signs when I walk around the sector." The wind was rushing past their faces, their beards
flying behind their backs in the torrent. The transporter kept going at blazing speeds for
a few minutes, then started to slow. "Looks like we're nearing the station Reg, when I tell
you, jump off the back end and try to hide behind the cart as much as possible."

Now the transporter slowed to about the speed of a walking horse, the two dwarves could see the
light from warehouse up ahead quickly coming into view. Bomrek wobbled over to the back edge of
the transporter. "Ok, watch what I do and repeat." Bomrek slithered over the back edge, feet
first, and landed on the transporters rope hook, it was just big enough for a dwarf to stand on
without needing to hold on to any thing. "Pass the chest down, quickly." Reg quickly complied and
took a look up the tunnel. He could make out other transporters stopping up ahead and dwarves
hurriedly unloading the things into wagons to be carted off to the Travel Tunnel. Reg hopped off
the edge and landed on the hook, almost falling off. There he saw Bomrek lugging his chest down
the tunnel. Reg stepped off the hook and followed Bomrek, hiding near the bottom of the transport
as it was slowly pulled out of the tunnel.

Luckily none of the workers noticed them, and they, while not exactly calmly, walked out of the
huge warehouse undisturbed. As they reached the street they both burst into laughter, catching a
few stray looks from the dwarves walking down the street. " Bomrek that was fun but lets walk
back to the apartment tunnel this time instead." Reg said as he wiped the coal off his clothes.
"Thank Thol pigtail is easy to clean, I would hate to go to the Dwarfitourium with soot all over
my clothes." "Yeah, sorry about that. But hey, at least its better than landing on a load of
obsidian, that stuff is sharp let me tell you." Reg looked gleefully down the street in the
direction of the public garden, "Do you think they will have those bottles of.. What was it
called? Soon shine?" "Sun shine",corrected Bomrek. "Right right" Said Reg "I hope they have some
of that, I loved it last year, too bad its so expensive. What was it last year, 100 crowns a
bottle?" "What ever it was, I doubt you have the money for it Reg. Lets just get ourselves some
of that fancy beer they had last year, it was pretty good quality stuff, and cost, what, 6 crowns
a mug?" "Yeah, lets go check it out, maybe I can buy something usefull." "You could sure use a new
bed, that thing you have now is a splintered board" "That would be nice, but I don't think I
would have enough trade goods and crowns for any thing after that." "Just get the bed any way,
your going to need it, trust me. That slab you have now will probly be broken in half this time
next year."

The two dwarves turned a corner into the public shopping area, no scruffy little stands in this
place, actual stores in their own tunnels. Something caught Reg's eye, it was a petshop. Reg
looked into the shop through the metal bars and saw a litter of CaveCats rolling around in a
bucket. Reg had seen a few surface cats before in shows, he liked cave cats much better. They had
much better eyes, were generally pure white, and almost glowed when light hit them. They were
also much more stocky, perfect for the cold deep caves of LargeLands' sectors. There was one
Caveat though, it had a black stripe down its back, from its eyes to the tip of its tail, had
black feet that came up to its knees, and had dirty-white fur every where else. "Aaaw look at
that little thing Bomrek, its so cute." "Hmm?" Bomrek stopped and looked into the petshop, but not
at the kittens, he was looking at the Dwarven woman maning the counter at the petshop.

"Why..Yes..Cute is the right word I think, come on lets go inside." Bomrek opened the metal
door, ringing the bell hanging above the doorway. The woman seemed oblivious to the two dwarves
who just entered her shop. The shop was alive with the sounds of the animals. The cooing of the
newborn kittens, the chirping of the small canaries, the soft constant hum of the purring
maggots, the shopkeepers abicas was the only unnatural sound inside the building. Reg and Bomrek
stood there for a few moments, looking at the woman and exchanging questioning glances. Reg
shrugged, took a kitten from the viewing bucket and walked up to the stone table the woman was
working on, on it she had some clay tablets, a metal writing stick, and some soft clay, on the
clay were numbers and tallys, Reg couldn't make much sense of it. "Excuse me miss, I would like
to buy this Kitten please." The woman stopped fiddling with her abicas, looked up, obviously
surprised to find two dwarves suddenly apear in her shop. The woman suddenly struck Reg as very
beautiful, he almost dropped the kitten he was holding, the woman saw this and quickly put her
hands under Reg's so the kitten would slip safely into her's. She had orange hair and blue eyes,
a very uncommon trait among the dwarves of sector seven. "Hi..Uh..My names Reg, I wanted to buy
that kitten there."

 "Oh, sure, im sorry I didn't hear you come in, the cat will cost you 20 crowns" As Reg opened up
his coin sack and counted the coins, he said "What exactly were you doing there at the table,
that metal square with the bars and the circle things?" "Oh, thats my abacis, I use it to help me
calculate. See, im trying to learn how to keep records, calculate stocks, learn how to apraise
items of their worth, things like that. Oh, and my name is Fath, Fath Muthkattunom." "Fath, thats
a pretty name." Bomrek piped in. "Why thank you, and whats yours?" "The name is Bomrek Adasiteb,
of the Abasiteb miners. Me and Reg here were going to the Dwarfitourium, would you like to come
too?" Fath blushed a bit, and Reg handed her the crowns. "We were just headed for the
Dwarfitourium, want to join us?"asked Reg as he picked up his new cat. "I don't know.. I've got to
run the store, and practice my calculating." "Come on, we stop at the brewfestival when we get
there, I can almost taste the malt liquor! They say its a human delicacy you know, pricey, but
not as pricey as that sunshine stuff. It'll be fun!"

Fath's smile quickly faded to a frown for a moment, but even before Reg finished the sentence
it was back. "Whats wrong?" Reg asked, hoping he hadn't offended his new friend. "Oh..Nothing,
but yes, I think I'll come with you. You've been my only customer all day, I dont think I'll be
losing much business by closing down for a bit. Just let me lock up the shop first and get my
coat." Fath walked into another room and came out a minute or two later, holding an empty sack.
She walked over to the remaining kittens and lifted them one by one into the bag. "What are you
doing Fath?" Fath looked over at Reg, "Im going to sell these kittens at the Dwarfitourium,
they'll pay pretty good money for pure bred CaveCats, after they leave here they are going to
travel to the surface eventually. Cave cats are in great demand up there, something like a 257%
increase in price you see." Reg raised an eyebrow and said "Your pretty good at that record
keeping stuff, why don't you go be a merchant instead of runing this little petstore?" "Well, for
one thing before I can be a merchant I need to get some money to buy the things im planing on
selling, any ways, I have all the trade goods I need, lets go to the dwarfitourium." they walked
out of the shop, Fath inserted a large iron key into the door and locked it. "Come on" Fath said
as she strided down the crowded market street.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: wehtamjd92 on February 22, 2009, 09:36:56 pm

Mulch love it but a one point you have "Caveat" instead of "Cavecat" thats all I saw.

Penguin I know where this is going and I can't wait! Between your writing skills and my violent childhood this will be awsome.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: deadlycairn on February 22, 2009, 09:57:48 pm

I have missed my second deadline in a row. I swear I'll do something THIS week.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Little on February 23, 2009, 01:36:01 am

Wrote this up for English, so I thought I'd try posting it here.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

I jumped into the water, smiling as my older cousin waved. I waved back as I fell into the water. I loved our lakeside cabin on Lake Yule, and my favourite part of our stays there were swimming in the lake. I plunged into the clear liquid, water rippling around me. I strongly swam away from the shore. I had always been a strong swimmer, and I had only improved over time. I slowly began swimming over the cresting waves towards the center of the lake. I would swim to the center, have fun swimming around in the water, and then my cousin would drive the boat out and pick me up. Four years ago, I had forsaken a life jacket for this voyage, and my parents had fretted endlessly. They had pointed out that I had only been ten, but I had countered back that I was strong enough to win multiple long-distance swimming competitions. For the first few times, I had been accompanied by my cousin in the boat, who had been a surrogate brother to me, fifteen and he could drive a boat!

I smiled underwater at the memory, and pumped to the surface. The water was cool in the warm summer day, and it was refreshing. The sun warmed my shoulders as I bobbed in the lake. Each year I had taken a different route, and today I was approaching the center of the lake from the east side. Each time was different, although coming from the north was my favourite. There were outcrops of big rocks, some flat enough so you could lie on them. My cousin used to sit on them and read sports magazines, a lone figure jutting out of the rocks. I used to wave, and a distant arm would wave back. I had thought that was great fun when I was seven.

I kicked strongly, halfway to the center when I looked down and noticed a japing hole in the sand. I frowned, paddling my arms and legs to remain stationary in the water. Nobody had mentioned a hole in the ground to me before, and I was curious. If it was some kind of underwater cave, I could hold my breath for a minute or two and look around. Another thought entered my consciousness, the thought that I could go get the scuba gear when Carson picked me up in the boat This thought excited me, and I swam down towards the hole, which was no more then thirty feet down. I kicked down towards the hole, hauling myself inside with my strong arms. I looked around.

The cave was dim, but not too dark. Sunlight pierced the hole, and gave me enough light to see. Amazingly, there seemed to be groves that lead up the far wall of the little cave. I quickly lunged over to them, my lungs beginning to quietly complain. I could still make it out if I needed to. Pulling myself up the grooves, I looked up a gloomy sort of chimney. My head broke the water five feet up the chimney and I drew in a mighty gasp of air. A few short minutes later, I had climbed the rest of the grooves and was standing up at the edge of what looked like a small cavern. I stared into the darkness for a moment…

Two red slits opened in the darkness opened, and stared back. I stared for a moment longer, my mind trying to wrap itself around the concept. A voice whispered from the darkness, further confusing me. Fish don’t talk, and that’s all there was at Lake Yule. A fish that Old Man Clarke claimed had talked to him hung up in a bar at the near town of Castle Rock, but that was a lie. This was real.

“We all float down here, Nick. You’ll float toooooo…”
It drew the long-winded too into a creepy giggle. This was getting weirder by the minute, and I wanted out. Now.

I took a half step backwards, muttering, “What the fu-” I never finished my expletive. A shape lunged out of the darkness at me. All I caught was a blurred impression of something orange and gleaming teeth…

___

Carson Baker casually piloted the boat along the east approach, whistling. The boat was going slow, but he had no doubt Nick would be fine. The kid would just yell for help if he needed it.

Halfway to the center of the lake, he saw something pale floating facedown in the lake. The idled up beside it, and his mouth dropped open as he realized what, or who, it was. His beloved cousin was floating in a murky cloud of crimson, with something that looked like uncoiled intestines floating beside him.

Carson Baker paled, let out a croak, and promptly vomited.

___

Investigators combed the lake meticulously. No hole was ever found, no cavern detected, and bedrock tests (analyzed for any ruptures or leaks murder weapons could be stored in) determined the lake’s bottom solid as a rock.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: JoshuaFH on February 23, 2009, 01:56:56 am

Another very good story Little.

One odd thing though, how did the authorities know to check the bottom of the Lake for caves or holes?

Another, is this part of a continuity or just a standalone piece?

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: deadlycairn on February 25, 2009, 10:32:00 pm

Deadlines are the devil. I'm about 3/4 of the way through a short story, but in the meantime (and cause I'm feeling guilty) I'll inflict this upon you. Be warned, this is a highly experimental, whimsical piece of writing that is the product of a 10pm visit by the Inspiration Fairy. If you all like it with no criticisms, I'll eat the paper it was written on.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Of the Body:
Worn and weary, my aching bones propel me onwards
Seeking that which eludes me
Never stopping - because I must

Of the Mind:
Split into three, a mockery of the trinity
Surrounded by darkness and nothing
The terror of what I am, and could be

Of the Soul:
Blackened and burned, shrivelled and dead
Causing pain to prevent it
My only hope is my doom

Of the Self:
I am a paradox - dead and alive,
Light and dark, human and inhuman
Roaming the lands I wish to escape
That which others embrace forms my chains

Cookie to first person to guess what's wrong with him (This is kind of like a Who Am I thing)

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: penguinofhonor on February 25, 2009, 11:22:32 pm

It does not rhyme. I shall not play your mind games until it rhymes.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Little on February 26, 2009, 12:00:45 am

Murder was in the water, murderer chucks weapon into water, weapon gets pulled into small crack.

They had nothing to go on. The hole with the evil thing vanishes.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: deadlycairn on February 26, 2009, 12:33:16 am

It wasn't meant to rhyme. It wasn't meant to even be a poem, more of a riddle/ Who Am I? thing.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: deadlycairn on February 26, 2009, 12:47:42 pm

Liked your story Litlle. For some reason the first time I (skim) read it I thought it was about sharks. Either way this one seemed less... complete than the other one. It felt more like it was an excerpt from a larger story than a story in of itself (though it might just be me)

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: deadlycairn on February 26, 2009, 10:05:26 pm

C'mon! I NEED comments!

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: JoshuaFH on February 26, 2009, 10:13:26 pm

Gosh, I'm not good with riddles. I liked it though.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: deadlycairn on February 26, 2009, 10:48:52 pm

Is anyone here an English teacher/professional author? I'd like to see what they think of our little collection. Anyway, typing up new story now. My other thing (not a story, not a riddle, not a poem, what is it?) WAS rather weird so here's an explanation. It's basically a piece-by-piece description of my favourite character, done in riddle form. (This is the character that is supposedly a Mary Sue). His affliction he keeps moaning about is being immortal (cliched I know, but bear with me. At least there's a REASON he survives all odds :P) He's never the main character though, as that would be boring. Important, yes. Main, no. Also, my first story may have given the wrong impression. Most of my writings/ideas are more fantasy-ish than that.

Need to stop rambling and start typing up my other story...

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: deadlycairn on February 26, 2009, 11:41:50 pm

Here we go:

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Do you want to live?

Pain. Waves of it rolling over me, leaving me gasping for air. Over the sound of my own laboured breathing I hear a voice speak,
“Do you want to live, boy?”
I can only nod my head and groan as another wave of pain washes over me and everything fades into darkness...

Strange hallucinations haunt my dreams; visions of things that have been and may be.  Strange creatures roam a dark jungle, their cries long and mournful. A boy is at my side, young and carefree, revelling in my wonder. A voice, the Voice, echoes in my head and I feel his longing.
<Home...>

Consciousness returns, and slowly the dreams fade away, leaving me with a strong sense of longing. I try to open my eyes, ignoring my body’s screaming protests. They only open a crack, but that is enough for me to realise that something is terribly, horribly wrong. The colours seem muted, and occasionally an artefact, sometimes a number, sometimes a colour, will dance across my vision. My examination is cut short by a voice,
“So you’re awake then.”
It wasn’t a question.
“ Your... condition when we found you was critical, beyond my medical abilities. I had no choice but to call a Converted doctor.”
He spat the word converted out of his mouth as if he could not bear to keep it inside his throat.
“He was willing to help, if you accepted his terms. I accepted in your stead.”
I could feel his eyes boring into me, daring me to challenge his decision.
“The changes were rather drastic. Here, take this,”
I felt a mirror placed in my hand. Slowly, I brought it up to my face.
<Brace yourself>
A monster looks back at me out of the mirror as I look in. The left side of my face is gone, replaced with a cold, steel, mask. The only human feature remaining is my left eye, peering back at me in shock out of an aperture in the metal. As my eyes drift to the right side of my face, the reason for my strange vision becomes apparent. A steel sphere with a jewelled centre has been forced into my right eye socket, replacing the eye I had lost. I decide not to ask how it works. My mouth has been covered with metal mesh, strands woven into the steel mask. Dimly, I wonder how I will eat.
<It comes off. I think it’s just there for aesthetics>
isn’t much of a comfort. What could be worse than this?
<Look at your arm>
Is the dreaded reply. My right arm is gone, lopped off at the shoulder; it has been replaced with a mechanical mockery. Simple metal spheres serve as the shoulder and elbow joints, surrounded by masses of metal rods and wires. From the elbow the arm takes more form, becoming a solid cylinder studded with jewels. The hand is blocky, each finger ending in a vicious curved spike. I can hear the hiss and whir of complex machinery emanating from the device when I try to move it, and nauseated, I look away.
<Remember, this is all going according to plan>
Right now I didn’t care about the plan; I cared about what the Converter had done to me. I hazarded a question, turning around a facing my caregiver for the first time. He was a tall, thin man with a face lined with cares.
“What else?”
Was all I could manage before being shocked into silence by my own voice. It came out emotionless and flat, each word wheezing out of the grill.
“Most of what was done can be seen externally. However the most invasive procedure was internal.”
“What was it?”
“A ‘Loyalty box’. It is a device that ensures you follow the terms of the contract. I’m sorry, the doctor was adamant that it would be inserted, to the point of refusing to operate otherwise.”
As I lie back in shock, I can hear my Voice screaming,
<Not part of the plan!>
before darkness suddenly overcomes me again.

Am I dreaming? I’m surrounded by nothing, back in my fully-human body. I’m hovering in a featureless expanse, peacefully floating in my empty domain. Suddenly, the atmosphere changes. The peace is gone, shattered by a roaring gale that bruises and buffets me, coming from all directions. Off to the side I see the boy again, watching as another man, weary and bleeding, spars with a mechanical monstrosity. It’s winning, seeming to laugh coldly as blood streams from the man, when suddenly he roars and the darkness takes shape, a shape so horrible my mind refuses to comprehend it. Now outnumbered, the machine doubles its efforts, but it is cut down, black ichor spraying in all directions. I cry out at the suddenness of it,

And awake. The doctor stares at my gasping, shuddering figure in shock. I have no idea how long I’ve been out for, but it feels like forever. Once I have assured the doctor that it was merely a bad dream, (Hah!) I get him to leave me in peace. I scan my mind for traces of the foreign intruder, but nothing is left. Whatever the Voice did, it did it well. Speaking of the voice, where was it? Almost no trace remains of him as well. Only the faintest whisper remains in my mind.
<Don’t worry, I’m fine. Just... tired is all>
The sound is hesitant and faint, as if coming from a long way off. An image appears in my head of its own volition, that of the weary, wounded man being tended to by the boy. The man seems troubled, his face downturned, and even as I think it I hear myself saying the words,
“What’s wrong?”
Slowly he turned to face me, his answer chilling me to the core:
<Do you want to live?>

Now an explanation. Anything in these <> is the voice (although you should've figured this out) speaking directly into our main characters mind. (Interestingly enough the voice belongs to my Mary Sue, but that's another story)

The story is basically a short clip of magi-tech surgery my way (I'm an evil person :P). This event takes place about 3/4 of the way through the larger timeline involving the main character, and his story is the last one (of six) where Mary Sue (as he will honorarily be called) has a major involvement. Also, it is almost double the size of my Wasted! story. Feel free to criticise as much as you want, I get the feeling you're just being nice so I'll eat my other story.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Little on February 27, 2009, 12:50:09 am

It was also a mini-tribute to Stephen King  ;D

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Psyco Jelly on February 27, 2009, 01:43:16 am

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

   Illudine prepared for her mission briefing, which would start in only a few hours time. She donned her most extravagant robe, and her 'normal' face. She changed faces as casually as others changed clothes, a doppelgänger. Illudine was one of the higher doppelgängers in the order, a royal assassin. There was word that one of Wanderers had finally claimed the throne. After two centuries, you think people would realize that there was a reason no-one took the throne. She thought to herself. The Feywild can't handle another incompetent ruler. If I fail at my task, he will be worthy.

   After examining her appearance in the vanity she took a small dose of clear, viscous, liquid. Spectre tears. They were known for stopping mood fluctuations. I don't want that aspect of me coming out at a time like this. A drop of blood and who knows what she might do! Illudine had been a single child in a human village back in the material plane. Both her parents had possessed the recessive facechanger gene. Her first face shift came around the age of seventeen, with her learning how to actually control it only twenty-five years later. After an unknown force had passed through her village while she was twelve, the entire village became victim of a fell enchantment.

   "Mother please, what are you doing?" - Illudine shouted in shock.
The mad and cackling being that was once her mother came at her, gripping a carving knife from the kitchen. She would have perished there, were it not for her father. Her father tackled the woman, in a state of blind rage mirroring that of his wife. A bloody brawl erupted, but Illudine seized the chance to escape she ran from the door to find the entire village in a similar state of pandemonium.

   "W-what's happening?" She began to break out into cries of terror, which quickly morphed into cries of rage as she pulled a woodsman's axe from a stump and charged into the village, vision fading to black. When she awoke, she found a burned slagheap where the village once stood. The only reason she was alive was because the rest of the village had already done itself in by the time she joined in the chaos.

   Now, whenever she sees her own blood, a dark and frenzied version of herself takes over. One tinged with red hair, eyes like burning embers, a dark corruption of a lady. She reflected on her past for a moment, before altering her appearance to her liking. She chose the form of an Eladrin, a fey elf, as that was what the mision would call for. She gave it dark brown hair, and cyan eyes. "I suppose this will..." A moment of sadness crossed her mind as she realized she had subconsciously taken the form of one of her friends, lost in a battle years ago. "I will honor her memory. The Feywild will not serve a tyrant!"

   She opened the door leading out of her room, and headed for the main hallway.

Another bolt of inspiration. The last kind of fizzled out. This is a backstory for one of my DnD NPCs.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Alexhans on February 27, 2009, 06:08:49 am

Quote from: penguinofhonor on February 25, 2009, 11:22:32 pm

It does not rhyme. I shall not play your mind games until it rhymes.

mine do.

did you read them?

Quote from: Alexhans on February 17, 2009, 09:30:58 pm

I don't know if you could call this poetry but It's a way I express myself.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Fed Up
Another day,
Too mad to play,
No will to stay,
Can't hold my sway.
Im in a mood,
To scar and kill,
Lost in the wood,
Of damned and ill.
I wanna crash,
Wanna destroy,
Im gonna dash,
For easy joy.
I can't go by,
Im going down,
My will is to fly,
Out of this town.
If at this moment,
I had the power,
To bring up torment,
Into this world.
I wouldnt hesitate,
This is my guestimate,
I really can't tell.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Hope
Maybe I'm not even free,
Apart from who I want to be,
Denying what I ought to feel,
That you are the only one that fits.

Beside my place, just near me,
Across my path, your destiny,
But what do I do when you don't seek,
Me in anyway, I don't exist.

What's empty, Isn't broken,
But that's what it seems,
I'm only rotten,
When I don't believe.

That there's a hope,
In our world, like a tree,
Growing slowly,
Evolving, from a seed.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Drawing
Oh I wish I could draw you,
Not failing each time I try,
To resemble the traits of your face,
And so have them to die.
Why do I take you away,
Oh soon should be the day,
When I wish you hadnt held your sway,
And for your return, pray.
Could I have your smile,
To watch the sunshine in your face,
Could I draw your eyes,
And see the sunset everyday.
Knowing Im gonna loose you,
Knowing youll go away,
I would like to have your picture,
To remember how I failed.

Some more poems by me:
http://www.thestories.net/stories/local/bmfy_alexhans/ (http://www.thestories.net/stories/local/bmfy_alexhans/)
(This is a great but abandoned page, we should resurrect it)

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: deadlycairn on February 27, 2009, 03:45:31 pm

I don't quite understand Little. Is yours a tribute to Stephen King, or mine?
'Cause I've never read a Stephen King book (or even watched the movies) in my life.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Little on February 27, 2009, 10:21:13 pm

Stephen King

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: deadlycairn on February 27, 2009, 10:45:52 pm

Now I'm REALLY confused

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: deadlycairn on March 02, 2009, 12:27:58 pm

Don't let this die!

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Servant Corps on March 02, 2009, 12:52:21 pm

Well, I guess you could review this thing and tell me if it is easily understandable.

Quote from: Servant Corps on February 26, 2009, 05:04:47 pm

Let's do this! Here is my absurdly long definition of Caliphate.

Spoiler: Caliphate (click to show/hide)

The Arabic term "Caliph" means "Successor". In most cases, it is used to mean that the person is succeeding Prophet Mohammed as the leader of the Islamic community.

According to "as-Sirah" of Ibnu Ishaq, during debates over how to organize the Islamic community after the death of Mohammed, Abu Bakr was reported to have said:

"It is forbidden for Muslims to have two Amirs for this would cause differences in their affairs and concepts, their unity would be divided and disputes would break out amongst them. The Sunnah would then be abandoned, the bida’a (innovations) would spread and Fitna would grow, and that is in no one’s interests."

Abu Bakr would later be appointed as the first Caliph of the Rashidun Caliphate. This reasoning would be generally accepted by many scholars within Islam, that there need to only be one leader running the Muslim world. There are also many hadiths (sayings of the Prophet Mohammed) that discuss about the Caliphates of the future and of the need for Muslims to follow the Caliph.

One hadith, quoted in the Book As-Siyasah As-Shr'eyah, states that Prophet Mohammed said, "If three are travelling, there must be a leader amongst them."

Another of these hadiths, in Sahih Muslim, is as follows:

It has been narrated by Abu Huraira that the Holy Prophet (may pceace be upon him) said: Banu Isra'il were ruled over by the Prophets. When one Prophet died, another succeeded him; but after me there is no prophet and there will be Caliphs and they will be quite large in number. His Companions said: What do you order us to do (in case we come to have more than one Caliph)? He said: The one to whom allegiance is sworn first has a supremacy over the others. Concede to them their due rights (i. e. obey them). God (Himself) will question them about the subjects whom He had entrusted to them.  (Book #020, Hadith #4543)

This is just a small sampling of evidence suggesting that the tradition of Caliphate has always been with Islam after Prophet Mohammed's death. Furthermore, this evidence suggest that obidence to the Caliphate is absolute, one cannot swear loyalty to more than one person (at least, in theory). Ideally, there should only be one Caliphate. This can be seen in this Hadith that is also in Sahih Muslim:

It has been narrated on the authority of Aba Sa'id al-Khudri that the Messenger of Allah (may peace be upon him) said: When oath of allegiance has been taken for two Caliphs, kill the one for whom the oath was taken later.  (Book #020, Hadith #4568)

It is for this reason that I classify the various Shias Immamts as "Caliphates".  The Shias claim that certain people who have descended from Mohammed, via Ali ibn Abu Talib, are Imams who are both the spiritual and temporal leaders of the Muslim community. Failure to obey these leaders is tantamount to leaving Islam, according to these Shias. This belief that all Muslims must swear loyalty to the Imam mirror Sunnis' views that all Muslims must swear loyalty to the Sunni Caliph, and hence are two sides of the same coin.

However, this idea of a 'universal caliphate', which all Muslims swear loyalty to, has been argued against by Husyan Ibn Ali, the Emir of Mecca and Medina during WWI. The book "From Ottomanism to Arabism: Essays on the Origins of Arab Nationalism" (written by C. Ernest Dawn) provides a detail of Husyan ibn Ali's views on the Caliphate, which was a belief shared by many Muslims during the pre-WWI era:

"The caliphate, in the sense of the sole legitimate monarchy which embraced the Muslims of the world (i.e, the 'classical' or the 'universal' caliphate), had become extinct at a very early time. It was succeeded by series of temporal sovereignties which, if they enforced the holy law, were deserving of the appellation 'caliphate'. These temporal sovereignties, or caliphates, were by no means to be thought as the sole legitimate state for all Muslims, and their monarchs were not be regarded as 'caliphs'; in fact, there might be more than one caliphate in existence at any one time. Such a caliphate was the Ottoman state."

Husyan Ibn Ali was reported to have stated to Lawerence of Arabia on July 28th, 1917 that any idea of resurrecting a univerisal caliphate is "not only grammatically absurd but blasphemous". In 1923, after the Ottoman Caliphate was abolished, Husyan Ibn Ali would declare himself to be the Caliph.

I classify the caliphates in terms of the reason they made the claim to run a Caliphate (and a Caliphate may make mulitiple claims), but there may be other Caliphates out there that doesn't fit into these claims:
*Piety: They are pious.
*Selection by the Shura: They have been elected.
*Control over "Key Cities": They control very important cities.
*Inhertiance/Dynastic Succession: They have descended from another Caliph or from Muhammed's family.
*Madhi Claimant: They claim to be the Madhi.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: deadlycairn on March 03, 2009, 12:12:26 am

Well I understood it, but it's really only aimed at a specific audience (I just enjoy knowing stuff my perrs don't). Nothing wrong with that, just make it clear (unless you want it to be aimed at a wider audience)

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: mendonca on March 03, 2009, 03:16:34 am

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Unnamed Poem #2

Sitting down on the gravel
with a damp backside by the lake.
Skimming stones in to the
rolling inch high waves.
I look to the horizon, and think
of what was mine at the time, to take

You gave all I wanted but it wasn’t enough
I needed for so much more.
Now your gone, and I miss you, the memories are tough
I turn and I leave the shore.

I think of the things you did to me
And whether or not I was right
To end it for eternity
On that cold December night

You’re heart is still with me for now.
And I can’t wrest the thought from my head.
The rest of you, getting further away
As I move away from the lake-bed

I take it from the small polythene bag, and place it upon the passenger side.
The congealing blood smears a pattern of fire. The engine awakes. We drive.

Please feel free to rip this to pieces, ignore, or praise to the heavens!

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Little on March 03, 2009, 11:32:45 pm

It was good. I thought it was a bit odd, but good  :)

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: deadlycairn on March 04, 2009, 12:12:52 am

Just a little taste of crazy at the end. Plus it seemed to me that the rhyming was a little forced (but I don't like using rhyming EVER)

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Psyco Jelly on March 04, 2009, 01:16:35 am

More on the doppelganger.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

   While walking down the symbolically mirrored main hall of the palace, Illudine reflected on how she came to be here. Shortly after her village was burned to the ground by the fell plague, she was found by a trader's caravan. With little else to do, she traveled with them, if only to find a more hospitable home. That was when I stopped caring. Illudine realized that was the point in her life where her callousness began to show. She became emotionally detached from everything. While others her age began to fluctuate wildly between moods, she remained calm and bitter.

   She was transported to the nearest city, a trading city named Newtower, where she was taken in by an elderly couple. She tried to please them, if only to stop them from interfering with her. Though they showed an emotional attachment to Illudine, she had no love for them. She had no malice either. It was only when she had pricked her finger on a thornapple tree at the age of seventeen that an emotion arose. The sight of her own blood sent shivers down her spine. Her vision went blurry, and her head ached. Without warning, she unleashed a primal scream of rage, and her vision faded to black.

   Upon awakening, she found herself with a carving knife in hand, not unlike that which her mother assaulted her with, and various deep gashes in the tree's bark. She contemplated this for a moment, and thanked the Pantheon that there was no one around. The sight of the knife brought with it memories of her old life.

   Why did I not cry for them? Illudine asked herself, continuing through the mirrored hall. I can fake emotions with such great skill that my disguises are impenetrable, yet I can only feel rage! She uttered a curse in a language she barely remembered that she knew. She stopped shortly, to calm herself, and resumed walking. And that damned Beatrice!

   She was being taunted by a local girl of around her age for her behavior. Beatrice was the daughter of a local merchant, and was considered to be somewhat spoiled. She had plump cheeks, and blonde hair, with dull brown eyes. By instinct, Illudine turned around and copied her face and voice, and reiterated the same taunt towards Beatrice. This left the other girl stunned, and she quickly ran off, claiming a demon had stolen her face.

   It took several moments for this to register, and after passing a mirror, Illudine recoiled similarly to Beatrice. After another almost instinctual movement, her face shifted slightly, but returned. She could created the faces of others she knew, even swap certain features while retaining the rest, but could not return to her previous form. After spending several hours coping with the change, she began to accept it. It began to feel nearly natural.

   Shortly after her foster parents had returned, Illudine was arrested on account of fell magic. Though magic use was generally accepted in the city, she was an exception. After assessing the situation, she came to onle logical conclusion. Beatrice's father must hold some power here. Illudine's mind had shifted away from human at this point, and she could apply logic and reason to situations that she normally couldn't. This was the only good thing to come of her imprisonment.

   She was shipped to this place, the changeling halls, and learned the arts of guile and deceit. Her path was fueled originally by a certain desire, to control her rage. She learned advanced one-on-one combat and escape techniques, as the Order wished, but she knew that every time her blood was drawn she would regress to that animalistic state. This improved her, she fought in a way that minimized her injury. She was rarely scathed, even by the most adept sparring partners.

   Her studies in sociology and human psychology were also advanced, necessary to become close to other beings before slaying them. This was also where she would learn of the Order's purpose, to ensure no weak ruler would rise to power and split the empire.

What do you think so far?

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: deadlycairn on March 07, 2009, 12:30:27 am

Just so you don't think I'm abandoning this thread, i have two(!) stories in the pipeline. No time to write up either today or tommorow though.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: wehtamjd92 on March 07, 2009, 12:06:13 pm

I really like what people have posted on this but I wish they would post stuff more often, then again it takes time to write stuff and edit before shoving it on here so I guess we play the waiting game.

Title: Re: Writing Workshop!
Post by: Little on March 10, 2009, 12:23:21 am

Here's a story! It needs editing and such(not to mention a title!), but I think it it's still decent enough to post. I slashed off a paragraph at the end, because I didn't think it gelled with the rest of the story.

Here ya go!

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Frank stares at the fifty-inch plasma TV, the only new thing in the small apartment, and the only that was not covered in grime. He shifts his considerable bulk for increased comfort, loving the fact that the chair was like a comforting glove around him. On the screen, thousands of the infected on one side of a barrier of tanks, while at the other end of the street was a equally large amount of protesters and reporters. If Frank was more observant rather then an unemployed snob, he would have noticed that the situation was no longer confined to the east coast, but had spread to the east like a wildfire. Frank had always figured the news was for events that didn’t concern him, but today he was wrong. 

He watches with a small amount of interest as one of the ‘frothing zombies’ (as they were called by the press) leaped up onto a tank and took a threatening step forward as it screamed, “RAST! RAST!” A solider that was wearing a heavy oxygen tank and a myriad web of filters had been standing on the tank firing into the buzzing hive. An infected leaped up a vertical ten feet with the help of two others, and now it snarled. The solider shifted his aim and neatly blew six holes into the more immediate threat, almost ripping the abomination in half. The thing still lurched forward, infected blood pouring from its grizzly wound as the solider steps forward and smashes the butt of his assault rifle into the depraved creature’s head. It dropped a short distance and stays down as the solider begins to take a step back. It was too late, however, as three more infected leaped at him as he shifted his aim towards the second zombie. His expression one of wild panic, he fires into the closest one as the other three drag him down into the writhing mob.  The other six troops on the tank scramble down, but there’s no point. The infected look up and hop frantically against the barricades, their eyes blazing with feral intelligence…

What had started out as another ‘skip’ news piece to Frank had mutated into the largest threat the United States and Western Europe had ever faced. It was just small chemical spill somewhere in Idaho by a pharmaceutical company, two workers die, more exposed, and the story at eleven. Some lawsuits were threatened in the intervening hours, but nothing too interesting. Frank was paying much more attention to the World Series at the time, with the Dodgers facing the Red Socks. Twelve later, the workers that had been exposed had gone insane with something that resembled rabies, only that the infected only attacked the infected, and did not seem to feel pain. The patients had left their room, attacked nursing staff, and had rapidly begun to propagate throughout the hospital.

Frank had infrequently monitored the problem in between World Series matches. It spread out of the hospital quickly, spreading to the streets. Local law enforcement had arrived in the form of two squad cars, which were overwhelmed by a hundred rampaging crazies. The infected scattered in rough groups of five, avoiding the police backup. Experts had reckoned they were hiding, and they were right. The things would hide in the day, and come out at night to hunt. They didn’t have any advantages, but Frank figured it was their version of Dodgers versus Brewers. The underdog didn’t have a chance, and ordinary people were the underdog. They hunted in packs, and their numbers grew.

The breaking point was Jack’s Bar. Four hundred people, small families with young kids, crammed in to listen to Neil Bergman’s crooning. Neil’s musical career was skyrocketing. Local music critic Jack Lorton said that the only way Neil’s career could go was up, and he was right. Four major record executives sat at the bar in Jack, shooting each other glares and each fingering a business card. They would never get to make an offer. Halfway through the third song, sirens began to whine nearby. Although a few worried glances had been cast, nobody did anything. By the fifth song, the howls were audible. As the crowd began to move for the doors, shots blared out as the sirens screeched around the corner. Two hundred zombies ripped into the bar, dozens leaping in through the skylights, many leaping through the front windows. Screams rang from the kitchen as the chefs were bitten. It was far too late, the zombies hacking through the crowd with bloody efficiency.
Neil Bergman was spotted two months later in LA, clothes stained and bloody, sprinting down Main Street with his pack.
___

The infection had ravaged the country, and that hadn’t bothered Frank. What bothered Frank was the World Series had been cancelled, and most channels were now running round-the-clock news about the efforts to contain infection, although more streets were taken by the monsters everyday. The United Soviet States had turned their holdings in East Germany into the world’s biggest containment area, layered with barbwire, patrols and mines. Frank did the only thing a self-respecting couch potato would do in the God-forbid situation of there being nothing good on TV. He turned on his DVD player and began to watch The Best 10,000 Moments in Sports History.
___

Nick Elder was panicking. He was sprinting down the empty sewage tunnel, a faint whiff of waste still detectable. That wasn’t his problem. His family was sprinting behind him, his two year old daughter on her mommy’s neck, and his little boy who should’ve been entering kindergarten clutching his mother’s hand fiercely. He couldn’t see them, of course, but he knew that’s what they were doing. Ray was running ahead of him, clutching the twelve-cell flashlight with white-knuckle intensity in his left hand and a sleek Colt .45 in the other. Nick was cradling a shotgun as he ran.  Nick’s lungs were pounding, but that didn’t matter. What mattered is that Ray had been a sewage worker before the splitting of Berlin, and he knew a tunnel that was used to smuggle people from one side to the other. “Official guard policy was to arrest the travelers,” Ray had said, “but a quick cash infusion solved all problems.”

Then he had grimaced and had muttered just loud enough for Nick to hear, “But that was pre-outbreak.”

Nick and his family had travelled with his family from the UK to West Berlin. It had not been an easy trip, with a frightening plague racing across the mainland. His father had originally accompanied them, but he had left them in France, saying he wanted to meet with a few old friends before everybody died. Nick’s dad gave them a list of names with labelled phone numbers, and they had followed the path. Their contacts had varied in wealth, age, and nationality, but they all had one thing in common: a pale look of barely controlled terror. The final contact on the list had been Ray Green, a former manager at a small electronic based in America. When his company decided to move to West Germany in the early 80s, he had been a young man of 25 and had followed. The company had disintegrated five years later, rumours were spoken of embezzlements, and Ray suddenly had to find much more humbling work. He had talked about himself while sipping a cup of coffee and tracing a single blue line along a complicated diagram, and explained he didn’t want to go back home to the US because he liked Europe more while crossing off several sections of the chart. Proficient in German, English, and French, he was the perfect guide for Nick’s final leg of the journey, the attempt to get over the Wall.

Nothing could have helped prepare Nick for this. Bloodthirsty screams were ricocheting off the walls, amplified by the tunnel’s acoustics. Cold sweat mixed in with hot sweat on Nick’s forehead and he ran faster. His little boy was yelling, “Mommy, the boogeymen are coming!”
The insane cries of nonsense were rapidly approaching, and Nick knew he was running out of time. Ray was muttering under his breath in multiple languages words that Nick assumed were not taught in school. Abruptly, Ray stopped running and shoved upward, the light focussing on a tattered manhole. Ray grunted and shoved, and faint cries of, “Das Einsteigeloch öffnet sich!” could be heard from above. Vicious snarls were close, and Nick screamed, “RAY! GO! GO!”

Light poured into the tunnel as the cover was suddenly lifted off Ray’s shoulders. Three pairs of arms covered in thick, grey, sleeves with the Soviet flag on them reached down and hauled Ray up. Ray rapidly babbled in German, and as Nick reached the tunnel, a bitter blast of curses in half a dozen tongues and dialects reached Nick. The arms reached down with surprising speed and dragged up quickly, his scrawny frame no trouble for their rescuers. Nicks blinked as he was lifted out, the light battering his eyes, and then he was thrown harshly to the side. He heard a click, then his wife screaming. Her screams mixed into the depraved screams of the infected as he opened his eyes. A cry of “MOMMY” pierced the sounds of terrible hunger emanating from the monsters in the dark. His eyes opened to a solider arched back, boots braced against the concrete for a might throw. Nestled in the troop’s hand was a black sphere. Nick’s mouth fell open, but no sound came out. The troop threw the grenade into the tunnel as the two hauled the thick cover back on. Ray was arguing with someone who looked like an officer in a foreign tongue. The explosion sounded muffled beneath Nick, and his eyes swam with tears as one of the troops pulled up his sleeve, dabbed his arm with a swab, and jabbed his arm with a needle. Nick burst into tears while the troop extracted blood, dropped a device into the needle, and smiled as he pulled out the device. It was glowing green, but Nick didn’t care that he was uninfected. He was young, and he had so much to live for up to a minute ago. He stood up, grief quickly turned to anger. He stomped over to Ray as the troops stared uneasily at him. Ray turned to him and offered a sad smile, “I got you out, my friend. You’re-”

Nick cut him off with a brutal blow to Ray’s nose, breaking it easily. He screamed, “YOU DIDN’T SAVE THEM, BUT YOU SAVED ME! YOU DIDN’T SAVE THEM, BUT YOU SAVED ME!” The three troops lunged forward and plunged another needle into his arm, this one filled with a strong sedative. His awareness faded and his eyes slowly closed as he saw Ray clutching his nose (which was pouring blood), and the officer stare coldly at him, a smile which offered no compromise thinly laced across his face. The infection was being contained, but at what cost?

And the slashed paragraph, for those intrested:

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

___

Humanity makes errors. It is a basic fact of our existence. Holes were found in the Soviet borders eventually, and needless to say, smugglers used them. The United Soviet States fell, but it was a slow demise, composed of slow infection in outlying areas before accelerating into a full blown crisis. Mismanagement was a factor, of course, but in the end, the infected always won. Humanity couldn’t withstand an enemy that could strike with the quickness of a hand from a shadow. The continents were consumed in a stinking horde of haunting creatures.  As the last of humanity was preserved within deep bunkers in Siberia, mountain fortresses in America, boats that were now permanently adrift at sea, and a few small Antarctic bases, the abominations wore on, scavenging and hunting.