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[TheBiggerFish]

I think I shall PTW this thread.

[Emma]

Don't think starting a drug habit is the way to cheat at magical thinking either. :3

Well, you know. Whatever works. Disclaimer: Don't do drugs.

[BlackHeartKabal]

Spoiler:  A story inspired by a dream. (click to show/hide)

I'm sorry I couldn't protect you.

Everything happened so quickly, but the moment still claws at my mind, desperately forcing me to remember, and I can only submit to it.

I remember walking with you down that smooth stone hallway. Light from seemingly no source illuminated the ceiling, the silver tarnished spear levered in my right hand barely cutting into the gold trim that held together the velvet red rug. I only broke my gaze to examine the floor for a second. The rug resembled tanistry, an ornate design I can't remember in the center of the rug's body, printed clearly every few steps. I turned back to you. I was supposed to be exhausted speaking with you for so long. My mind was refreshed when I saw you. I knew you were safe, I was looking right at you. I can't remember what you wore, but your clothing was lovely. I can't remember what it sounded like, but your melodic voice, the sentences you produced becoming performances that rivaled those of entire orchestras, your beautiful voice and clothing cleansed my body of fatigue. I looked ahead again, the fatigue burning my body anew, and I saw the hallway bend. The hard curve resembled the top half of a hexagon, a wall jutting out from what was a straight hallway. I should have turned back then. I should have bought you with me. An excuse to touch you for even a few seconds, even if to just take your hand and lead you back the other way.

I didn't. I kept going, and you followed me, which I made sure of. Freedom from fatigue, freedom from exhaustion as I turned to see your perfect form again. I turned ahead, and as we walked across that hallway, adjacent to that "top" wall to my left, I felt the air chill. Cold air invaded my lungs, creating a contrast between my heated body and my cooled lungs. My eyes faced that wall, but my body didn't. My body was too slow, too weak to turn in time. The stone gave way, the body of the wall disintegrated as the remnant fell to the ground outside. Snow fell, leaving the ground near the cliff to the left of the breach covered in a layer, but unnaturally sparing the stone edifice that I could see miles across. The edifice that me and my ward had been traversing for some time. I simply couldn't remember how long. From a gust of misty snow, a grey figure came into existence. I looked to my right hand, trying desperately to lever my spear. I couldn't.

The edges of my vision tore, and bled orange, as some unstoppable force bore a hole through my chest and carried me back. Nearly the entirety of my stomach was gone. My organs and guts didn't have time to spill. If not for my spine giving way under the force, my legs would have kicked as I flew. I turned to face you, to look at you. The look of fear and surprise in your face bought forth a cacophony of emotions. Tears were torn out of my eyes, and I turned away. What could you have possibly done to deserve seeing me in sorrow for any reason, especially this one? Surprise became guilt, and guilt became despair. I was going to die when my flight stopped. A thought rung in my mind as my flight back reached it's peak.

"I couldn't protect you. I can't protect you anymore. I'll never see you anymore."

The purity of despair had enveloped what remained of me. All of my love for you would be something I could never show or give again. I couldn't remember if I confessed to you or not, but even if I had, you wouldn't have heard me. You were in danger, and you were still going to be in danger, even after I expired there. I couldn't help you, and there was nobody to blame but myself.

For even a glimpse at a glimmer of hope that I could save you, I would give my life again.

[bluwolfie]

I would like to participate.

Could someone shoot me a fairly simple prompt? It's actually been a while since I've written, and I want to get back into it and hopefully actually complete something, or more.

[Insanegame27]

I would like to participate.

Could someone shoot me a fairly simple prompt? It's actually been a while since I've written, and I want to get back into it and hopefully actually complete something, or more.

Write a story from the point of view of six people who suddenly find themselves very poor for whatever reasons - home invasions, mugging, overspending, that kind of stuff - and subsequently get themselves in debt to a gang which coerces them to rob a bunch of fast food stores. The group of six find themselves in the green once again, their debts paid off. To seat themselves firmly in the green again, they decide on one final robbery. Unfortunately for them, they choose to do so in an area where most people own guns, and a shoot-out occurs, resulting in serious injury or death to some of the crew.

[bluwolfie]

I would like to participate.

Could someone shoot me a fairly simple prompt? It's actually been a while since I've written, and I want to get back into it and hopefully actually complete something, or more.

Write a story from the point of view of six people who suddenly find themselves very poor for whatever reasons - home invasions, mugging, overspending, that kind of stuff - and subsequently get themselves in debt to a gang which coerces them to rob a bunch of fast food stores. The group of six find themselves in the green once again, their debts paid off. To seat themselves firmly in the green again, they decide on one final robbery. Unfortunately for them, they choose to do so in an area where most people own guns, and a shoot-out occurs, resulting in serious injury or death to some of the crew.

Thank ye, I will work on this.

[bluwolfie]

I would like to participate.

Could someone shoot me a fairly simple prompt? It's actually been a while since I've written, and I want to get back into it and hopefully actually complete something, or more.

Write a story from the point of view of six people who suddenly find themselves very poor for whatever reasons - home invasions, mugging, overspending, that kind of stuff - and subsequently get themselves in debt to a gang which coerces them to rob a bunch of fast food stores. The group of six find themselves in the green once again, their debts paid off. To seat themselves firmly in the green again, they decide on one final robbery. Unfortunately for them, they choose to do so in an area where most people own guns, and a shoot-out occurs, resulting in serious injury or death to some of the crew.

Here's a super duper, raw ass raw rough draft of the prelude for your perusal. Part of my reason for sharing this at this point is hopefully, if other people are interested, I will feel less inclined to abandon this project.


"Vern shoots shark


He looked at his phone, turned pale, then quickly left the room, a skinny man was he. She watched him, smiling, a firey redhead. He knew what he had to do, he walked over to his car and struggled to pull out his keys, nervous. He looked up to see the big bald one staring him down. He steeled himself and glared back, the bald man smirked. He stared as he opened the door and got in. An old station wagon, perputally on it's last legs. The car whined and sputtered as it started and he was on his way. He wiped the sweat off his brow as he readied for what he was about to do. He looked up at the night sky and considered his options.. He shook his head and scratched at his neck, raw with dried blood and flakes of dead skin. He knew what he had to do. He opened the glove box and pulled out a small, 9mm pistol and rested it upon his lap. Soon he pulled up to an old tattoo parlor off the main road into town, it was quiet out here now, though the place saw a lot of business during the day.

The skinny man looked at himself in the mirror, eyes bloodshot as he nerviously vibrated. He put on a ski mask and covered his neck with his collar, opened the door and stood up, gun in hand. He closed the door and walked around to the back entrance, he opened the door, he knew it would be unlocked. "Mo! Is dat chu?" a man hollared, but he did not respond. He came up a hallway off the back door, decorated with various displays of tat art and snuck around the cornor, there sat a mountan of a man giving himself a tattoo, his back turned. "Seriously Mo', you shouldda come an hour ago, I already moked' it all" he said, with a laugh. *BANG* *Flash*"

[Pencil_Art]

Hmm, beginnings of a story underway.

Spoiler: Feedback appreciated (click to show/hide)

On a sunny Saturday afternoon sat a man in a cafe, at a table all by himself, sipping from a cup of very hot coffee. Many of the patrons of this posh cafe knew him simply as ‘that guy that sits in the corner and never says anything’, and knew him to be a regular by now. The Coffeehouse©, you see, was a sort of very protective mini-society, and the other men, gruff and fiercely bearded (or not, rather) looked out for this man. As long as you regularly drank coffee with the other regulars, you were considered a friend. Occasionally one of the older patrons would try to say hello, get introductions underway, but they could never get more than a name and general greetings. Times were about to change.


Ryan was confused. Confused about his friend, who had, insofar as Ryan could tell, not turned up. This was strange. Jeffrey almost always made his deadlines, and when he didn’t he made a big deal of offering a formal written apology to all parties inconvenienced by this turn of events. A bit extravagant, but it did the job well enough. For a few minutes more Ryan continued to sip his cup of coffee (‘Geralds’, the Coffeehouse specialty) and drummed his fingers rather irritatingly on the table, causing the other members to begin reviewing their mental image of him as a part of the Coffeehouse family, and looked at the myriad of impressionist paintings spread out over the regular landscape of the West Wall, reputedly by famous artists (though they were, admittedly, probably fake. They were nice paintings, though). His finger-drumming was interrupted by a fellow by the name of Hendricks, who, rather more easily irritated by most, asked him to kindly stop now or be asked to exit the premises.

Two seconds later, Ryan was unceremoniously shoved out the door onto the street, startling a nearby woman and her child. After getting up and brushing himself off, he gazed at his rather traditional surrounds, with their solid, irregular stone bricks and the graceful forms of delicately potted plants, and slowly began to retrace his steps, weaving his way through the busy outside world, to where he had started this day's’ journey in the first place.

Home.

[GiglameshDespair]

I would like to participate.

Could someone shoot me a fairly simple prompt? It's actually been a while since I've written, and I want to get back into it and hopefully actually complete something, or more.

Write a story from the point of view of six people who suddenly find themselves very poor for whatever reasons - home invasions, mugging, overspending, that kind of stuff - and subsequently get themselves in debt to a gang which coerces them to rob a bunch of fast food stores. The group of six find themselves in the green once again, their debts paid off. To seat themselves firmly in the green again, they decide on one final robbery. Unfortunately for them, they choose to do so in an area where most people own guns, and a shoot-out occurs, resulting in serious injury or death to some of the crew.

Here's a super duper, raw ass raw rough draft of the prelude for your perusal. Part of my reason for sharing this at this point is hopefully, if other people are interested, I will feel less inclined to abandon this project.


"Vern shoots shark


He looked at his phone, turned pale, then quickly left the room, a skinny man was he. She watched him, smiling, a firey redhead. He knew what he had to do, he walked over to his car and struggled to pull out his keys, nervous. He looked up to see the big bald one staring him down. He steeled himself and glared back, the bald man smirked. He stared as he opened the door and got in. An old station wagon, perputally on it's last legs. The car whined and sputtered as it started and he was on his way. He wiped the sweat off his brow as he readied for what he was about to do. He looked up at the night sky and considered his options.. He shook his head and scratched at his neck, raw with dried blood and flakes of dead skin. He knew what he had to do. He opened the glove box and pulled out a small, 9mm pistol and rested it upon his lap. Soon he pulled up to an old tattoo parlor off the main road into town, it was quiet out here now, though the place saw a lot of business during the day.

The skinny man looked at himself in the mirror, eyes bloodshot as he nerviously vibrated. He put on a ski mask and covered his neck with his collar, opened the door and stood up, gun in hand. He closed the door and walked around to the back entrance, he opened the door, he knew it would be unlocked. "Mo! Is dat chu?" a man hollared, but he did not respond. He came up a hallway off the back door, decorated with various displays of tat art and snuck around the cornor, there sat a mountan of a man giving himself a tattoo, his back turned. "Seriously Mo', you shouldda come an hour ago, I already moked' it all" he said, with a laugh. *BANG* *Flash*"

I didn't have long, but after skimming through:

No need to italicise and put it in quote marks. To save space and make it clear that that text is the story, you could put it in a spoiler.

Ellipses (...) are three dots, not two.

Begin dialogue on a new line. In fact, you need to break it all up into more paragraphs, I would say. Many of your sentences are disjointed and don't really flow.

I noticed mispelt words. Spellcheck your work before you post it, raw draft or not.

*BANG* *Flash*"[/i]

In proper writing never do this. It's awful in every way.

[BlackHeartKabal]

Spoiler:  A story inspired by a dream. (click to show/hide)

I'm sorry I couldn't protect you.

Everything happened so quickly, but the moment still claws at my mind, desperately forcing me to remember, and I can only submit to it.

I remember walking with you down that smooth stone hallway. Light from seemingly no source illuminated the ceiling, the silver tarnished spear levered in my right hand barely cutting into the gold trim that held together the velvet red rug. I only broke my gaze to examine the floor for a second. The rug resembled tanistry, an ornate design I can't remember in the center of the rug's body, printed clearly every few steps. I turned back to you. I was supposed to be exhausted speaking with you for so long. My mind was refreshed when I saw you. I knew you were safe, I was looking right at you. I can't remember what you wore, but your clothing was lovely. I can't remember what it sounded like, but your melodic voice, the sentences you produced becoming performances that rivaled those of entire orchestras, your beautiful voice and clothing cleansed my body of fatigue. I looked ahead again, the fatigue burning my body anew, and I saw the hallway bend. The hard curve resembled the top half of a hexagon, a wall jutting out from what was a straight hallway. I should have turned back then. I should have bought you with me. An excuse to touch you for even a few seconds, even if to just take your hand and lead you back the other way.

I didn't. I kept going, and you followed me, which I made sure of. Freedom from fatigue, freedom from exhaustion as I turned to see your perfect form again. I turned ahead, and as we walked across that hallway, adjacent to that "top" wall to my left, I felt the air chill. Cold air invaded my lungs, creating a contrast between my heated body and my cooled lungs. My eyes faced that wall, but my body didn't. My body was too slow, too weak to turn in time. The stone gave way, the body of the wall disintegrated as the remnant fell to the ground outside. Snow fell, leaving the ground near the cliff to the left of the breach covered in a layer, but unnaturally sparing the stone edifice that I could see miles across. The edifice that me and my ward had been traversing for some time. I simply couldn't remember how long. From a gust of misty snow, a grey figure came into existence. I looked to my right hand, trying desperately to lever my spear. I couldn't.

The edges of my vision tore, and bled orange, as some unstoppable force bore a hole through my chest and carried me back. Nearly the entirety of my stomach was gone. My organs and guts didn't have time to spill. If not for my spine giving way under the force, my legs would have kicked as I flew. I turned to face you, to look at you. The look of fear and surprise in your face bought forth a cacophony of emotions. Tears were torn out of my eyes, and I turned away. What could you have possibly done to deserve seeing me in sorrow for any reason, especially this one? Surprise became guilt, and guilt became despair. I was going to die when my flight stopped. A thought rung in my mind as my flight back reached it's peak.

"I couldn't protect you. I can't protect you anymore. I'll never see you anymore."

The purity of despair had enveloped what remained of me. All of my love for you would be something I could never show or give again. I couldn't remember if I confessed to you or not, but even if I had, you wouldn't have heard me. You were in danger, and you were still going to be in danger, even after I expired there. I couldn't help you, and there was nobody to blame but myself.

For even a glimpse at a glimmer of hope that I could save you, I would give my life again.

Could, um, someone give me some feedback, instructions for improvement, on this?

[GiglameshDespair]

(as well as grammar corrections and stuff, which I guess I could do myself).

Do that yourself. Simple things like that, if you can do them yourself, should be done by you.
Otherwise it's somewhat of a waste of time.

I'll be honest; it's not good. It's inconsistent (occasionally dips in present tense, things like "2 or three"), it tells rather than shows, and it has spelling mistakes.

---
 

Hmm, beginnings of a story underway.

Spoiler: Feedback appreciated (click to show/hide)

On a sunny Saturday afternoon sat a man in a cafe, at a table all by himself (This feels clunky.), sipping from a cup of very hot coffee. Many of the patrons of this posh cafe knew him simply as ‘that guy that sits in the corner and never says anything’, and knew him to be a regular by now. The Coffeehouse©, you see, was a sort of very protective mini-society, and the other men, gruff and fiercely bearded (or not, rather) looked out for this man (How?). As long as you regularly drank coffee with the other regulars, you were considered a friend (but he drank alone?). Occasionally one of the older patrons would try to say hello, get introductions underway, but they could never get more than a name and general greetings. Times were about to change.


Ryan was confused. Confused about his friend, who had, insofar as Ryan could tell, not turned up. This was strange. Jeffrey almost always made his deadlines, and when he didn’t he made a big deal of offering a formal written apology to all parties inconvenienced by this turn of events. A bit extravagant, but it did the job well enough. For a few minutes more Ryan continued to sip his cup of coffee (‘Geralds’, the Coffeehouse specialty) and drummed his fingers rather irritatingly on the table, causing the other members to begin reviewing their mental image of him as a part of the Coffeehouse family, and looked at the myriad of impressionist paintings spread out over the regular landscape of the West Wall, reputedly by famous artists (though they were, admittedly, probably fake. They were nice paintings, though). (This is a run on sentence. Break it up.) His finger-drumming was interrupted by a fellow by the name of Hendricks, who, rather more easily irritated by most, asked him to kindly stop now or be asked to exit the premises. (Repeating the word 'asked' could probably be avoided.)

Two seconds later, Ryan was unceremoniously shoved out the door onto the street,(Seems odd a posh place would allow violence.) startling a nearby woman and her child. After getting up and brushing himself off, he gazed at his rather traditional surroundings, with their solid, irregular stone bricks and the graceful forms of delicately potted plants, and slowly began to retrace his steps, weaving his way through the busy outside world, to where he had started this day's journey in the first place. (This also feels like it's running on.)

Home.

Not much happens. Beginning of a story, sure, but it lacks anything particularly interesting, and it tells us very little about the protagonist.
It's not awful, but something about the writing style I dislike. Like it's trying to be light and whimsical but failing? I'm not sure.
Anyway. check within the spoiler to see my main thoughts.

---

Could, um, someone give me some feedback, instructions for improvement, on this?

Alright, keep yer butt on :v

Spoiler:  A story inspired by a dream. (click to show/hide)

I'm sorry I couldn't protect you.

Everything happened so quickly, but the moment still claws at my mind, desperately forcing me to remember, and I can only submit to it. (This whole line feels unnecessary. Your writing should show the moment happened quickly, and it's obvious the character is remembering it. The sentence feels a little overdone.)

I remember walking with you down that smooth stone hallway. Light from seemingly no source illuminated the ceiling. The silver tarnished silver spear clasped in my right hand (What's in his other hand? If it was empty he should hold the spear with two. If he's holding hands, mention it.)dragged lightly against the gold trim that held together the velvet red rug. I only broke my gaze (from what? Her? He's a poor bodyguard.) to examine the floor for a second. The rug resembled tanistry tapistry(?), an ornate design I can't remember in the center of the rug's body, printed clearly every few steps. I turned back to you. I was supposed to be exhausted speaking with you for so long (why was he supposed to?). My mind was refreshed when I saw you. I knew you were safe, I was looking right at you (This last part is unnecssary. We know he was looking at her.). I can't remember what you wore, but your clothing was lovely. I can't remember what it sounded like, but your melodic voice, the sentences you produced becoming performances that rivaled those of entire orchestras, your beautiful voice (You have already said a lot about she has a nice voice. Again, it feels overdone, but here you have actually repeated yourself. Unless she's got some kind of weird swarm voice going on, I'm not sure an orchestra is a brilliant comparison.) and clothing cleansed my body of fatigue. I looked ahead again, the fatigue burning my body anew (but you were just cleansed of fatigue?), and I saw the hallway bend. The hard curve resembled the top half of a hexagon, a wall jutting out from what was a straight hallway. I should have turned back then. I should have bought you with me (Unless he just abandoned her here, he did). An excuse to touch you for even a few seconds, even if to just take your hand and lead you back the other way.

I didn't. I kept going, and you followed me, which I made sure of. (clunky.) Freedom from fatigue, freedom from exhaustion (Why? and they're pretty much the same thing, so no point repeating yourself. It also feels clunky to start a sentence that way.) as I turned to see your perfect form again. I turned ahead (repeating 'turned' could probably be avoided.), and as we walked across that hallway, adjacent to that "top" wall to my left (what?), I felt the air chill. Cold air invaded my lungs, creating a contrast between my heated body and my cooled lungs. (this is very clunkily worded.) My eyes faced that wall, but my body didn't. My body was too slow, too weak to turn in time. The stone gave way, the body of the wall disintegrated as the remnant fell to the ground outside. Snow fell, leaving the ground near the cliff to the left of the breach covered in a layer, but unnaturally sparing the stone edifice that I could see miles across. (and what could he see?) The edifice that me and my ward had been traversing for some time. (this sentence is a part of a larger one, or should be.) I simply couldn't remember how long. From a gust of misty snow, a grey figure came into existence. I looked to my right hand (A soldier would look at the enemy, not his own hand.), trying desperately to lever my spear (lever seems the wrong word. You'd lever a spear against something. Tried desperately to bring up his spear, perhaps.). I couldn't.

The edges of my vision tore, and bled orange (That's not how vision works.), as some unstoppable force What kind of unstoppable force?bore a hole through my chest and carried me back. Nearly the entirety of my stomach (chest =/= stomach) was gone. My organs and guts (pretty sure the guts are an organ) didn't have time to spill. If not for my spine giving way under the force, my legs would have kicked as I flew. I turned (His whole body? Mid air?)to face you, to look at you (Yes, we know he'd look at her. He's done little but, and I doubt he'd turn to her so he can stare into the distance.). The look of fear and surprise in your face bought forth a cacophony of emotions. Tears were torn out of my eyes, and I turned away. (This is meant to happen very quickly. How is he turning around so much in mid air?) What could you have possibly done to deserve seeing me in sorrow (Sorrow comes later. Angony, pain, anguish, horror, would all fit the moment better.) for any reason, especially this one? Surprise became guilt, and guilt became despair. (Again, this is happening over a second or two at most. This is a lot of introspection.) I was going to die when my flight stopped. A thought rung in my mind as my flight backwards reached its peak.

"I couldn't protect you. I can't protect you anymore.(he got chumped by the first baddy. I'm not sure he ever could.) I'll never see you anymore."

The purity of despair had enveloped what remained of me (has he died yet? If not, this seems odd. If so, probably should have mentioned everything went dark or something along those lines. He's also already mentioned he's in despair.). All of my love for you would be something I could never show or give again. I couldn't remember if I confessed to you or not, but even if I had, you wouldn't have heard me. You were in danger, and you were still going to be in danger, even after I expired there. I couldn't help you, and there was nobody to blame but myself.

For even a glimpse at a glimmer of hope that I could save you, I would give my life again.

In spoiler.
Overall... feels like it's trying too hard to be poignant and dramatic.
We have no knowledge of the protagonist beyond "has a spear" and "is in love with lady" and the lady has not details whatsoever beyond "eye candy" and "sweet voice."
His killer has also no details.
We have no knowledge of the situation, the setting, or the location. Why was the protagonist tired?

Think of the other sensations of being tired. Sweat trickles down your brow and stings your eyes, leaving a tang of salt on dry, cracked lips. Limbs tremble slightly under the tension of keeping you upright, a soft burn spiking with every movement. Blood pounds in your ears like thunder, filling the room with the pounding of your heart. Exhaustion fills your head with fog, and your vision blurs until you scrunch your eyes shut for a moment and try to focus.

You want to describe what the character is feeling, more than just "is in love with lady." We get that. You said that, perhaps a little too much. Think on the other sensations of the body.

[BlackHeartKabal]

Could, um, someone give me some feedback, instructions for improvement, on this?

Alright, keep yer butt on :v

Spoiler:  A story inspired by a dream. (click to show/hide)

I'm sorry I couldn't protect you.

Everything happened so quickly, but the moment still claws at my mind, desperately forcing me to remember, and I can only submit to it. (This whole line feels unnecessary. Your writing should show the moment happened quickly, and it's obvious the character is remembering it. The sentence feels a little overdone.)

I remember walking with you down that smooth stone hallway. Light from seemingly no source illuminated the ceiling. The silver tarnished silver spear clasped in my right hand (What's in his other hand? If it was empty he should hold the spear with two. If he's holding hands, mention it.)dragged lightly against the gold trim that held together the velvet red rug. I only broke my gaze (from what? Her? He's a poor bodyguard.) to examine the floor for a second. The rug resembled tanistry tapistry(?), an ornate design I can't remember in the center of the rug's body, printed clearly every few steps. I turned back to you. I was supposed to be exhausted speaking with you for so long (why was he supposed to?). My mind was refreshed when I saw you. I knew you were safe, I was looking right at you (This last part is unnecssary. We know he was looking at her.). I can't remember what you wore, but your clothing was lovely. I can't remember what it sounded like, but your melodic voice, the sentences you produced becoming performances that rivaled those of entire orchestras, your beautiful voice (You have already said a lot about she has a nice voice. Again, it feels overdone, but here you have actually repeated yourself. Unless she's got some kind of weird swarm voice going on, I'm not sure an orchestra is a brilliant comparison.) and clothing cleansed my body of fatigue. I looked ahead again, the fatigue burning my body anew (but you were just cleansed of fatigue?), and I saw the hallway bend. The hard curve resembled the top half of a hexagon, a wall jutting out from what was a straight hallway. I should have turned back then. I should have bought you with me (Unless he just abandoned her here, he did). An excuse to touch you for even a few seconds, even if to just take your hand and lead you back the other way.

I didn't. I kept going, and you followed me, which I made sure of. (clunky.) Freedom from fatigue, freedom from exhaustion (Why? and they're pretty much the same thing, so no point repeating yourself. It also feels clunky to start a sentence that way.) as I turned to see your perfect form again. I turned ahead (repeating 'turned' could probably be avoided.), and as we walked across that hallway, adjacent to that "top" wall to my left (what?), I felt the air chill. Cold air invaded my lungs, creating a contrast between my heated body and my cooled lungs. (this is very clunkily worded.) My eyes faced that wall, but my body didn't. My body was too slow, too weak to turn in time. The stone gave way, the body of the wall disintegrated as the remnant fell to the ground outside. Snow fell, leaving the ground near the cliff to the left of the breach covered in a layer, but unnaturally sparing the stone edifice that I could see miles across. (and what could he see?) The edifice that me and my ward had been traversing for some time. (this sentence is a part of a larger one, or should be.) I simply couldn't remember how long. From a gust of misty snow, a grey figure came into existence. I looked to my right hand (A soldier would look at the enemy, not his own hand.), trying desperately to lever my spear (lever seems the wrong word. You'd lever a spear against something. Tried desperately to bring up his spear, perhaps.). I couldn't.

The edges of my vision tore, and bled orange (That's not how vision works.), as some unstoppable force What kind of unstoppable force?bore a hole through my chest and carried me back. Nearly the entirety of my stomach (chest =/= stomach) was gone. My organs and guts (pretty sure the guts are an organ) didn't have time to spill. If not for my spine giving way under the force, my legs would have kicked as I flew. I turned (His whole body? Mid air?)to face you, to look at you (Yes, we know he'd look at her. He's done little but, and I doubt he'd turn to her so he can stare into the distance.). The look of fear and surprise in your face bought forth a cacophony of emotions. Tears were torn out of my eyes, and I turned away. (This is meant to happen very quickly. How is he turning around so much in mid air?) What could you have possibly done to deserve seeing me in sorrow (Sorrow comes later. Angony, pain, anguish, horror, would all fit the moment better.) for any reason, especially this one? Surprise became guilt, and guilt became despair. (Again, this is happening over a second or two at most. This is a lot of introspection.) I was going to die when my flight stopped. A thought rung in my mind as my flight backwards reached its peak.

"I couldn't protect you. I can't protect you anymore.(he got chumped by the first baddy. I'm not sure he ever could.) I'll never see you anymore."

The purity of despair had enveloped what remained of me (has he died yet? If not, this seems odd. If so, probably should have mentioned everything went dark or something along those lines. He's also already mentioned he's in despair.). All of my love for you would be something I could never show or give again. I couldn't remember if I confessed to you or not, but even if I had, you wouldn't have heard me. You were in danger, and you were still going to be in danger, even after I expired there. I couldn't help you, and there was nobody to blame but myself.

For even a glimpse at a glimmer of hope that I could save you, I would give my life again.

In spoiler.
Overall... feels like it's trying too hard to be poignant and dramatic.
We have no knowledge of the protagonist beyond "has a spear" and "is in love with lady" and the lady has not details whatsoever beyond "eye candy" and "sweet voice."
His killer has also no details.
We have no knowledge of the situation, the setting, or the location. Why was the protagonist tired?

Think of the other sensations of being tired. Sweat trickles down your brow and stings your eyes, leaving a tang of salt on dry, cracked lips. Limbs tremble slightly under the tension of keeping you upright, a soft burn spiking with every movement. Blood pounds in your ears like thunder, filling the room with the pounding of your heart. Exhaustion fills your head with fog, and your vision blurs until you scrunch your eyes shut for a moment and try to focus.

You want to describe what the character is feeling, more than just "is in love with lady." We get that. You said that, perhaps a little too much. Think on the other sensations of the body.

Right. Thank you for the criticism. I did base this thing on a dream I had, so I only had that very, very vague guideline of it, and it was tainted by dream logic. Person I was protecting had my attention for most of the dream, which is why I had so much focus on that. I'll improve from what you've told me.

[Emma]

This isn't mine - oh, no offense friend but it's much worse than mine. I want to get him some good feedback/suggestions, (as well as grammar corrections and stuff, which I guess I could do myself). His writing style is very... crude... but try not to put your own style into your edits, please.

Spoiler: This is it (click to show/hide)

“Cheers!” The drunks were on their fourth round. The whole pub was in a relatively good mood because they might have forgotten what happened 7 years ago. Suddenly the door creaked open and a teen boy stepped inside. The whole pub fell quiet other than a drunk old man who’s glass of beer shattered on the floor. The old man then started cursing in a low whisper but then collapsed on the floor unconscious. Every head in the drinkery turned towards the boy. They all knew who he was, the boy who lived alone in a hut ever since 7 years ago. “What're you doing here? What the hell is wrong with you, boy!” The 14 year old didn’t take offense other than slightly frowning. “The next wave is tonight I just wanted to warn you.” He announced. Then he went to the door.
 He suddenly had a flashback when he looked at a couple bushes outside the window of the pub that still live from 7 years ago. He and his parents were running from the police headed to the wall. He was scared out of his wits since the looming police seemed huge and frightening over him. “Hide!!” yelled his dad since it was too late to escape. The police suddenly burst from a couple bushes behind his parents and then shot them right in front of his eyes. He was crying and shriveling to the cold foggy air. After he saw his parents getting dragged away to get tortured, he ran sniveling to a pub right down the street.
 The corrupt city government was controlled by one person known as Abaddy. Abaddy was the first person who was born with powers. She had taken over the city and hunted everyone else who was born with any magical elements in them. She controlled the police who every 7 years searched everyone in the city for people who had extraordinary DNA. Usually they find 2 or three every time. Abaddy captures them and tortures them to make them give their powers to her. Then she leaves them writhing in pain slowly dieing.
   When the boy suddenly awoken from his daydream he had left everyone in the drinkery scrambled for the door to lock themselves in their homes. The boy’s name was Jayme which was how everybody knew him by.  It had turned dark and Jayme quickened his pace into a run. Jayme quickly hurried home to his hut and started packing his stuff. He had waited for this moment for most of his life. He would have to climb the wall and and find a hideout in the Frames(the outside world which was filled with mountains and magical and mysterious forests. He packed everything he owned: his very few clothes, some canned food, a grappling hook he had found a year back, and his staff which he held in his hand. The sirens started blaring. He couldn’t even hear himself speak. The police with their paralyser guns have started to charge into each home searching each person for powers with their identifier scanner. It would take about 5 minutes for the police to get to his hut. He had escaped the police 2 other times, one costing his family. He finished packing his bag and started sprinting to the wall. The police lights suddenly spotted him and they started chasing him with their motorcycles. He conjured up a boulder the size of a truck and threw it against the police. They had dodged it. They were gaining up to him. He threw a grappling hook 

I'll probably give more detailed feedback when I have access to a computer but from a fairly quick read it doesn't look good. It seems to be a fairly bog standard special snowflake story and that makes it really boring and honestly pretty awful. And yeah, while this might seem hypocritical coming from someone who's written plenty of those shitty Mary Sue stories themselves the sooner you're friend is told to write about interesting people who have real faults the better.

[Emma]

Spoiler:  A story inspired by a dream. (click to show/hide)

I'm sorry I couldn't protect you. (I don't mind this as an opening line, sets the scene nicely in my opinion.)

Everything happened so quickly, but the moment still claws at my mind, desperately forcing me to remember, and I can only submit to it.

I remember walking with you down that smooth stone hallway. Light from seemingly no source (Might want to work on wording here, doesn't quite make sense.) illuminated the ceiling, the silver tarnished spear levered in my right hand barely cutting into the gold trim that held together the velvet red rug. I only broke my gaze (Broke your gaze from what? to examine the floor for a second. The rug resembled tanistry, an ornate design I can't remember in the center of the rug's body, printed clearly every few steps. I turned back to you. I was supposed to be exhausted (You need another word here, I think it's an after.) speaking with you for so long. My mind was refreshed  when I saw you. I knew you were safe, I was looking right at you. (That last sentence doesn't quite work for me.) I can't remember what you wore, but your clothing was lovely. I can't remember what it sounded like, but your melodic voice, the sentences you produced becoming performances that rivaled those of entire orchestras, your beautiful voice and clothing cleansed my body of fatigue. I looked ahead again, the fatigue burning my body anew, and I saw the hallway bend. The hard curve resembled the top half of a hexagon, a wall jutting out from what was a straight hallway. I should have turned back then. I should have bought you with me. An excuse to touch you for even a few seconds, even if to just take your hand and lead you back the other way.

I didn't. I kept going, and you followed me, which I made sure of. Freedom from fatigue, freedom from exhaustion as I turned to see your perfect form again. I turned ahead, and as we walked across that hallway, adjacent to that "top" wall to my left, I felt the air chill. Cold air invaded my lungs, creating a contrast between my heated body and my cooled lungs. My eyes faced that wall, but my body didn't. My body was too slow, too weak to turn in time. The stone gave way, the body of the wall disintegrated (I don't really like the use of disintegrated, but that's more personal taste than anything else.) as the remnants fell to the ground outside. Snow fell, leaving the ground near the cliff to the left of the breach covered in a layer, but unnaturally sparing the stone edifice that I could see miles across. The edifice that )I think you need a "had" here.) me and my ward had been traversing for some time. I simply couldn't remember how long. From a gust of misty snow, a grey figure came into existence. I looked to my right hand, trying desperately to lever (Lever doesn't seem to be the right word.) my spear. I couldn't.

The edges of my vision tore, and bled orange (If my English teacher is to be believed different colours should be used for different effects. I don't know if orange is the right colour here.), as some unstoppable force bore a hole through my chest and carried me back. Nearly the entirety of my stomach was gone. (I don't know about the wording in that last sentence.) My organs and guts didn't have time to spill. If not for my spine giving way under the force, my legs would have kicked as I flew. I turned to face you, to look at you. The look of fear and surprise in your face bought forth a cacophony of emotions. Tears were torn out of my eyes, and I turned away. What could you have possibly done to deserve seeing me in sorrow for any reason, especially this one? Surprise became guilt, and guilt became despair. I was going to die when my flight stopped. A thought rung in my mind as my flight back reached it's peak.

"I couldn't protect you. I can't protect you anymore. I'll never see you anymore. ("Again", not anymore.)"

The purity of despair had enveloped what remained of me. All of my love for you would be something I could never show or give again. I couldn't remember if I confessed to you or not, but even if I had, you wouldn't have heard me. You were in danger, and you were still going to be in danger, even after I expired there. I couldn't help you, and there was nobody to blame but myself.

For even a glimpse at a glimmer of hope that I could save you, I would give my life again.

Overall it's not too bad. I disagree with GiglameshDespair about the poignancy and dramtic... icy, but that could just be personal taste. Be aware that some of my comments are also personal taste.

Hmm, beginnings of a story underway.

Spoiler: Feedback appreciated (click to show/hide)

On a sunny Saturday afternoon sat a man in a cafe, at a table all by himself, sipping from a cup of very hot coffee. (That was a long and clunky sentence.) Many of the patrons of this posh cafe knew him simply as ‘that guy that sits in the corner and never says anything’ (I personally dislike this, it seems heavy-handed.), and knew him to be a regular by now. The Coffeehouse© (Why do you need the (C)?), you see, was a sort of very protective mini-society (I think it would be an actual society, not a "mini-society"), and the other men, gruff and fiercely bearded (or not, rather) (I'm pretty sure that last bit was grammatically incorrect.) looked out for this man. As long as you regularly drank coffee with the other regulars, you were considered a friend. Occasionally one of the older patrons would try to say hello, get introductions underway, but they could never get more than a name and general greetings. Times were about to change.


Ryan was confused. Confused about his friend, who had, insofar as Ryan could tell, not turned up. (Those last two sentences were really rough.) This was strange. Jeffrey almost always made his deadlines, and when he didn’t he made a big deal of offering a formal written apology to all parties inconvenienced by this turn of events. A bit extravagant, but it did the job well enough. For a few minutes more Ryan continued to sip his cup of coffee (‘Geralds’, the Coffeehouse specialty) (I don't need that information.) and drummed his fingers rather irritatingly on the table, causing the other members to begin reviewing their mental image of him as a part of the Coffeehouse family, and looked at the myriad of impressionist paintings spread out over the regular landscape of the West Wall, reputedly by famous artists (though they were, admittedly, probably fake. They were nice paintings, though). His finger-drumming was interrupted by a fellow by the name of Hendricks, who, rather more easily irritated by most, (That last bit is clunky and uncomfortable to read.) asked him to kindly stop now or be asked to exit the premises.

Two seconds later, Ryan was unceremoniously shoved out the door onto the street (The coffeehouse patrons change their minds very quickly and drastically.), startling a nearby woman and her child. After getting up and brushing himself off, he gazed at his rather traditional surrounds, with their solid, irregular stone bricks and the graceful forms of delicately potted plants, and slowly began to retrace his steps, weaving his way through the busy outside world, to where he had started this day's’ journey in the first place.

Home.

It's alright, it uses a bit too much telling rather than showing. If I'm honest it doesn't interest me overly much as it stands, but it seems to have the seeds of a good story.

I wouldn't mind some opinions on this:

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

   Some call them the Knights of the Forest, some call them the Animal . If one is being completely honest, however, the Knights of the Bough are all of these things and more. They defend anything green and living, are wardens of the animal kingdom and carry out what they see as their god-given duty with a deadly efficiency…
    - The King’s Chronicler in the 132rd Cycle

   The night was dark apart from the thin blades of moonlight that cut through the thickly layered canopy of leaves. The light cast by the moon’s knives made dancing shadows upon the fallen leaves that decayed slowly on the ground. Hide covered feet moved slowly through the shadowed forest, their tips drawing patterns across the mouldy carpet of vegetable matter. As the moon rose to its zenith in the sky the piercing cry of a mockingbird split the stillness of the night. The feet and their owner froze at the sound filling up with tension. The night slowly regained its composure, however, and after a while the stress drained out of the legs and their owner made a small, questing movement forward before calling out softly.
    “Who is it?” The voice said before the night once again resumed its silence.

It's really early but I'd to know whether it's worth continuing before investing too much more time in it.

[GiglameshDespair]

I wouldn't mind some opinions on this:

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

   Some call them the Knights of the Forest, some call them the Animal. (This is clunky. The 'Knights of the Forest, or the Animal Knights' might be better, since just "some call them the animal' doesn't work well for a group.) If one is being completely honest (That doesn't feel right, as it suggests to call them the Knights of the Forest etc is being dishonest), however, the Knights of the Bough are all of these things and more. They defend anything green and living, are wardens of the animal kingdom and carry out what they see as their god-given duty with a deadly efficiency… (Then how do they eat? Why are a bunch of knights militant vegans?)
    - The King’s Chronicler in the 132rd Cycle

   The night was dark apart from the thin blades of moonlight that cut through the thickly layered canopy of leaves. (If the moon is bright enough to shine like blades, the night isn't dark. The forest is dark, but not, per se, the night, and might be worth mentioning... It might also be worth getting rid of 'of leaves', since forest canopies are made of leaves by default and it prevents repetition of 'leaves' in the next sentence.) The light cast by the moon’s knives made dancing shadows upon the fallen leaves that decayed slowly on the ground (Talking about how the leaves slowly decay is unnecessary. We know leaves slowly rot when cut from a tree, and the focus on the sentence should be light and dark). Hide covered feet moved slowly through the shadowed (You've already stated it's dark; perhaps describe something else about it. Tangled, wild, silent, still, etc.) forest, their tips drawing patterns across the mouldy carpet of vegetable matter (This doesn't should the best, and it's not how anyone really thinks. Focus more on the sound and feel. It's also something you've already talked about and I addressed above.). As the moon rose to its zenith in the sky the piercing cry of a mockingbird split the stillness of the night. The feet and their owner froze at the sound filling up with tension. The night slowly regained its composure, however, and after a while the stress drained out of the legs and their owner (You've already used 'X and their owner) made a small, questing movement forward before calling out softly.
    “Who is it?” The voice said before the night once again resumed its silence.

It's really early but I'd to know whether it's worth continuing before investing too much more time in it.

As stories go it's too short to say- it's only 200 words or so, not enough to get a proper feeling for the story.
Of course, check in the spoiler.

Think of the other senses. You have sight down, but don't mention hearing enough. What can the protagonist feel, hear, taste? Do the leaves crinkle softly at every footfall, or do they release the smell of loam and mould at each step? Is there the rustling of beasts in the undergrowth, the call of nightbirds, the whispering of a breeze through the branches?

Personally, I would reword the first couple of sentences.
Maybe something like:

The forest was dark but for the blades of moonlight that cut through the shifting canopy. The soft rustling of branches made the shadows dance across the thick carpet of leaves that muffled the forest floor.