A place to post things you’ve written and/or to talk about writing in general. Continued from v. 2007.1.
Not to be confused with Books in Progress, which focuses on book-length writing.
Patience, Please
This site is under reconstruction and will look strange for a while. We regret the inconvenience.
Thanks very much, Rebecca.
I am currently involved in the Books in Progress thread, so I won’t be here much (though I will turn up occasionally and post snippets of Pantagruel’s Ring.)
im not really sure wat to post here. Canix?
2- Basically, anything you’ve written, are writing, or will write. You can get critiques and advice, and also review other pieces of writing posted on here. It’s really quite fun.
Cool. A new thread. *vanishes to BIP* *pops head around door* I’ll still be here, don’t worry. *disappears*
Cool, a new writing thread.
One of these I’ll actually have to write something.
Yay, a new thread!! ::dhd::
I might post some of my writing. Perhaps. I have extremely little faith in my writing, and think it is dreadful. And such. So I don’t like to post it.
Eh…I posted one or two of my poems once and didn’t get good reviews. But I may try again. I don’t think it stinks THAT badly.
I shall post the beginning of a story.
***
One
The Risk
Gil caught it, and it burned his hands like a hot pot full of fire. But he didn’t let go, because he knew what would happen if he did. He would be shamed for eternity, and nobody would talk to him ever again. He would be branded for life with the mark of the Unrisker.
In other words, he would lose the game.
In the tall, gray, monotonous building rising up into the mists next to the playing field, a girl was slowly and deliberately writing. The paper was torn and covered in erase marks and the pencil was nothing more than an eraser with a tip, but she kept going. She might have scratched out twenty-five words per minute, but only five or so of those words weren’t erased by the pink stub that was one half of the girl’s writing implement. The girl’s name was Larissa, and she was a Writer. She knew she had to finish her paper by the end of the night, but she wanted it to be good. And good it wasn’t, or at least that’s what she thought. It really was quite good, but Larissa was slightly OCD and wanted to make it as good as possible before it was due at ten o’clock that night. And she had good reason. She knew that if the paper didn’t manage to score an Good or better as a grade, she would be branded forever with the mark of the Unwriter.
Larissa wrote one last word and put her tiny pencil down with a sigh of relief. She sat back in her uncomfortable, high-backed oak chair and put her hands behind her head. In doing so, she caught a glimpse of her silver watch. It read nine fifty-five.
Larissa shot up from her chair and grabbed the piece of paper with unnatural enthusiasm. She vaulted across the dark, chilly room, avoiding tables and chairs and occasionally a sleeping student and, when reaching the wall, skidded to a stop. She uncrinkled the page and opened a slot in the wall which was previously invisible; having blended into the rather dank patterned wallpaper well.
She took a deep breath and skimmed her essay one last time, then took the pencil out of her pocket, placed the paper against the wall, and wrote her name at the top: Larissa Clane.
Larissa dropped the paper into the slot and watched it disappear down the blackness of the homework tunnel.
Gil raised the Ball above his head in triumph, smiling and watching the many students in the stands applaud enthusiastically. He wasn’t sure if they were applauding for him or just for his team, but to hear that wonderful sound while holding the Ball in his (rather pain-filled) hand was pure joy to him.
Kayling, the referee for this particular match, came jogging over to Gil with a smile plastered on his pale face. “Good game, Gil,” he said.
Gil nodded his head in acknowledgement and smiled back. “Thanks!”
“How bad was it this time over?” Kayling asked.
Gil shrugged, handing the Ball to the Ballmaster who was proffering up the Ball-box for Gil to put it in. “Not that bad,” Gill said. “Not as bad as that match in February.”
Kayling nodded, his slight double-chin wobbling as he did so. “Yeah,” he said. “I heard you were in the infirmary for a whole day that time.”
“You got it,” said Gil. “Burned like hell. I think it might’ve been sabotage, though.”
Kayling winked sarcastically. “Ya never know,” he said. “Well, at least you’re not an Unrisker,” he added.
“Thank God,” said Gil, relieved. “Every time I look at Vick over there-” Gil broke off with a shudder. “I really do feel sorry for him, but…”
“I know how you feel,” said Kayling. “In my heyday of Risking, well, I almost got it.”
“Huh. Really?” asked Gil. “I never knew you Risked!”
Kayling shrugged. “Everyone does, at one point or another.”
“I guess you’re right,” said Gil. “Well, I better get going. I have a lot of homework.” Gil started up the playing field, starting to unbutton his tight-fitting Risking shirt as he went. “See you later, Kayling!”
“Right back at you, Gil!”
When Larissa awoke from her deep slumber to the bright ringing of her alarm clock, the first thing she did was to shut it off. It had been a birthday present from her mother, who knew how hard it was to wake Larissa up when she was sleeping. Larissa hated it.
Larissa sat up in her cot, stretching and yawning. All around her were the other girls in her dorm doing exactly as she was: yawning, stretching, shutting off ringing alarm clocks.
Larissa slowly slid out of bed, automatically pulling her covers back up and folding them neatly as she did so. She made a right-angle turn and faced her chest of drawers sleepily. She got dressed, pulling on her white school polo, her academy-issue green plaid shirt, and her own gray woolen shrug sweater. She rubbed her eyes, yawned, then put on her white knee socks and black, polished ballet flats.
She slipped into her place in line and silently filed out of the dormitory with all of the other girls. Only when she was three feet out the door did she remember that she had forgotten her pencil case.
The temptation was strong to stay in line and not risk a talking-to from the First Girl, but her pencil case had her lucky pen inside, and the big Nonfiction exam was today. So Larissa made the decision to slip out of line and dash back to her bedside.
She looked wildly around for about a second and a half, then spotted her dark wood pencil case lying on the floor right next to her neatly made bed. Larissa grabbed it, then sprinted back to the line, the end of which was just passing out of the door. She arranged herself in line, and, clutching her pencil case, started walking again.
Gil arrived in the Eating Hall looking haggard and tired. He automatically sat down in his usual seat, near the far end of the long table for his grade and next to his best friend Tory, who had already started to eat.
“Hey,” Gil said.
“Hi, hww yug douffig?” said Tory through a mouthful of hash browns.
Gil sighed. “Swallow, if you please,” he said.
Tory complied, and Gil saw the lump of potato go down his throat.
***
Like?
Wow. It’s like some sort of “middle school from hell.” Me likes.
8-Interesting. If you continue, I’d like to see the next part.
8- I like it a LOT. I want to see more!
now that I have your attention, can I ask you to tell me what you would write first?
TOYLAND
A three story saga about toys at war
EARTHMAN
a short story saga from pre-big bang to 2200.
SPECTRUM
a book about were books come from.
12- Depends. Toyland if I was in a silly and creative mood, Earthman if I was feeling somewhat grim and epic, and Spectrum if I was prepared to delve into the most sacred mystery of the universe
12- Toyland or Spectrum, definitely.
Since I don’t feel like going to the BIP thread where my story is posted, I’ll post my question here: Alice and Canix, do you mind if I use you as characters in my book? The characters are twins, that are already loosely based on you guys, and also are similar to Felix and Fillippa on the RPW2 thread.
does anyone mind if i complain about my long term comics project that isn’t working out. it’s on topic as i have 4pages of storyline. i’m now trying to draw it out but am having real difficulty getting the proper mood across. i want it to be despair, sadness and lonelyness but so far it’s just emotionless. gr…..
9-11- THANK YOU! I will certainly continue with that story.
15- I wouldn’t mind being Alice’s twin at all. Go ahead.
15- Please do.
I am currently meant to be writing an essay.
“MuseBlog: Destroying Academic Careers Since 2005.”
21- Lol.
I’ve started a story, one of those post-nuclear winter ones that seem like a great idea at the time but never get off the ground. This is my third attempt at one in that category. And it’s about…
INTERMARRIED SUPERHUMAN MUTANT FAMILIES! w00t!
No, seriously. It is. And it’s in fricking LONGHAND. Might do me some good to actually WRITE physically, though.
21- Hey, it built mine, in a way. This place was my inspiration for one assignment.
22- So the ones with beneficial mutations would become sort of aristocratic families, and the ones with disfigurements or handicaps (who would be in much greater number) would become a pariah class?
21-Definitely. You have no idea how long I procrastinated on my language arts essay…
I’m writing a “frost the snow man” parody.
The original character… Played by a woman named “June?”… You remember…
ANYways, she’s going to be stricken with a fatal illness that can only be cured by surgery, so I need suggestions for the ailment in which she will be cast under.
I also need to find s logical-sounding reason why snow could somehow retain intelligent life.
The old silk hat contained a mysterious magnetic field which absorbed the subconscious thoughts of beings around it and shaped any malleable substance contacting its surface into a facsimile of the dominant archetype. In other words, if the hat was on the head of a snowman, and a dozen children around it were thinking “snowman,” the snowman would become a man of snow.
you know what’s anoying??? i have carpal tunnel issues! ( at least that’s what i’m assuming it is) and when i type, draw or play the piano it acts up. ooo i twinge as my fingers twitch to strike the keys.
26- the tendon’s in her lower arm fuse together. that’s what happens when you have realy bad carpel tunnel syndrome (i think…)
24- Nah, there are only five families. First family = flight (they grew wings), Second family = telepathy and mind control, Third family = um… invisibilty OR pyrokinesis (you tell me which), and Fourth family = telekinesis. tell me if those are too “magical” and please suggest better ones if possible. and the fifth family has like no power or a really weak one and was driven underground by the stronger families. and the plot is like the Fifth family is getting evil and is gonna nuke everyone again. i sorta stole that from the fifth Artemis fowl book but who cares. You likey?
29- I think it’s extremely unlikely that all the mutations would bestow power…
But then again, they wouldn’t have to. Basically speeded-up evolution, right? Bad mutations die, good ones survive.
In that case, here are my suggestions:
First Family: Don’t give them bird wings sprouting out of their shoulder blades. That’s too improbable. Give them wings sort of like the pterosaurs. First three fingers and thumb are normal, little finger is extremely long and curved and supports a sail of skin that attaches at the waist.
Second Family: Getting a little too pseudoscientific here. Tone it down a bit and make it “suggestion” instead of direct control.
Third Family: Neither of those sound very possible… perhaps make them super-stealthy and allow their skin to change colors subtly, like a chameleon.
Fourth Family: I don’t think you ought to give them something that magic-esque. I also don’t have any suggestions. Sorry.
Other than unrealistic powers, I like the story.
Here, for my reference and your entertainment, is the compiled story so far of Pantagruel’s Ring, the little fantasy/humor/fractured fairy tale/intrigue project that started on the previous writing thread.
Pantagruel’s Ring
You all know of the sorcerer Marcus Dimwood, the man who is now accounted to be the greatest magician in all of Deepforest, Carabas and Wunsaponna. But he was not always so. Listen, while I tell a single chapter in the story of how a young boy ascended to become the one of the wisest and most powerful beings of all time…
“WAKE UP, MARCUS, YOU MORON!”
Marcus woke up. In fact, he shot out of bed, landing on the stone floor entangled in his sheet. A great horned owl was perched on his ornate, gargoyle-shaped bedpost, looking thoroughly exasperated.
“Saraswati… ” he muttered.
“Yes?” the owl said, clacking her beak.
“It’s eleven P.M.”
“I know. And you’ll be late for the Convention if you don’t get off your sorry rear.”
“Convention? What convention?”
Saraswati drummed her talons on the gargoyle’s cheek, waiting for the penny to drop.
Marcus suddenly remembered. “The Convention! Oh, no! If you hadn’t woken me, I’d have missed it!” He ran from the bedroom, the midnight-black bed-sheet still wrapped around him like a toga.
“You’re welcome,” Saraswati said to empty air, then fluttered after him.
Five minutes later, Marcus appeared somewhat more respectable. A dyeing enchantment had turned his normally brown eyes and hair (not the sort of sinister appearance he wanted) to a deep black.
His outfit was also properly menacing: a swirling black satin cloak, with black breeches and a black leather jerkin beneath it. A belt with an ornate silver buckle completed the ensemble.
“That is so out of date,” Saraswati remarked as he emerged from the dressing room. “Seriously, black was in fashion back when Ahriman was still a mewling demonlet.”
“If it was good enough for sorcerers back then, it’s good enough for me,” Marcus replied. “Besides, last time you gave me a fashion tip- ”
“Oh yes. The Incident. I swear, it was nothing to do with me. Galen said they were the latest thing.”
“Your screech owl friend Galen needs to figure out the difference between sorcerers and witches. People are still calling me Pinky.”
~~~
Marcus strode onto the launching platform at the top of the tower, Saraswati following him. It was utterly spotless. It had to be: sorcerers his age usually left their masters and set up house in ominously brooding fortresses in the thickest part of Deepforest. Unfortunately, Marcus was a bit low on cash, and had to rent a small tower in a rather treeless and sunny clearing. It didn’t exactly brood, either. It was only five stories high, and somewhat crooked. But it was all he had, and he was determined to keep it in excellent condition.
“Come on, Sara,” he said.
“What, me? Aren’t you the one going to the Convention?”
“Of course, but this is my first one!”
“I know. You’re 13, so you’re old enough to go. That still doesn’t explain why I have to come.”
“I need to make a good first impression.”
“On who?” Saraswati winked at him.
“Well- the senior Witches and Sorcerers, of course.”
“Sure it’s not just Aleksandra you want to impress?” The owl nudged him playfully with one wing.
Marcus’s face reddened. “Sara- shut up.”
“C’mon! I’ve seen you staring at her-”
“SHUT UP!” Marcus snapped his fingers, and his staff appeared in his hand. He leveled it at the owl and let off a small thunderbolt.
“Ooh, sensitive, are we?” Saraswati said, rearranging her scorched feathers.
“Just get up here,” Marcus grumbled. Saraswati obliged him, fluttering up and perching on his shoulder. “All right,” she said. “Now get out the magic carpet, and away we go.”
“The carpet!” Marcus exclaimed, and a look of horror crossed his face. “I forgot! It’s in the shop!”
“Well, now you remember. You have a broom?”
“Of course not! I’d look like a sissy riding one of those! There’s only one option left. We’ll have to travel by weather.”
“Whip up a Thunderstorm,” the owl suggested. “We’ll arrive in plenty of time.”
“Sara, you know I can’t do a Thunderstorm yet. The only things I can manage are Whirlwind and Gale, and even those are going to be tricky in these conditions.”
“Weren’t you working on Blizzard?”
“I can’t get the hang of it. It always turns into Rainstorm, and you can’t travel in one of those. Not if you don’t want your cloak all soggy.”
“Gale, then?”
“With all these crosswinds, it’ll be slow and hard to manage. I’ll try Whirlwind.”
With that, he slammed the tip of his staff into the exact center of the turret’s floor. “Enolcyc! Em yebo!” he cried.
Nothing happened for a moment. Then the tip of the staff began smoldering and glowing. Three trails of smoke drifted up from it. But instead of dissipating, they began to swirl around him, thickening as they accelerated. A wild feeling of power rushed through Marcus’s limbs.
“It’s supposed to be going widdershins, you know,” Saraswati added from his shoulder.
“This is going to be hard enough without backseat driving,” Marcus replied through gritted teeth.
The whirlwind lifted off, and Marcus’s ears popped. He settled into a cross-legged position (traditional when traveling by whirlwind) with his staff held at an angle, directing the wind currents.
The first half of the trip passed without incident. Deepforest, the greatest and last haven of the Dark, flew by below him. The stars twinkled above him like gnome-silver dust scattered on a fate-woven cloak.
Saraswati was the first to notice something wrong, though she couldn’t put her talon on it. It made her uneasy, and she shifted restlessly on Marcus’s shoulder.
Then the young sorcerer noticed that his staff was trembling. He tried to quiet it, but the shaking only grew more violent. And as it did, the whirlwind began to slip out of control.
“I told you it should be spinning widdershins!” Saraswati yelled, before jumping off his shoulder and extending her wings, hoping to ride out the ensuing storm.
Five minutes later, the whirlwind had grown into a full-blown tornado. Marcus was hurled every which way, tree branches and fence posts striking him painfully. Saraswati fared better. Her wings allowed her to ride the gusts, and her head spun in the opposite direction to the cyclone to keep from getting dizzy.
Marcus’s memory of the catastrophe was somewhat fuzzy. At some point, his cloak had ripped away, and then entangled his arms with his staff. A large hanging tree (thankfully, nobody was dangling from it at the moment) had been sucked up by the merciless winds, and the noose had cinched around his legs, leaving him unable to move independently.
His next memory was of Saraswati screaming in his face. “How do you stop this thing?” He told her the correct incantation through flapping lips, and she recited it, gripping the staff so hard that her claws left marks.
Then Marcus found himself suddenly still. He was vaguely aware that his dyeing spell had malfunctioned, and his hair was changing color. All the blood had inexplicably rushed to his head, and that combined with his recent gyrations produced a disagreeable effect.
He threw up, and watched in amazement as his half-digested dinner rose above his head to land with a splatter on the stone ceiling.
He slowly came to realize that he was upside down.
Marcus was hanging outside a massive stone building that looked vaguely familiar, but the inverted view made it hard to place. The free end of the hangman’s noose had caught on the granite fang of a large gargoyle. His staff was wedged between his arms in a roughly horizontal position. Saraswati perched on one end, not a feather out of place.
“The good news,” she said, “is that we’re at the Convention on time. The bad news… ”
And then the frayed rope finally broke, and Marcus fell twelve feet straight down into an ornamental kelpie pond.
~~~
“Did they get all the kelpies off?” Saraswati asked. “They’re tricky little blighters.”
“Shut up, Sara,” Marcus said for the third time that day, as they took their seats in the Magicians’ Quarter.
The Convention Hall, more formally known as the Mandala Court, was an amphitheater of black marble, divided into four sections. To the right of the Magicians’ Quarter was the Nearhumans’ Quarter, currently filled by a jostling mass of vampires, werewolves, giants, ogres, trolls, dwarves, and various other creatures that could have passed for human had they possessed less hair, or blunter teeth, or been three feet taller or shorter. Past them was the Demons’ Quarter, and beyond that, the Monsters’, noisiest and brightest of all, with chimeras, gryphons and firedrakes fighting over the far too little space.
In the center of the amphitheater was a large black table. A moonstone sat on it, reflecting the light of the greater moon above.
A sonorous bell rang through the Dark Mandala Court, and four figures began making their way toward the central table.
Saraswati pointed out the names of the representatives to Marcus. “That’s Komondor the Blind, representative for the Dragons. He’s extremely famous- lived more than a dozen centuries so far, and still going strong. And let’s see, who’s that? I’m not sure,” she said, indicating the representative for the Nearhumans, a long-nosed, swarthy troll. “In any case, he’s probably presiding- it’s the Nearhumans’ turn this year. For the Demons- ooh, that’s Asmodea bin Efrit herself!” she gasped, referring to a darkly beautiful, yellow-eyed woman whose barbed black tail lashed languidly behind her. “And of course, for the Magicians… ”
Marcus needed no prompting to figure out who the plump, steel-gazed woman making her way to the table in the company of an enormous black tomcat. “Hazel Marrowbone,” he whispered. “The greatest witch in the world.”
The four representatives gathered at the conference table and sat down.
No sooner had they taken their seats than the moonstone began glowing. If glowing was the right word. No, Marcus decided, it definitely wasn’t. It was darkening, sending an ambiance of gloom throughout the room.
An awful voice resounded through every inch of the Mandala Court. “THE THREE THOUSAND SIX HUNDRED SEVENTY-THIRD DARK MANDALA COURT WILL COME TO ORDER, NILS X. YMIRSSON PRESIDING.”
The troll, presumably Ymirsson, stood up. Marcus tried to get a better look at him.
He was dressed in the traditional fur garb of his race, his extravagant cloak decorated with cave-pearls and gnome-gold. His nose, the pride and joy of most trolls, was almost half his height of four feet. Marcus knew the extreme length indicated that he was a member of a highborn family, as if the name of Ymirsson wasn’t enough proof of that. He carried a large staff made from the wood of a bristlecone pine.
“Good night, friends,” he said, his rich, syrupy voice easily audible. “I welcome you to the Mandala Court.”
“We are grateful for the welcome,” said the other three representatives in unison, as tradition dictated.
“Have you any statements to make before the Court commences?” Ymirsson continued.
“Nay,” they all answered in succession.
“In that case,” Ymirsson droned, “I declare the Court open.”
Marcus grew bored with the proceedings and began attempting to return his hair to black, or at least its normal color, which would at least be better than the vivid puce it had been since his whirlwind malfunctioned.
However, he had only succeeded in making it shade through the spectrum. Resigning himself to it, he hoped he could stop the spell at indigo, which would at least seem a bit more ominously respectable than puce.
However, it was not to be. Saraswati poked him in the eye with her wing, breaking his concentration halfway through green. “Listen!”
“To what?” Marcus snapped irritably, trying to revive his hair. “A fascinating discussion of the changing price of donkey cabbage and its possible cause and repercussions?”
“No, something interesting. Shh. Ymirsson’s speaking.”
Marcus made a mental note to turn his hair black again as soon as possible, then focused on the proceedings below.
“Now,” Ymirsson said, “I should like to draw your attention to an issue that greatly threatens the reputation of the Dark. This story is only one example of a larger problem. How many of you know Jotun Brig?”
Komondor and Asmodea shook their heads, but Hazel Marrowbone spoke up. “As I recall, he lent me a bushel of rampion once. An estimable troll. He keeps the third largest garden of magical plants in the known world.”
Ymirsson nodded. “Good friend of mine. Another question. How many of you know the Gruff brothers?”
Asmodea snarled, clouds of sulfur blasting out of her nostrils. “Those GOATS!! They’ve got criminal records as long and twisted as Bigg Gruff’s horns. I have a personal grudge against one of them.”
“Exactly. Grand larceny, breaking and entering, racketeering- the list goes on and on. Most famous crime family in decades. A week ago, they attacked Brig, beat him within an inch of his life, and flung him off a bridge. Then they raided his garden and ate all they could hold, burning the rest.
A family of dangerous criminals empowered by consuming magical vegetation would be bad enough, but it pales in comparison to this.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled weekend edition of the Wunsaponna Times.
“This news story,” Ymirsson said, with indignation smoldering in his eyes, “paints the Gruffs as heroes who freed the land of Carabas from an evil troll who hoarded the only food in a time of famine. Needless to say, it’s an editorial. This is only one example of a larger problem. How many of you have known of beings who were unjustly treated by the Light and then portrayed as villains by the editor of the Wunsaponna Times, Hans Grimm?”
30- Thanks for the constructive criticism, PC! Here’s my revised list of powers:
First Family: Flight. I didn’t want to have their arms be their wings, because that always annoyed me when I read When the Wind Blows and The Lake House. Maximum Ride’s concept of wings-on-backs, I think, is much more easy to visualize, and plus, what about their hands? They need hands. So, pterasaur wings on their BACK.
Second Family: Telepathy and mental suggestion.
Third Family: Stealth and biological camouflage. Sound good to you?
Fourth family: Um… Force fields? Air manipulation, etc? Sue Storm-style? Either that or shapeshifting. Naw. Air manipulation sounds good.
Right. Onto actually WRITING the story.
Hmm. Is 90,000 years plausible enough for a tiny family to evolve wings with the help of intermarriage and nuclear, um, particle-thingies in the air?
33- Well, considering that there are 6 billion humans on the planet (probably 10 billion by the time of the nuclear winter in your story), it’s possible that one of the countless mutations would give them a dominant gene for wings or wing-like appendages (one that is passed on even when combined with genes from a non-winged person). So, while it isn’t probable, it’s certainly possible. Make it 100,000 yrs, though, to be safe.
My story about Carmen and Peter (first mentioned on BIP) is evolving very nicely. It won’t ever be original, but at least it can be fun.
Carmen is a Twister, and Peter is a Creator. Together they are make the Writer, the founder of another world. They are the only two in existence, as is traditional. Unfortunately they were born in our world, and therefore cannot reach that one, no matter how hard they try. And in addition to that little problem, there’s also the Unwriter prowling that other world, trying to unwrite everything that has been written. If he succeeds, then that world, which is made entirely of the Stories that the Writer has written, will crumble, and since that world happens to be the foundation on which our world and several others rest (quite literally, actually, it’s like the ground floor of a skyscraper and all the other worlds rest on top), if it crumbles, then all the worlds on top will fall and die.
BTW, my Writer and Unwriter have nothing whatsoever to do with Kiki’s Writer and Unwriter, and the fact that they have the same names is completely coincidental and I’m too lazy to change it.
MAI MUTANT STOREH.
***
Prologue
The albatross soared over the roiling sea, confused. Where was the land? Its magnetic sensors were out of whack, and there were no recognizable features on the islands below. It was all flat.
Though the seabird didn’t realize this, the whole world’s landscape was eerily similar to the sea and archipelago below it. Mud and slag, bubbling and sloshing viscously.
The albatross’s confused directional sense led it across the sea and onto a great landmass, one of which the bird had never come across before.
It saw below it the ruins of many great cities, smoldering. It saw rivers running brow, and in its tiny bird brain, it knew something was amiss.
And it continued around the smoking world.
The albatross saw many strange things on its journey, all of which were forgotten almost immediately in its five-minute memory span. But it saw them all the same. What it saw was this: nobody. As in, no people, that is. No land-dwelling creatures, either. But, as the lone whit bird coasted over the destroyed land, company came.
Vultures.
There were about four of them, and they were circling and circling. And as the albatross soared past them, it saw three of them swoop down to the smoldering ground below and disappear from its sight.
The albatross flew on, once greeting passing brethren with a soft “cawâ€.
On and on it flew, until it reached the edge of the large continent and the ocean came into view again. And again, no longer was it deep blue-green and calm, but mud-brown and boiling.
The large bird now realized how long it had been flying, and how hungry it was. And it remembered the deep, fiery black smoke seeping into its nostrils.
The last of the albatrosses dropped silently into the sea.
Chapter One
and then there was us
Ria was confused. “But what happened after that?†she asked.
Her teacher harrumphed exasperatedly. “I just said!†he sighed. “And then there was us!â€
“But that doesn’t make any sense!†protested Ria. “We couldn’t have just… appeared, could we have?â€
Ria’s teacher’s face twisted into a sneer, and a collective gasp arose from her classmates as they anticipated the next event in this argument. “Now, little missy—â€
Ria hated being called that. She crossed her arms.
“—if you’re so curious about the history of the Family, why don’t you just run off to the Hall of Lore, then?â€
Another gasp, this time of surprise, came from the students in the classroom.
The Hall of Lore, huh? It was more of a command than a question, and Ria knew it.
“Yes, sir,†she grumbled, and got out of her seat. Walking towards the door, she looked back at her teacher and classmates, who all shared the same smirking expression.
When outside the school building, Ria breathed in the fresh air. It made her feel a little better, being outside, but she was still fuming inwardly over her teacher’s behavior. She knew that she wasn’t exactly a favorite in class, but still. No adult had a right to be so mean like that to a student.
“I thought all of the evil was washed out in the Cataclysm,†she muttered to herself as she stood on the front stoop of the schoolhouse. “The Bomb must’ve missed a few.â€
Ria looked around for a second, then realized what she had been sent out of the classroom to do.
“The Hall of Lore,†she groaned. “Ugh.â€
But she didn’t dare disobey her teacher’s orders. So she spread her wings and flew.
The steady beating of Ria’s wings calmed her a bit, and the feeling of air rushing along the skin of the wings felt good. She was cruising at about three hundred feet, and she let her instincts take over regarding her flying and turned her mind to the stupid almost-adventure before her.
Ria had never been to the Hall of Lore before, like most children her age, but she knew pretty much where it was located. Right next to the Commune. She knew that it wasn’t very well taken care of, and that hardly anybody went there these days. Nobody really wanted to know about what had happened since the Cataclysm. It had all been passed down orally in the 90,000 years since the Bomb, as they say, went BOOM.
She looked down at the beautiful landscape around and below her, and smiled slightly. The Cataclysm couldn’t ruin a thing like the Mountains, could it? They said that the shelter of these huge ranges was the reason that the Wright Family, the Family, had survived the Bomb’s explosion in the first place!
Her wings pumping at a steady pace, Ria set down lightly on the front step of the Hall of Lore within a minute. She was feeling a lot less angry at her stupid teacher Rodney and more bored at the thought of entering the musty, dusty Hall of Lore before her.
Ria’s wings folded in so she wouldn’t bump her ten-foot wingspan on the doorframe. Right now they were still a little sensitive from a chance encounter with a tall thing her mother called a “tree†a few miles from the town.
She entered the Hall of Lore, anticipation rising in her stomach.
Ria sneezed.
Chapter Two
who are they
Davi looked up at the blue Brasilian sky, hoping to see something to take his mind off of recent events. He saw nothing of interest, and sighed deeply.
“Davi, que é errado? What’s wrong?†asked his mother, coming up behind him and giving him a slight surprise.
“Nada, Mother. Nothing,†replied Davi, but he knew that it wasn’t true.
“Davi, meu filho, my son, I know that isn’t true.†His mother approached him closer. “You’re thinking of your father.†Davi’s mom gave a little sniff.
“I bet you’re thinking of him too,†said Davi quietly. “But I can’t be sure, can I?â€
His mother took Davi gently by the shoulders. “You will be able to read my mind soon, filho. The ability must develop inside you.â€
“But everyone else in my class can know thoughts!†exclaimed Davi. “I’m the only one who can’t!â€
Davi’s mother tried to embrace her son, but he pushed her away. “And stupid Ricardo can already do the suggestion! He made the teacher not give us homework last week!†Davi said angrily. He sat down on the porch and put his chin in his hands.
“Honey, I know—â€
“You don’t know anything!†shouted Davi abruptly, standing up and backing away from his shocked mamá. “You didn’t know that Papá was going to— was going to—â€
“But I couldn’t know!†protested his mother. “He would never let me read him—â€
“You could have suggested it!â€
“Suggested what, Davi?â€
“That he not jump off Corcovado!â€
“I didn’t know!â€
“Neither did I.â€
Davi’s mother was silent. She sat down on the porch and motioned for Davi to join her. He did so, reluctantly and still fuming.
“It just… bothers me that I didn’t get my abilities in time to… to…â€
***
Like? Please like. Or at least have constructive criticism.
I like it very much. I think your writing has improved considerably.
37- Thanks! But what are you comparing to?
By the time you finish reading this post, you will probably think that I am crazy. You have been warned. So here goes:
I have never been good at writing fiction. I’m really better at math and science than writing. I can write a good, solid essay, but my fiction tends to put readers to sleep after the first paragraph. The only type of creative writing that I can do is write song parodies, many of which were about spelling bees. One day, I decided that I should use these parodies for something. So my idea was to make a musical where all the songs are parodies (because I can’t write music). I have about half of the songs written so far, I’ve worked out the basic plot, and I’ve written the first 1 or 2 pages of the script (which are pretty terrible). The very basic plot is that a “popular” girl winds up coming in 2nd place in the National Spelling Bee and decides to become a “geek” in the process. If anyone’s interested, I can post a more specific plot outline.
39- Cool! But maybe you could do that for Script Frenzy, so put it on hold till April.
38- The Warrior’s Daughters mainly, but all of your writing that I’ve read. Your previous work seems a bit amateurish at times, but this one is far better. Have you thought of a title?
40 – I don’t think so. I don’t have enough time to write something in a month.
41- No. Maybe “The Fifth Family” or “Summer”. Or perhaps “Talents”. Do you have any suggestions?
I like “Summer.” Un-cheesy, and doesn’t give too much of the story away.
But it also doesn’t have much to do with the story. Or does it play a bigger role later on?
42- it is only 20,000 words.
42 – I know, but I really have very little free time. I also don’t want to submit my first real writing project to severe time pressure.
44- It’s when the story takes place for Ria and Clari, but since Chang-sun lives near the Equator, kind of, and Davi lives in the southern hemisphere, it might have to change. Maybe it’s when the story takes place for the Fifth Family (which I’ve found names for).
47- A question. The Families are scattered all over the world in isolated pockets of land that are both protected from radiation and far away enough from major cities not to feel the direct effects of the bombs. Did they explore after the radiation dissipated? If not, do they know about each other’s existence?
48- Hmmm. I think, right after the Cataclysm, they had like email and/or telephones and stuff and found out about the other Families, but then the radiation destroyed all forms of communications and they lost touch and forgot. So the info about the other families is still there, but nobody’s bothered with it since the Bomb. And yes, they did explore, but they didn’t get far because of all the ruins. And even when the Wright family developed wings and could fly over the ruins, they had since lost interest.
Oh, and a continuity question- that big mountain with the statue on it in Brazil- is there an isolated area fit for a Family near it? Because Davi’s father committed suicide off of it, which is a major turning point, so I need to know if that area would have been suitable for a Family.
Christ the Redeemer? That statue is near Rio de Janiero, if I’m correct. And Rio is a major city, so if Brazil was involved in the war, CTR would probably have been melted by the blast.
I like writing. Once I figure out the world it is set in, I am working on a fantasy story. I am having some name and plot issues though. Does anyone have an idea for a good name for a large island populated by elves, humans, bird-people, dragons, shape-shifters, fairies, and dwarves? Is that too many species?
My previous comment belonged in Books in Progress, sorry!
52- It’s no big deal. THese threads seem to be interchangeable anyways.
51- No idea. Is it connected to our world?
50- Um… the family got word of the situation and made a dugout inside the mountain? Right?
55- Might work.
It would have to be well stocked, though, to let them last until the radiation dissipated.
Could you, GAPAs, create a thread for lists and descriptions? Because it is FUN!!!
Lists and descriptions? I’m not sure what you have in mind.
58-Did you just add something to that post? Or am I just going crazy because I’ve been on MuseBlog too long tonight?
Nobody’s posted here since yesterday. Funny.
And I’m out of inspiration for PR at the moment.
60- ah, well. I am not writing anything intill the first (thats not a RRR,I need to work on those!).
54 – I’m not sure. I think they may have a portal thing, but this world is entirely different.
Are Altana and Dazon good character names?
62- I like them.
How about “Oquodoponbo” for the name of the world?
56- Well, the radiation contributed to the mutations. So they would have to be exposed.
I’ve been here before. My name used to be Arianhrod of Orkney.
I wrote this paper for my English teacher that was about The Odyssey and how Homer respected women, but not enough to break them out of their societal roles. It was really good and I backed up my thesis strongly and everything, but she still gave me a really bad grade on it because she said I had to get into the Greek mindset. And now she thinks I’m all feminist, like the 11th grade English teacher/theater director and all the freaks who are in WPG (Women’s Performance Group). Sorry, but they really are freaks. But I don’t want to be like that. I’m NOT like that and I don’t want anyone to think I am. I’m still feminist, I guess. But not like them.
ok, I’ve started on my nano edit. and I’ve found a ton of inconsistencies and i need to add a very important subplot about the parents of the zombies organizing some weird amber-alert-type thing where they all look for the kids and don’t find them and are depressed. so, yeah. lots of editing. and i’ve dropped the whole sunday school teacher edit thing in favor of my grandma’s friend (who is an english professor at michigan university) getting some graduate student to do it. but right now i’m just revising.
My writing is too prosaic. Advice?
Read writers whose writing you don’t consider prosaic, and figure out how they do what they do.
68- I shall reread the Dark Is Rising Sequence as soon as possible.
No, not the awful movie, the great book.
Writing is such an agonizing business. I have to write, but what I write seems to lack all necessary elements, so I am disgusted and give up/delete what I have written. And then I feel even worse because I never finish anything. I love writing, and I hate my writing, and I can’t *not* write, and it’s actually sort of painful.
70 (Alice)- Oh man, seconded so much.
I spent an hour redoing the first page of my NaNo and I kind of don’t hate it. Thoughts?
The Golden People
Chapter 1: The First Storm
When light hits the desert, it begins to glow. From the millions of grains of sand, there is one with its facets aligned to catch the sunlight. Then there’s another, and another and another until it seems as though everything is illuminated.
What a beautiful thing, all that, and yet all it takes is nightfall and it’s gone. You could trudge through the sand all your life without ever seeing the way your whole world lights up. After a while you’ve got sand in your teeth and skin and eyes and you’re probably glowing too. It still doesn’t matter if you don’t know it’s there.
Sometimes, in the desert, it storms. Not rain, not often, but wind blown from the lips of alien gods. Their breath whips the glittering sand into a frenzied kind of fog. It’s opaque, a menacing wall of earth so tall you can’t see the sky, and it moves. Don’t watch the desert when those outside gods are angry. It will only end badly. There’s a proverb about that, maybe, so no one’s outside. The storm coils and rushes like water that’s burst a dam, not that the people in its path would understand the simile. It stampedes over dead tents, dead caravans, covers them in sand. When the people emerge from their hiding places, they blink in the sun, blink it from their eyes and begin again.
So is the desert. Things die and life continues, and that’s probably a proverb too. They can’t help having so many sayings; they are a godless people, say outsiders, so they keep store by the accumulated wisdom and error of their ancestors. But what do the outsiders know, anyway? They call the desert harsh, just because so many of them have died in it. It is not harsh but unforgiving. People may die there, but people die everywhere. If accumulated wisdom says one thing it is this: outsiders know nothing.
I want to write a story in which the world is a lot like ours, but slightly different. Like in His Dark Materials.
71- ‘Tis good. I’d like to read more.
73 (Alice)- Thank you. I could email it to you, should you so desire.
74- Oh yes! Please!
I got up at midnight and wrote a completely random paragraph. I’ll probably be editing it soon.
76- I was already up at midnight writing.
Um…. I wrote this December 14, and I’ve had a fickle with the translation, but I’m moderately staisfied…..
She walks on the sand,
In a gown of white,
She guides the ships
with her candle light
The waves fall at her ankles,
the wind breathes through her hair
she sings her lone song
for the sea not to steal to his lair,
Will you, as I stand on the shore,
will you promise to me, my love,
to come back to me ‘fore the winter gale
to return to me, my favor, my glove?
For I stand here alone, alone yet again,
waiting for you to return.
They say it’s too late, the ship has failed,
yet still my candle does burn.
As I wait in the sand, I see her pale form,
transparent in the eerie glow,
her crown of candles burning bright,
her feet leave no prints, no wind does blow.
Come home to me again,
I carry no grudge, only candle-light,
I lift my song of the queen of flame,
and pray the sea holds you not in its might.
She walks on the sand,
In a white gown of long
She guides the ships
with her pleading song
Sankta Lucia! Sankta Lucia.
Ok…. Um,here’s the traditional dansih song….
Nu bæres lyset frem
stolt på din krone.
Rundt om i hus og hjem
sangen skal tone.
Nu på Lucia-dag
hilser vort vennelag
Sankta Lucia, Sankta Lucia.
Her ved vor ønskefest
sangen skal klinge.
Gaver til hver en gæst
glad vil du bringe.
Skænk os af lykkens væld
lige til livets kvæld,
Sankta Lucia, Sankta Lucia.
And now I’ll translate that…..
Now bares the light forward
proud on your crown.
Around in house and home
the song must sound.
Now on Lucia-day
greets our friendcall
Sankta Lucia, Sankta Lucia
Here with our wishing-gathering
the song must resound.
Gifts to every guest
happily you’ll bring.
Give to us of luck’s gifts,
right to life’s end.
Sankta Lucia, Sankta Lucia
74- Me too, please. I really liked that paragraph, great imagery.
Cool idea, Kiki. The the flying family being named “Wright” was subtley funny.
I am writing a story called Conspiracy Wars. It is a parody version of the Star Wars Original Trilogy, but it’s set on Earth in the near future, and about space exploration and scientific skepticism.
I liked it because I could combine two of my biggest interests- Star Wars and real space!
80- “Wright?” Hey, I didn’t catch that! Cool!
wow, haven’t checked this thread out in a loooong time. looks like nobody has, judging by the last post’s date….
Anyway, this is what i did instead of taking math notes. could be a book in progress, if i find some reason to actually write it (another boring math class, perhaps?)
She did not want to die.
The primary reason for this was probably subconcious. It was in her nature, one of her basic instincts to try to survive at least long enough to reproduce.
Her second reason for not wanting to die involved her preconceived stereotypes of the kinds of people who died on a typical deathday. The most obvious thing that these people shared in common (apart from their impending death) was their age. They all tended to be older. She was young, too young (as she screamed wildly at her captors from within her circle of dry logs) to die.
Young people do, of course, die, and perhaps more often than most people think. A stereotype about those who die young is that they are rash, reckless, rebellious, and irresponsible youths who made the wrong choices in life. This is not necessarily true either. For instance, the wild, disheveled figure in the circle was generally thought to be a quiet, law-abiding, friendly kind of girl. She was always helpful and polite, did what she was told, went out of her way to make life easier for those around her, and would normally be the last person you would suspect of committing any crime heinous enough to draw attention from the Wizards, or indeed, even any kind of crime at all.
82- I like that.
82- Interesting.
16- Is it our comic project?
Inspired by kiwimuncher’s questions on The Polling Place, I have begun a series of short stories about transformation. The first one is about a girl whose brother turns into a fish.
Here is something from DNA. if you don’t know who DNA is, You need to look at the Button left of the search box to find a reference to a book by him. (Hint, hint)
How should prospective writers go about becoming an author?
First of all, realise that it’s very hard, and that writing is a gruelling and lonely business and, unless you are extremely lucky, badly paid as well. You had better really, really, really want to do it. Next you have to write something. Unless you are committed to novel writing exclusively, I suggest that you start out writing for radio. It’s still a relatively easy medium to get into because it pays so badly. But it is a great medium for writers because it relies so much on the imagination. You will learn a tremendous amount from it, and maybe get some useful exposure.
What qualities are needed by an author?
A determination to keep at it.
82- that sounds cool and I can’t wait for more
Hi guys, heehee I’ve been so busy I haven’t visited in months but I started a new story recently.
Jef was an average guy who died in a car crash on his twentieth birthday. A driver fell asleep at the wheel of his U-Haul and Jeff was killed instantly. The driver got off without a scratch. Jeff figured that when he died, his body would be six feet under and his soul up in heaven. What he didn’t know was that there were ways back.
I don’t think I’m really a writer.
I want to be a writer, so badly. But if I truly loved to write, I wouldn’t make excuses.
“I’m too busy.”
“I just can’t write anything good!”
“I don’t have any inspiration.”
“I’ll just check MB first.”
It’s a very difficult truth to face. I’ve been a writer for years…is it possibly that I’m not one anymore?
89-na, thats normal.
89-Hey, don’t give up if you like writing! I never did, even when I didn’t have the time. It’s great fun once you get used to it.
I want to post my novel, but I’m too embarrased and it probably would clog up the whole site.
(89) Alice, I love to paint more than almost anything in the world, and I definitely consider myself an artist, but making excuses not to paint is something I do on a regular basis. In fact, I’m in one of those phases right now, in part because I’m afraid the next painting in the series won’t live up to the previous one. In some ways, the better I get, the more anxious I become, because my expectations grow higher.
The best remedy I know is just to plug away at it. To write or paint straight through the uninspired, this-is-nothing-but-crap moments. If you wait around for inspiration, you won’t develop the skills and discipline it takes to make the most of those rare, glorious moments when inspiration does alight
89- If you care about whether or not you’re a writer, you’re still a writer. If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t be.
89) Alice! You’re an awesome writer! Don’t give up! I know, I feel like that all the time about various things. You’ve just gotta bite the bullet and get through it and you’ll feel better about it afterward!
You are most certainly a writer!
91) I would say that you should go ahead and post parts of it and to not be embarrassed. But I feel exactly the same way as you do. So I can’t talk.
89 – Alice, are you kidding me? You not being a writer is like Koko not pwning! It just isn’t possible. Seriously! Sometimes you feel like you’re just slogging along (with anything, not just writing), but it’s always worth it in the end when it turns out like you think it should.
95- You’re right, it’s not possible. You’ll note that my writing hiatuses never last longer than two months. I did give up a couple months ago, but then I was stranded in the country with nothing to read, so I started again.