Writing, v. 2006.4

A clean slate for your prose. Write on, MuseBloggers.

Date: July 15, 2006

Author: Rosanne Spector (Administrator)

Categories: Fiction, poetry, and fanfiction

Comments RSS TrackBack 106 comments

1

Darth Yoda

in July 15th, 2006 @ 07:01

awesome

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Kororra

in July 15th, 2006 @ 08:37

Ode to the new Writing

-I don’t know how to write odes and my poetry is horrible aaaagh!-

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3

penguini

in July 15th, 2006 @ 08:37

Anyway, good idea!

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4

Darth Yoda

in July 15th, 2006 @ 10:33

3 first posts in a week!

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5

elassÃ«~adael

in July 15th, 2006 @ 11:19

The first thing noticed about this room is its octagonal shape. It seems to give an air of mystery to the chamber saying that knowledge will enchant you here. The bookshelves surround you giving a feeling of power and importance. As you look up at the ceiling you realize that it is painted to look like the night sky. A plush deep blue carpet surrounds your feet in warmth as you continue to explore the titles on the shelves. Some are old and crumbling, worn with use yet others are shining with a gleam of new-waiting-to-be-used ready to delight many readers to come. The shelves themselves are dark and imposing yet beautiful. Carvings of weaving vines arch over the tops of the shelves.

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6

Rosanne Spector (Administrator)

in July 15th, 2006 @ 12:24

Where’s that library, elassÃ«~adael? I want to go there.

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7

elassÃ«~adael

in July 15th, 2006 @ 14:02

6- My imagination^_^

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8

elassÃ«~adael

in July 15th, 2006 @ 14:03

She sat in the room and stared at the maps cloaking the bare white walls, bookshelves lining what was not covered by maps and thought of the ideas she had never seen, the places she had never been to. She had read many of the books, yet there were so many others and the ones she saw reminded her of that. The maps, though some were of places she had been too many times, reminded her of all the places she had not set foot in. She wished that she could see everything and it hurt her to know that she couldn’t. She walked to the window and looked out onto the tree-lined street and sighed. The orange leaves descending from the trees echoed her feelings exactly. As soon as the reach their peak of color, they fall.

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9

100% cotton

in July 15th, 2006 @ 17:52

Giacomo sipped a coffee and perused the newspaper someone had left on his table. It wasn’t that interesting, really. Hoever, and ad caught his eye. It read:

Wanted: An individual with a sense of adventure, a reasonable amount of courage and a considerable amount of common sense. For detalis please visit
13, Cherrywood Place, East Hill

He ragearded it for a moment, considering. He hadn’t had a job in awhile, and he needed money to pay the rent. On the other hand, he was really getting to old for that sort of thing… Giacomofolded up the paper. He’d think about it. The coffee was running out and he was delaying buying another cup. He fished in his pocket and procured a small paperback. It was a condensed anthology of the poet Garner, and one of Giacomo’s favorite books. He happily lost himself in it until the waitress appeared to ask whether he’d be wanting anything else in a meaningful tone that suggested he clear out if he
didn’t. Grudgingly he handed over the nessecary coins for another cup. By the time he’d finished with it the light was fading and the cafe had filled with young couples. He realized it was a live music night and decided it was time to leave. Shrugging his large, tattered coat over his shoulders he limped off, shivering a little. Autumn was coming quickly this year.

~more later~

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10

defcon pilot

in July 15th, 2006 @ 20:37

Interesting. However, my antidote for boredom is I-Am-Bored.com. =Ï¸

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11

defcon pilot

in July 15th, 2006 @ 21:03

BTW, “awhile” in this case should be written as “a while”. Just a friendly reminder from your neighborhood grammer Nazi. =P

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12

Kuai Zi Angel Pentatonikk

in July 16th, 2006 @ 00:32

1 (DY)- No! No! No! I am allergic to post-grubbing, and now I shall have to ask Axa to sic Gary on you. Don’t say you weren’t warned.

Seriously, though, one-word posts just to be first are not cool, and they’re not special, and they need to stop. Now.

Thank you for making this thread, OEADs! Now, to poke Phoenix… I’d post some of my prosey works, but my current project, a short story entitled “Wallflower”, is nearing completion, and I’ll post it then for opinions. I’m submitting it to a contest, and help would be gratly appreciated.

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13

Ruffled Grouse????

in July 16th, 2006 @ 06:15

I submitted a piece of writing to a contest, and I won first place and $50!! I was bouncing off the walls for a week!

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14

Silver Dragon, formerly Dragonsrock828

in July 16th, 2006 @ 14:17

I love writing, but I can’t get past the first page. It drives me INSANE.

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15

seamonster

in July 16th, 2006 @ 14:44

14- same here.

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16

Axa

in July 16th, 2006 @ 21:23

Gary is displeased. And when Gary is displeased I lose facial appendages. Such as my ears, or eyes. I mean eye, now. -sigh-

I’m in the process of writing a nice Naruto fanfiction. But since I feel like posting something other than transcribed threats, here’s something from my FF.net account. Nice little drabble.

Heir

They call him a genius.

And they say these words with narrowed eyes, red eyes- their own they shun to such an extent, while simultaneously coaxing him and bathing him in the golden light of praise. For in this clan perfection is the norm- and he rises above it, powerful in his ascent. And they fear him- how they fear him! But he is just a boy yet, just a child, the heir of theirs. They calm with these words, deluded from all previous delusions by a new lie.

He grows, from student to captain in a seemingly blink of an eye- ranks are watery steps that splash away and evaporate into the bright sky. That same sky he sees each days as he walks home, a small shadow of himself following, thinking he cannot see it. And the boy will give himself a small smile- but the world doesn’t know the authenticity of that. They do no know his reality.

And sometimes the sky is black when he walks home, dotted with stars that he has always noticed, where others did not. And the great moon he gazes upon, when others were too busy in their fortresses of business and lineage and nobility. And he feels the great wind upon his face, they sound of a cicada before is drifts away, the touch of rain as it begins to fall. The boy notices it all because he is searching for something, and one day he will find it. He will find his solace in actions, not words. The moon will bleed red for Itachi, the stars will shatter and die, and all things will come to a screaming, terrifying, delicious halt.

Because you see, he is a genius.

Written for Itachi-sama’s birthday. ♥ Mwah.

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17

Sweet Melpomene

in July 17th, 2006 @ 11:49

14- Same here. So I mostly stick to poetry.

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18

Kuai Zi Angel Pentatonikk

in July 17th, 2006 @ 23:41

16 (Axa)- Ooh, shiny. As I’ve probably said before, I really need to start reading Naruto but haven’t ever gotten around to it. And I still love your fanworks. Beautiful imagery. *claps appreciatively* I wanna read more. What’s your username? (Three guesses as to mine. And the first two don’t count.)

Eh, now that we’re doing fanfiction, I could post a part of IWMMS (current LotR fanfic project) or one of my many over-angsty oneshots. But I’ll spare you for now because I’m lazy. I’m so nice…

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19

Axa

in July 18th, 2006 @ 01:55

Teehee, right now it’s (I’m hoping this isn’t zapped, as it would make me a hypocrite- more so than I already am) Mariko-kohai. Just search under Mariko, you’ll find it.

I’d like to see that! LotR owns it.

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20

Robert Coontz (Administrator)

in July 18th, 2006 @ 04:00

We can’t police the whole Web, just our corner of it.

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21

Jadestone

in July 18th, 2006 @ 07:38

I write stories… I had a thread way back that I posted them on. Mebbe I’ll post the link here later for those who are interested.

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22

Kuai Zi Angel Pentatonikk

in July 18th, 2006 @ 17:50

Here’s that piece I keep talking about submitting to a contest. Opinions?

Wallflower

She was sewing her wedding dress. It hung, draped in lace, on a dressmakerâ€™s dummy in her tiny, cramped apartment. Sometimes, she would frame it with flowers. They were always white.

He was an artist, or so he said. He cut pictures of people out of magazines and stuck them to his wall with red thumbtacks. They were everywhere: staring down at him and whatever visitors he had. He had grown so used to their presence that he often thought they were alive, that they were flesh and blood and had real eyes that followed him always.

I was one of those visitors. I think I hung somewhere on his walls, a pin stuck through my paper head, but he would never tell me where I was. Instead, he would make coffee for us and turn the subject away to books, or movies, or politics. I took my coffee with cream; he liked his black. For some of these meetings, I would bring him a celebrity magazine I had just bought down on the street at one of those little newsstands. He would thank me, and go to get his scissors. Some of his wall people were stained brown from where heâ€™d spilled; he cut while he drank.

The flowers she put around her dress wilted quickly, but she left them there to fade while the gown remained the same. Only when she felt like working on it again did she take them down reverently and put them, dead though they were, in a glass vase. Then she would bring out her needle and ivory thread and boxes and boxes of lace: she never used a machine. I would take her lace like I took him magazines. It was not her way to be grateful, but she always laid it carefully in a box with her slim, pale hands. Every bit of lace on the dress was different when I came close enough to see it. Occasionally, I would see one of my strips sewn with tiny, precise stitches to a hem or a ruffle. Since she never left the apartment, I wondered how she got the thread, lace, and silk that I didnâ€™t bring her. When I asked, she, like he, would change the subject. She made tea because she refused to drink coffee.

I went up to her once, carrying my latest purchase from the fabric store in my left hand. She answered the door without a shirt and with red-topped pins between her pale lips. I could see all her ribs, and the tiny bumps where sheâ€™d cut the lace off her bra with fabric scissors clearly. The bags under her eyes said that sheâ€™d been working late into the night again; beyond her head I saw the wedding dress draped out on a table where sheâ€™d left it and a bouquet of calla lilies drooping over the sides of a blue glass vase.

â€œAre you dying?â€ I asked. She took the lace from my hand and went to put the teakettle on.

After sheâ€™d gotten a faded cotton shirt from inside her fabric-stuffed bureau, I took her picture. She had a chipped mug of tea held in her hands and a dreamy, otherworldly expression on her gaunt face. In the picture, she wasnâ€™t looking at the camera, but off to the side at her dress. I went to photograph that, too, but she put down her tea and grabbed my wrist; she wouldnâ€™t let go. Her long fingers reached all the way around, like claws, and I could feel the pricks and calluses from sewing for so long. Only when I let go of my camera did she release me, and motion for me to drink.

I had meant for the photo to be for me, to remember her, but when I stuck it to the wall above my head with a red thumbtack, I printed another copy.

I rang his doorbell with her picture in my hand. He let me in; he had tacks held awkwardly in his mouth. I pressed it into his fingers, crumpling it because his hand didnâ€™t open all the way. Startled at the sudden touch of paper, he looked down and saw her, gazing up at him from between cage-like fingers. He let them curl back, until she sat, battered but free, on his palm.

No words were needed. Her face soon filled a small open patch of wall, joining the multitude. I knew that the next time I came, I wouldnâ€™t be able to find her among all the people hanging there. Even she would melt in, becoming just another face in the crowd. I pulled out my camera to capture her, but he, too, stopped me.

â€œThis is my life,â€ he said, gesturing at the wall. â€œNot until itâ€™s done.â€ I wasnâ€™t sure whether he meant his life or his work. Perhaps the terms were interchangeable.

There were new flowers the next time I visited her. These were Easter lilies, and they were still fresh. They stood behind the dummy, but the gown was absent. She was at work on it, taking it in to fit her now that sheâ€™d gotten so much thinner. It was odd that she should have flowers up when she was sewing, but I paid them little attention. I figured that she had a reason.

He had a flower in a vase. It was an Easter lily.

On his wall, I could still see the photo Iâ€™d taken of her. Next to it, I found at last my own face. It looked odd, different from the person I saw in the mirror. My features had remained the same, but there was a sort of weariness, a sense of being overwhelmed, that was absent in the older picture. I wondered what had changed me.

He poured us coffee, and we sat down at his battered kitchen table. I saw a bit of her in him, the same huge dark circles under his eyes, the way his shirt seemed to be draped on a hanger rather than a real person, the way his eyes seemed to be focused on something beyond what I could see. I took his picture.

They hung together, looking down at me when I was in bed. It was comforting to think that I was never alone. Still, I wasnâ€™t him: I never thought they were real. The photos were flat, saying nothing about the people in the lens; they seemed like people caught in the middle of their lives, not the end.

Flowers kept appearing, and she no longer took them down. The area around her dress became a sort of beautiful, white clutter. Dry petals fluttered to the ground, like snow before all the cars drive through it. When she went to take the dress off the dummy, she always reached over the fallen petals and leaves, careful not to disturb them. They looked like autumn, white instead of red. To me, autumn had always seemed the season of the dying; it was appropriate for the situation. It was summer outside the apartment.

More pictures of her sprouted out of his wall. I could hardly miss seeing her if I tried. He took to lighting candles and incense and cigarettes, watching flowers of smoke bloom out of their tips. The wall people watched him with fear, he said. They didnâ€™t like fire; it would eat them and claw at them until they never existed. He kept burning things anyway. Fire was, in its own way, its own kind of autumn: all orange and shaped like a maple leaf, brilliant and dancing and ephemeral.

It was August when I saw her wearing the dress. It fit perfectly, accentuating her tiny waist and long arms.

â€œIs it done?â€ I asked, not sure if this was a good thing or not.

â€œI need a veil,â€ she said. Her voice was soft and whispery, cracking from lack of use. â€œI cannot be married without a veil.â€

I nodded in silent agreement, although I thought anything other than her face would detract from the perfection of the dress. It was hers, after all: her decision, her outfit, her wedding.

I found a veil for her, one that had been my grandmotherâ€™s. She gave it to me for when I got married, but it had never touched my hair. The lace was simple, just a border on a beautiful white net, stained cream with age. As usual, she did not thank me, only put it in her hair with a bone comb. She looked like an angel, or a ghost maybe, but not a woman. I had never noticed that she was beautiful before.

That night, I saw flowers in my dreams.

That morning, he was dead. I went to his house carrying a picture of her in her wedding gown, and found it wasnâ€™t there. The flame from a candle had caught on the edge of a picture and spread all around the house before he could do anything about it, the police told me. They let me go look at the ashes and ruins. I let them run through my fingers, falling like white petals. I wondered if the wall people had been scared of the fire. I wondered if it had hurt to slowly burn to death and watch red flowers dance and die around you. I wondered which ashes were his, and which were from her pictures, and which were from mine. Dust settled in my hand; I didnâ€™t bother to brush it off. It was in the shape of a flower.

I had to tell her the news, that she wouldnâ€™t have a chance to wear her wedding dress, so I left for her apartment. It was still standing, and the light in her window was on. Her doorbell rang, but I was not aware of pressing it. She didnâ€™t come to answer it. I twisted the knob; the door was unlocked.

She sat inside, in the center of the circle of petals where the dummy had stood. Her eyes were closed, her face half-hidden behind my grandmotherâ€™s veil. She had fallen asleep like that, with the dress still on and the fabric falling around her like a huge white flower. It was not until I was nearly stepping in the petals that I realized she wasnâ€™t breathing.

I brushed my palm across her cold lips, letting the grey blossom smear. He was with her now, or a part of him was. My part had always been bringing them together. Tears spotted the silk and lace she was wearing. It took minutes before I knew that they were mine.

I gathered the old flowers in my arms and pinned them to my wall with red thumbtacks.

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23

Panda

in July 18th, 2006 @ 18:01

I don’t really know what’s going on right now. But hi anyways.

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24

Anata~ChinTsu

in July 18th, 2006 @ 20:34

Yes. Zap the one-word postes in memory of MG.
Here’s a little story I wrote in 6th grade for English. It needs some work, but I thought I might get some opinions first.

The Blue Pen

Part 1 Meg

â€œNow Megâ€, the principal said, â€œI am surprised why a respectful student such as you would do such a thing.â€
I hardly listened. This was the first office referral I had gotten in . . . no, I had never gotten an office referral. Today was a very bad day; it had all started with that piece of cloth.

Part 2 Flashback

â€œDo you know where this came from?â€ Lisa asked.
I looked at the red and white scrap of windbreaker-like material she was holding. It didnâ€™t look familiar. I shrugged.
â€œDunno. You can keep it if you want.â€
Lisa stared at the scrap for a few seconds before tucking it in her pocket.

* * *
I franticly shuffled through my papers. I just couldnâ€™t be mine, it just couldnâ€™t!
â€œMeg, did you do this?â€
It was Mrs. Rodjers, my math teacher. She was holding my homework paper, or what used to be my homework paper. Someone (who was not me) had scribbled over my answers and written This is stupid stuff! in a very convincing imitation of my handwriting.
â€œNo Mrs. Rodjers.â€
â€œPerhaps you do not understand the question. Did you do this?â€
â€œNo Mrs. Rodjers. At least not the scribbling and writing.â€
She did not look convinced. Her eyebrows were dipped down and her eyes seemed to stare right through me. Her lips were set in a thin line. I was in trouble.

Part 3 Investigation

â€œWhatâ€™s wrong?â€ Lisa asked on the way to computers.
â€œNothing.â€
Lisaâ€™s long mouse brown hair swished around as she turned to face me.
â€œMegan Johnson. Do not try to hide anything from me. Iâ€™m your best friend and I know what youâ€™re thinking anyway.â€
I sighed. â€œOh all right. Iâ€™ll tell you.â€
Before I knew it, the whole story had come out.
Lisa scratched her head. â€œThe question is: Who did it?â€
I rolled my eyes. â€œThink. Whoâ€™s my worst enemy, the one person who would risk anything and everything to get me kicked out of 6th grade math?â€
â€œBruce?â€
â€œYup.â€
â€œWell, weâ€™d better start somewhere, and I know just the person who might be able to help.â€

Part 4 Lisa

â€œOw!â€
â€œIdiot.â€ I muttered, massaging my sore foot as Bruce ran down the hallway, laughing.
No wonder Meg thought he did it.
Wait. Something looked familiar about his pants. I pulled the scrap of cloth out of my pocket. Yes! It was the same pattern as Bruceâ€™s windbreaker pants. Still it wasnâ€™t exactly proof. There were plenty of boys who wore red and white windbreaker pants.

* * *

After class, Mr. Kirbyâ€™s room was strangely quiet. The only sounds were the low hum of the air conditioner and the shuffling of paper. The desks were lined up in neat rows, their wooden tops polished to a shine. A delicious smell wafted from the cafeteria. I took a deep breath. We must be having ham and cheese for lunch.
â€œYes, Lisa.â€
Mr. Kirbyâ€™s calm voice cut through the silence.
â€œOh. Mr. Kirby! I need your help with some thing for LA.
â€œWhat? Youâ€™d do better to ask your mom, Iâ€™m a math teacher.â€
â€œWell itâ€™s a mystery, and since math relates to problem solving, I thought you could help.â€
â€œAll right. Tell me this mystery.â€
â€œSo there is this girl name uh-Gem. And someone has been sabotaging her homework. She knows it was probably her worst enemy but she doesnâ€™t have enough evidence to prove it.â€
Mr. Kirby looked thoughtfully at the ceiling for a moment before replying, â€œThis homework sabotager is likely to strike again. So Gem should put something on or around her homework to expose a clue the culprit might leave behind, such as a fingerprint.â€
Perfect. We each had been given a chart of our classâ€™s fingerprints in LA. Bruce just happened to be in my class.
â€œThanks Mr. Kirby!â€ I yelled, skipping down the hall. I was so late for science.

Part 5 Answers

â€œIt was him! It was him!â€
Lisa almost ran into me in her excitement. After she calmed down, she thrust a piece of notebook paper at me. Sure enough, there was a fingerprint on the homework Bruce thought he had ruined. (I had made a copy to save my skin.)
â€œBruceâ€™s?â€
â€œYes, Bruceâ€™s, but thatâ€™s not allâ€, Lisa said, pulling a piece of plain white paper out of her binder.
â€œI taped this in front of our locker. When Bruce stepped on it his shoe left a print.â€
â€œYou sure this is enough evidence?â€
â€œJust wait.â€
Lisa put a blue pen into my hand. On it was monogrammed Bruce C.
I seemed like enough. Suddenly I remembered something.
â€œLook at this.â€ I said, handing a note to Lisa, â€œBruce gave it to me before I got sent to the office.â€
She frowned. â€œReally? This looks like your handwriting.â€
â€œExactly.â€
We both grinned. Case closed.

Part 6 Bruce

Bruce reached his hand into Megâ€™s backpack. Soon heâ€™d get her, that nerd, that teacherâ€™s pet. Well she wasnâ€™t that any more.
â€œWhat are you doing?â€
Bruce spun around.
Standing behind him, arms crossed, was Mr. Kirby.

Yes, I know it’s cheesy, bear with me please.

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25

100% cotton

in July 18th, 2006 @ 21:17

22- definitley submit it.

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26

Ruffled Grouse

in July 19th, 2006 @ 06:02

22-It’s great-a little confusing-but great!!
24-It’s really lighthearted and satisfying at the end. I like it!

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27

Jadestone

in July 19th, 2006 @ 13:30

22- Luved it.

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28

kiki_the_great

in July 20th, 2006 @ 16:58

Okay, I’m writing a very coolio sci-fi story. If I show you the plot, will you give me some ideas? I’m not completely sure about it yet. And will you give me a name for it?

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Kuai Zi Angel Pentatonikk

in July 20th, 2006 @ 17:26

28 (kiki)- Depends if we can think of any. But sure, I’d like to read it.

24 (Anata)- Looks nice and fluffy, but you could lengthen your chapters/parts, I think.

Thank you to everyone who liked ‘Wallflower’; I submitted it. Now all I have to do is wait for feedback. I shall keep you posted.

OMG WERE IZ PHOENIX?!!!!!11!ELEVENTYONE!!

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30

kiki_the_great

in July 20th, 2006 @ 18:18

Unnamed Scifi Story Plot

Once upon a time, on a planet in a far off galaxy called Calandia, there are these humanoid beings called Calanos. They act like humans, and they interact like humans, but their skin is a color that denotes their status and class on Calandia. There is this middle class blue couple called the Casans, and Mrs Casan is pregnant. She has her baby, but it is not a color at all. It is a mottled blue-green, and that isn’t even the real skin color of the baby who’s name is Karana. Over the course of a week, the blue-green flakes off to reveal the human skin color, unknown to Calanos. The Casans shun the baby, and leave her on the street. Mrs. Casan gets pregnant again, Karana forgotten. On the street, a group of ninjas pick Karana up and train her as one of their own.

The question is, what happens after that? it has to involve a dragon and a king.

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31

Sweet Melpomene

in July 20th, 2006 @ 20:14

22- Love it. A bit eerie, but very beautiful! Goode luck.

30- Hmm…will think on it.

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32

Kuai Zi Angel Pentatonikk

in July 21st, 2006 @ 01:01

30 (kiki)- First off: This could be a very interesting story, involving all sorts of racism and other fun stuff. I’m looking forward to reading whatever plot you come up with.

And now for the crit and ideas. Fasten your seatbelts, everyone, this could take a while. (Or not, because it’s very late and I’m tired.)

1. The ninjas. It may be just me, but I don’t really like the idea of ninjas out of Japan. You can take the idea of ninjas, and you can have them dress and act very similar to ninjas, but don’t call them ninjas if they’re not in Japan. On the same token, if they’re not going by ‘ninjas’, you shouldn’t have them act too much like ninjas. It will set off a little ‘ninja bell’, as it were, in your readers’ minds, like you just lifted the idea of ninjas and gave them a new name.

2. The skin colour. What exactly is ‘human skin colour’? It could be any number of things, from nearly white to nearly black.

3. I think the Casans’ new child could make for an extremely interesting plot point. Perhaps his/her parents let something slip about a sister, and the kid goes looking for her? Dunno. Could be interesting.

4. The dragon. FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS SHINY, MAKE IT A CLOCKWORK DRAGON. Or don’t. I just really wanna see one of those, because it would be breath-takingly spiffy.

5. The king. No ideas on this one, sorry.

Well, that wasn’t so bad, was it? I hope I wasn’t too snarky for you.

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33

kiki_the_great

in July 21st, 2006 @ 15:45

32- Okay. From henceforth on, the ninjas will be called Vedukos.
About the skin color, both white and black are class rankings, so I was thinking her skin color should be like a hispanic color.I like the sister idea.

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34

Jadestone

in July 21st, 2006 @ 19:02

I think a clockwork dragon would be really cool. Hmmm… does it have to be called a king? Or, beter yet, whhat type of king? Could King be someone’s name? Because I don’t think the rulurs on a far away planet would be ccalled kings, like on earth.

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35

Silver Dragon, formerly Dragonsrock828

in July 21st, 2006 @ 19:41

CLOCKWORK DRAGON!?!?!? I beg thy pardon.

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36

kiki_the_great

in July 21st, 2006 @ 20:21

Um, sure, he could be a Mosor.

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37

Axa

in July 22nd, 2006 @ 03:15

(29) I hope it does well, Penty, I really liked it.

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38

Ruffled Grouse

in July 23rd, 2006 @ 05:35

The ruling class could be purple, and the opressed class could be yellow.

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39

K. Z. A. Penty

in July 23rd, 2006 @ 09:36

35 (SD)- What’s wrong with clockwork dragons? ‘Twould be mighty spiffy, in my opinion.

38 (RG)- Or you could make it much more complicated, like the Indian caste system, with different colours representing all sorts of different jobs. It’s up to you, and how much world-building you’re willing to do.

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40

Dragon Eye

in July 30th, 2006 @ 15:52

Pardon my ignorance, but what’s a clock work dragon. here is one of my stories.

Jasmine looked up into the velvety night sky, dotted with shimmering stars, each one dancing like small rays of hope. She sighed as she watched one of the apple blossems spiral down and land gently an the grass before her. It rested there, a small bit of beauty in the dark world. But as Jasmine watched it was blown away and swollowed up into the dark night. above her more blossoms fell but not one touched the ground before it was swept away.
to be continued

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41

Zallie

in July 30th, 2006 @ 17:38

I should be writing more. Most of my writing these days is in RPG form.

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42

bartleby the rat creature

in July 30th, 2006 @ 19:11

If calanos’ social ranks are determined by the color of their skin, then what color is the skin of the Vedukos/ninjas?

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43

Dragon Eye

in August 1st, 2006 @ 11:40

I think the ninja’s should have navy blue skin or really dark purple.

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44

Dragon Eye

in August 1st, 2006 @ 12:25

continued from my story.

She leaned against the trunk of the tree; closed her eyes. her thoughts wandered back into her long untouched memories, wandered through days of laughter and joy, or through days of tragedy. She remembered baking bread with her mother, remembered plowing fields with mer father. And finaly, as her mind strolled through her faded past, her thought came to rest on one all too vivid memory.
It was a day much like this one. She had been sitting where she was now, her back against the apple tree. The sun had shown through the leaves, dappling the ground with it’s golden light. She had been chewing a piece of grass, while slowly stroking her dog beside her. A hawk had flown above, circling the earth in wide circles. That was when she had hearn the scream. Jasmine remembered her head snapping around toward the house, remembered grabbing her dog in fear. For as she caught sight of the house she saw that it was on fire. After that all Jasmine could remember was flames leaping, dancing. She remembered smoke and heat and running. She remembered screaming for her family, and no answer coming. And jasmine could remember some one telling her they were gone, and not believing them. And then she couldn’t remember anything else. Nothing. The apple tree and her dog were the only surviving things that reminded her of her old life. The rest was gone. Gone forever.
to be continued.

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Capricious the great and terrible

in August 2nd, 2006 @ 19:48

If you read tis short Synopsis in the front cover of a book, would you buy it?

Ahem,:

When one turns evil, the world faces tragedy and Dumbledore loses his rubber ducky, these three young heroes join forces with Jack Sparrow, Kazoo the Miniature Pooch and Alice the Massive Cat, nothing can stop this side splitting team.

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Kuai Zi Angel Pentatonikk

in August 2nd, 2006 @ 23:19

42 (DE)- A clockwork dragon is exactly what it sounds like: a dragon built out of cogs and gears and such. Whether it is sentinent or not is entirely up to the writer. In this case, that would happen to be kiki, although I have come up with a new story plot that could use it as well. Taking a break from my normal state of sitting sleep-deprived and staring at a blank screen seems to have fired up the old inspiration muscles.*

45 (Cappy)- I don’t buy fanfiction. I may have a good laugh or cry at it, but I do not buy it.

*?

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KZA Pentatonikk

in August 3rd, 2006 @ 11:22

Update on the story: I won! Well, second place, anyway. It was just a little online contest, but I’m very proud of myself anyway. I just found out yesterday, when I went to check my email, and I’m still celebrating. My self-esteem has gone majorly up. Whoo!

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100% cotton

in August 3rd, 2006 @ 20:06

yay penty!

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Axa

in August 3rd, 2006 @ 23:41

CONGRATS!!! -throws confetti around- You really deserve it, your writing is superb.

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Zallie

in August 4th, 2006 @ 11:06

That’s wonderful, Pentatonnikk! Congratulations!

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51

Sweet Melpomene

in August 4th, 2006 @ 11:46

*claps* Huzzah!

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Kuai Zi Angel Pentatonikk

in August 4th, 2006 @ 23:47

This could fit here, and it’s useful advice, so I’ve copied it from Muse How-Tos.

It started off with a statement from Prarilius Canix: “I need to know how to get a book published.”

And the responses:
From The Great Masticator:
“1. Check out the most recent copy of “Writer’s Market.” It is THE definitive work for new and old writers.
2. Get an agent. The agent should be described as representing your genre of work.
3. Send a query letter with SASE to said agent. A query letter tells the agent what type of work you have, where you can be contacted, etc. A SASE is short for a Self Addressed Stamped Envelope.
4. After you get an agent, the agent will probably help you work on getting a publisher.
5. Work on your next book!”

From Mr. Coontz (but in plain foontz):
“There are also “vanity presses” that you can pay to publish your books. They’re not expensive by adult standards nowadays, but it would come to a fair amount of baby-sitting money.”

From yours truly:
“1. Write a good book.

2. Edit it. A lot. Edit your poor baby until you think it’s the best it can be. It won’t be, but you need to get it to as close to that point as possible.

3. Give it to at least five of the most savage critics you know. These should be people who will be cruel but fair. People who will say “OMG SOOOOO GOOD PUBLISHPUBLISHPUBLISH NOW!” or on the opposite end of the spectrum, “This sucks. Go stick your head in a toilet and stop polluting the world of literature.” are not good choices.

You need someone who is willing to sit down with you (even if you’ve only ever known them on the Internet and couldn’t sit down with them because they live halfway around the country), point out both the strengths and flaws of your story, and give you possible ways to fix the flaws. It will be hard. There will be disagreements. Sometimes you’ll be right, and sometimes your beta will. But your book will get better.

4. Do your homework. Start checking publishers. Find several that you think will be good homes for your story. If you’re writing a middle-grade fantasy, you don’t want to send it to a publisher that specialises in adult mysteries. Also, unless you’re planning on getting a literary agent (which is going to be very difficult, though not impossible), you should look for houses that take unsolicited submissions. It’ll usually say something about that on their website, under a heading like “Contact Us” or “Submission Guidelines.” Make a list of the publishers you like. It’s good if you can put them in order; it’ll save you time when it comes time to submit.

5. Pick your favourite publisher and send in whatever they want, as per the guidelines. This can range from the entire manuscript to a summary to the first three chapters or so. Usually, you’ll also be asked for a cover letter, which is basically a letter describing your credentials and your story. It depends entirely on the publisher, which is why you need to read the guidelines for each house. Very few things will make you look dumber to a publisher than sending them an entire five-hundred-page manuscript when they specifically asked for the first ten thousand words. Be smart. Don’t do it.

6. If you’re religious, now is the time to pray. Now, you have to wait while the publisher reviews your submission. Depending on the house and what you sent in, this could take between weeks and months. Usually, it’ll say how long you should expect to wait on their submissions page. Eventually, you’ll get some sort of response. If you’ve been accepted, start celebrating. You did it. You deserve it.

7. But what about if you’ve been rejected? Take it well. Don’t get discouraged and say your story sucks and waste all the hard work you did. Not every work is right for every publishing house. It’s not necessarily anything to do with your writing. Simply move on to the next publisher on your list and repeat steps 6 and 7 for as long as is necessary. Doing more revision in between submissions isn’t always a bad idea either, but the important thing is to keep going. J. K. Rowling was rejected many, many times before Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone was finally accepted by Bloomsbury. Keep working. Keep plugging. Keep writing.
â€“

And there you have it. How to get a book published. in seven ridiculously hard, laborious steps. Hey, if it were easy everybody would be doing it.”

And from Rebecca Lasley (who called my words wise, squee squee happy shiny):
“Allow me to add to Penty’s wise words one comment from my favorite poetry professor. When it comes to criticism of your writing â€” assuming it’s given and received in good faith â€” he said, “accept only the advice you agree with.”

In other words, if you try to graft someone else’s vision onto your work for the wrong reasons, you’ll end up distorting your efforts and creating bigger problems. A corollary: Even when I disagree with other people’s diagnosis, I often find they may be right about the symptoms.

Another take on the same subject I read somewhere â€” be completely honest with yourself and be sure of what kind of criticism you want before you show your work to someone. Then choose a person who will provide that kind of feedback. If you really just want reassurance to keep you motivated, don’t ask the analytical critic. If you want a useful, insightful critique, don’t ask the person who will nitpick you to death.

The advice sounds obvious â€” until the moment of uncontainable excitement when you show your story to your best friend and she makes a casually cruel remark because she’s had a fight with her boyfriend and you end up crushing the pages into a back corner of your desk and swear you’ll never write another word for the rest of your life. “

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Bellatrix Lestrange

in August 8th, 2006 @ 17:13

sigh…

i love to write…

and i get all these fantastic ideas in my head…

but i can never put them down on paper in a way that really shows what i’m thinking.

it’s odd – when i get an idea, it usually comes to me either as a picture or animated, like a video clip

but i can’t draw, and i’m not a producer, so my stories tell themselves to me alone.

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Rebecca Lasley

in August 8th, 2006 @ 18:47

(53) My essays for school always shaped in my mind as elaborate abstract sculptures. Needless to say, my professors did not deem that format acceptable.

The gap between what’s in one’s head and what one can actually create can be rip-your-hair-out maddening, but it will always be there, always. I suspect it’s the interaction between the two that is essential to our creativity.

All works are translations

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Bellatrix Lestrange

in August 8th, 2006 @ 21:17

(54) wow…

i’m so glad you said that… so professionally…

you have my admiration…

and i am sooooo not being sarcastic right now…

i think that was an excellent comment you made

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Bellatrix Lestrange

in August 8th, 2006 @ 21:41

Okay. Here’s a story I started. I don’t think it’s very good, but feedback would be welcome.

—

Jik sat up and wiped a hand across his forehead. He looked around and saw, to his pleasure, that the stone floor he had been scrubbing all morning was now sparkling clean. He was in the Atrium of the Palace of Illekin on the Island of Merta. The Atrium was a beautiful room, made entirely out of marble, with colorful strips of gauzy fabric hung from wally to wall where a ceiling should have been.

Jik was one of the Moss People, as they were called, because of their green, spongy hair, very short height, and light brown skin. They dwelled in the jungles on the many islands on Karoo.

However, the Moss People were not the only race on Karoo. The Smitahs also lived on Karoo and considered themselves a royal race and better than all the others. They were quite tall, nearly twice that of the Moss People, graceful, delicate, pale sking, and silvery blond hair.

The Raten were the third race on Karoo. They were the artisans. Their hair color ranged from light brown to burgundy, were strong, sturdy, and muscular beings, and were taller than the Moss People but shorter than the Smitahs.

And so, for many years, the Smitahs lived in the palaces, the Raten worked, and Moss People stayed in their jungles, blissfully ignoring the other races. But after a while it became clear that there simply weren’t enough Ratens to do all the work themselves. Now, wih the need for another work source, the Smitahs employed some Raten to capture Moss People from their home. The little people were good workers, though they did not like to be servants and slaves. However, the people were not fighters, and contented themselves with the life set down before them.

Jik had 14 years under his belt and was fast approaching his 15th. He was on the tall side, as far as Moss People go, and, to be blunt, was skinny. He had no family but lots of friends all servants like him.

—

that’s all for now, can’t find the rest of my story…

please comment – and be as blunt as you like (and as blunt as the blog allows)

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Kuai Zi Angel Pentatonikk

in August 8th, 2006 @ 23:06

56 (BL)- All right, you said blunt. Before I get started on the story, I’d like to say that from the little you posted, it looks interesting. Don’t mistake my slightly harsh crit for ‘I hate your story’–I don’t. And if I did, I’d go out and say so.

1. *Infodump Alert* I know that in fantasy you need background, but not all thrown together just so you can get it squared away. Work the details of all that world-building you’ve been doing in subtly, so that the reader learns more but doesn’t realise it. It’s tempting to get all the necessary infornmation squared away so you can start the fun part of the writing, but it’s more pleasing to the reader if you feed stuff to them in small chunks.

2. “They were quite tall, nearly twice that of the Moss People, graceful, delicate, pale sking, and silvery blond hair.”

This sentence is awkward. I’ve tried to make the grammar work while still preserving the feel of the orignal, but I don’t know how well I succeeded. Edits are in bold.

“They were quite tall, nearly twice the height of the Moss People, as well as being graceful, delicate, pale-skinned, and had silvery blond hair.”

2b. When you’re listing attributes (something I’m not personally too fond of, by the way), watch your verbs and verb agreement. “Their hair color ranged…were…and were…” The problem here is with the subject of the sentence. You’re writing as if it were ‘they’, but it’s actually ‘color’. ‘Color…were’ doesn’t agree.

There you go. Nice blunt criticism. I hope you’ll stick around and post more of your story, and that I didn’t scare you off with my… er… help. Sorry if I came off as overly snarky. That’s me in review mode for you. Anyway, keep writing! d ^_^ b

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Bellatrix Lestrange

in August 9th, 2006 @ 11:44

thanks!

well, you’re nicer than my LA teacher last school year

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Yup

in August 9th, 2006 @ 12:00

you could also say with pale skin and silvery blond hair

i agree with Penty about the info dump, and it seems a little odd to start off with Jik cleaning the palace and the suddenly move on to a story

also i think “and, to be blunt” (6th paragraph) is to informal to go with the rest of what you’ve written.

“he had no family but lots of friends all servants llike him.” sounds a little odd, i would change it to
“He had no family but lots of friends, all servants like himself.”

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Rebecca Lasley

in August 9th, 2006 @ 14:30

Why, thanks, Bellatrix L.! It’s nice to know I said something helpful.

I’ll leave specific comments about your story to the others, except to say I do think you show good instincts by opening with an activity that establishes Jik’s station in life. You have plenty of time to explore what’s happening right now before you start doling out necessary snippets of backstory. Look around the Atrium. Why are we here in particular? Who else is lurking around? What’s about to happen?

Remember how clever your readers are, and tease them a little; make them ask questions and wonder a bit. Readers like to discover.

Sometimes you need to write the “info dump” stuff for yourself as a reference or just to get it out of your system. Everyone has her own methods. For me, the single most important thing is to write and write and write and not worry too much about logic or grammar until after I have a full first draft. My mantra is “I’ll fix that later” — which I learned only after dozens of stories and essays impaled themselves on my perfectionism.

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Robert Coontz (Administrator)

in August 9th, 2006 @ 14:50

Journalists like to say, “Show, don’t tell.” I think that motto works for fiction, too. If you can reveal something through scenery, dialogue, or action, that’s usually more effective than just telling the reader yourself.

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Kuai Zi Angel Pentatonikk

in August 9th, 2006 @ 17:17

58 (BL)- A dubious compliment, unless my instincts are mistaken.

61 (OEAD)- I knew there was something I’d forgotten. (Hey, it was late.) Bella, I was really curious about this Atrium place, like who made Jik clean the floor, and how hard it was, and what it looked like. If you started out with a description of Jik in the Atrium, you could probably work in a few details of background while you were at it. You could certainly talk about the races/classes of the world, sneaking in the details while you describe what’s going on.

Like, for example (I made up some details, too; hope that’s okay for the purpose of the demo): “Jik ran the polishing cloth across the beautiful marble floor of the Atrium in the Palace of Illiken. The building was old, very old; it was one of the oldest buildings on the island of Merta. Still, it was so well-kept by Raten and Moss servants that the ancient marble glowed as if the Atrium had been built yesterday.

“Jik was one of those servants, and he was proud of his work in the Atrium. Every time he’d finished cleaning, a little thrill of accomplishment would trickle down his spine, the room looked so much like perfection made solid. The thin, gauzy curtains seemed to flutter in silent applause, and the marble walls flashed a dazzling smile at Jik, the tired but happy servant. He wiped his brown skin with a rag; that, his spongy green hair, and his small stature marked him as one of the Moss People. His people were newly come to servitude, but Jik was good at it, regardless. Such was his lot in life, and he intended to make the best of it.”

Okay, so it’s not very good. I wrote it on the spot. Not only have I started to describe the Atrium and the world, I’ve included some (completely made-up) character traits for Jik. (Don’t use them if they don’t fit with your vision of the story and Jik.) From the paragraphs, I can tell that Jik is a good servant, has pretty good self-esteem, appreciates beauty, and is something of an optimist. He’s probably not the type to intentionally make waves or cause trouble, but his demeanor might be concealing a braver, more defiant Jik just waiting to emerge.

I was kind of ‘stuffing’ the example, though. Almost every sentence includes one of the details from your original story, which is probably not the best thing to do. But hey, I was trying to make a point, and I believe it made.

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Axa

in August 9th, 2006 @ 18:26

(56) Just adding my two cents here. ^^

“They were quite tall, nearly twice that of the Moss People, graceful, delicate, pale sking, and silvery blond hair.” As Penty said, this is an awkward sentence; it has entirely too many commas. I love commas myself, so I know how easy it is to get caught up using them. But remember that there is a mental pause for each comma, and it ends up sounding disjointed in the end.

“But after a while it became clear that there simply weren’t enough Ratens to do all the work themselves.”

The phrase “after a while” is not good to use. It gives the whole thing more of a “this is a summary of events” spin instead of the historic picture and backstory you’re trying to paint.

The idea seems intriguing though; do continue!

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Robert Coontz (Administrator)

in August 9th, 2006 @ 18:58

Hm, how might I write that sentence? O.K., here’s one GAPA’s version:
They were nearly twice as tall as the Moss People, graceful and delicate, with pale skin and silvery blond hair.

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Bellatrix Lestrange

in August 9th, 2006 @ 19:06

you peoples don’t know how grateful I am for this

it’s really sparked some great ideas, both for the opening scene and for later in the story.

still can’t find the rest of it – i wrote part in one notebook, part in another

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Bellatrix Lestrange

in August 9th, 2006 @ 19:32

Okay, while i’m looking for the rest of my story, here’s a story synopsis i started

—

First, the prologue:

Friends are few…
All are suspicious…
Evil is everywhere….
Who to trust…
Who to betray…

Welcome to Duyena,
World of Darkness.

—

Okay, there’s a girl named Skaylin and she shares her body with another being who gives her magical powers. Well, it’s almost like she’s trapped in a dream – she finds herself in a completely different world, and without the being who lives inside her. She gets informed by a nice old lady about where she is: Duyena. There is an aging king with three children: Arra, the youngest girl, about 9, who is an absolute prep; Zethra, about 15, the middle girl, who is a cruel warrior; and Emahs, about 17, who believes he is God’s gift to girls. After learning this, Skaylin is somehow chosen to be a servant of Arra.

This is where it gets kind of blurry – i haven’t quite figured it out yet. Skaylin is in the market place and is on some mission for her mistress when suddenly she spies a vendor displaying a fairy for sale. Skaylin immediately realizes that the fairy is the being who lives with her. Skaylin gets the fairy, probably by stealing it, and keeps it with her. Now she has her powers, but she keeps it a secret. But Zethra notices that somethings different about Skaylin and convinces Arra to give Skaylin to her. Zethra finds out about Skaylin’s powers and employs Skaylin as a spy on… someone…
Then Skaylin secretly begins to work for the someone…

And somehow Emahs is mixed up in this and tries to “entice” *nudge nudge* Skaylin, but she is saved somehow.

And then finally Skaylin discovers that Zethra has been plotting to revolt against the king and kill Emahs so that she can take the crown.

So yeah, that’s pretty much it.

Tell me what you think!

and i don’t blame you if you’re confused.

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Bellatrix Lestrange

in August 9th, 2006 @ 19:41

(22)

by the way, i copied Wallflower and emailed it to a few friends (with full credit to you by the way)

this was their response:

– OMG where did you get this, i almost cried!

– wow, (my name goes here), this is such a good story! did the author write anymore?

– hmmm… interesting. I especially like the way the story switches back and forth between people without introduction

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100% cotton

in August 9th, 2006 @ 20:21

66- sounds interesting.
ok, this is a story i’m working on. please critique it ruthlessly.

Chavah sat at the end of the jetty watching the sea and feeling guilty and sorry for herself when someone tapped her shoulder. She turned suprised, and found a boy of maybe sixteen watching her.

“Come on!” he cried.

“What? I-” but before she could protest he had grabbed her hand and they were racing back towards the harbor. He stopped abruptly and she nearly hit him. They were greeted by a girl who Chavah thought might be the boys sister.

“Hey.” the girl said. “you” she pointed at Chavah “Are coming with me.” Obediently, Chavah followed her to a dock where a small sailboat was waiting. Was this some sort of sick joke? she wondered as her mind reeled back on an all-to familiar track.

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Bellatrix Lestrange

in August 9th, 2006 @ 20:41

i need to read more…

it’s a bit confusing right now…

sorry, i’m not the right person to critique “ruthlessly”

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Bellatrix Lestrange

in August 9th, 2006 @ 21:12

All is silent,
Except for the voice of Death.
Hark! you can hear it calling,
Calling to you.

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Sweet Melpomene

in August 10th, 2006 @ 06:25

66- It’s great that you have the major plot points worked out…Maybe you’d want to create a fourth race, as the “someone” or a family that used to be in power but is now plotting revenge/revolution along with Zethra. And that’s how they’re getting inside information. And everyone could think that Skaylin was betraying them….until she proves them wrong in the ende. I hope that helped…

68- Um, do you have a bit more?

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100% cotton

in August 10th, 2006 @ 10:14

69/71- yeah, limited comp. time. anyhoo…

Meanwhile, the girl was stowing things in a rucksack. when she finished, she looked up expectantly. “Well, what are you waiting for? Get in!”

“Oh no.” Chavah told her. “Never again. I vowed-”

“Stop wallowing in self pity and pull yourself together, There are more important things.”

“Like what! I don’t even KNOW you!”

“My name is Cassandra and my brother, who escorted you here, is Zed. Now, get in and sail directly into the setting sun.”

“you don’t-”

“I understand perfectly well.” With that she bundled Chavah into the boat, shoved it away from the dock, and tossed the rucksack in.

And so Chavah Marie bellinger began to do one of the two things she’d sworn never to let herself do again: sail.

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Bellatrix Lestrange

in August 10th, 2006 @ 14:20

hmm…

getting better…

still confused…

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Kuai Zi Angel Pentatonikk

in August 10th, 2006 @ 16:13

66 (BL)- The idea looks good. I love all those court-intrigue plots. But remember, even an awful plot can be made into a good story with good writing, and vice versa. I don’t really critique ideas for that reason, but this one looks like it’ll be a lot of fun both to write and to read. Good luck!

67 (BL)- Aww, thanks. *blushes* That’s the entire story. It’s short, but I like it that way.

68/72 (cotton)- Hey, I have a character named Zed! >.< Anyway, there isn’t much to critique right now, since I’m still a little confused as to what’s going on, but it seems like you’re doing that deliberately. I’m not going to go all “OMG PLOTHOLE!!11!!ONETHOUSANDONEHUNDREDANDONE!” on you just yet.

1. Watch your grammar, particularly punctuation. Run your work through Word’s spell-check, which, admittedly, sucks, but it’s better than nothing. Read “Eats, Shoots, and Leaves”, by Lynne Truss. It helps. It makes you love punctuation and want to use it with the utmost of respect.

2. “Meanwhile, the girl was stowing things in a rucksack. when she finished, she looked up expectantly. ‘Well, what are you waiting for? Get in!'”
I’m not sure if ‘expectantly’ is the word you want to use here. From the characterization I’ve gotten of Cassandra, she seems like the no-nonsense type who takes it for granted that everyone will do what she says. ‘Expectantly’, to me, connotes a sort of pleading, a ‘will she or won’t she?’ rather than a ‘you are going to follow orders, whether you like it or not’. ‘Impatiently’ might be a bettwer word to use here.

3. Is there anyone else at the harbor? In most port towns, the harborfront is the busiest place in town, filled with people. Surely someone would see Chavah’s kidnapping? Or do they just not care?

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Bellatrix Lestrange

in August 10th, 2006 @ 16:57

Well, here’s another part to my story. It’s continued form (56)

_____

Just as Jik began to stand up from his task, he friend Viz entered the room. The short boy peered at the floor, looking at his reflection. Well Jik, Iâ€™ve got to give it to yeh â€“ this is the shiniest floor in de whole palace â€“ yip, that it be.â€ Viz had originally come from a different island and had a slight accent. â€œIâ€™m glad to hear that, Viz,â€ Jik replied with a smile. â€œSo, friend, how can I help you?â€ Servants could never just visit each other during their shift. â€œWeel, now, Lady Marinette fancies a chat wid yeh, that she do,â€ Viz said. In a worried tone, he added, â€œYeh dinâ€™ do anythinâ€™ wrong, did yeh?â€ â€œNo, of course not!â€ Jik exclaimed with indignation. Viz shrugged. â€œShe be wantinâ€™ yeh in de Beach Gazebo.â€ He sounded hurt as he turned to walk away. â€œHey Viz, wait! VIZ!â€ Jik shouted. Viz stopped and faced Jik. â€œThanks for the message, friend. Hey, Iâ€™ll see you tonight, right? Canâ€™t miss our evening game of Bochi Ochi, can we?â€ Vizâ€™s face broke into a huge smile. â€œAh, yiss, the ould game â€“ you bring the dice, Iâ€™ve got the cards.â€ Viz turned and walked out of the room. Jik slowly dusted himself off and walked in the direction of the Beach Gazebo, wondering worriedly what the Lady could want with him.

—

The Beach Gazebo stood out in the ocean. A long, shaded boardwalk led out to it. Jik cautiously walked out on the planks, and continued his questioning thoughts of why he was being called here, absentmindedly watching the small fish as they glided by. The cool sea breeze swept through his hair and birds peacefully soared upon the drafts, their wings spread wide with joy. Suddenly, he was brought out of his reverie by a piece of cloth. It was the entrance to the Beach Gazebo, made out of the finest silk with a color of the lightest cerulean. Jik raised his hand and knocked on the wall next to it. A silvery voice called â€œCome in.â€ The boy pushed the cloth back a crack. The inside of the Gazebo lushly decorated. A plush blue carpet covered the hexagonal room. Silk curtains of the lightest cerulean blew in the breeze coming from the two windows. On the other side of the room were two open doorways, covered in soft curtains. In the room was a large, square table with papers spread across it and quill pens and inkpots. And there, across from him, by the far side of the room, was a plain couch. And on top of the couch was Lady Marinette.
The Lady was reading a book, her eyes moving back and forth as she read the words. An icy drink was on a small, nearby table. Finally, she set her book down and looked at him. â€œCome, come, I havenâ€™t got all day.â€ Jik nervously came into the room and suddenly realized he had no idea what to do next â€“ normally, he would have remained standing, but as the Lady was laying down, she was lower than him. She noticed him confusion and said in a bored way, â€œOn the floor, Moss Boy.â€ Jik hurried to complete her command. She smiled dryly. â€œI was beginning to wonder if you had gotten lost, you took so long. Of course, you couldnâ€™t have gotten lost, youâ€™ve spent all your life in the palace, you probably know it like the back of your hand.â€ After a moment of silence, she began to speak.

__________

Well, that’s all for now. Please be blunt!

thanks

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76

Sweet Melpomene

in August 11th, 2006 @ 05:47

75- Nice. It is very interesting. I’d just put the dialogue from the first paragraph in many different paragraphs [I had fun with the punctuation(sp?), too]:

Just as Jik began to stand up from his task, his friend, Viz, entered the room. The short boy peered at the floor, looking at his reflection. “Well, Jik, Iâ€™ve got to give it to yeh â€“ this is the shiniest floor in de whole palace â€“ yip, that it be.â€ Viz had originally come from a different island and had a slight accent.

â€œIâ€™m glad to hear that, Viz,â€ Jik replied with a smile. â€œSo, friend, how can I help you?â€ Servants could never just visit each other during their shifts.

â€œWeel, now, Lady Marinette fancies a chat wid yeh, that she do,â€ Viz said. In a worried tone, he added, â€œYeh dinâ€™ do anythinâ€™ wrong, did yeh?â€

â€œNo! Of course not!â€ Jik exclaimed with indignation.

Viz shrugged. â€œShe be wantinâ€™ yeh in de Beach Gazebo.â€ He sounded hurt as he turned to walk away.

â€œHey, Viz! Wait! VIZ!â€ Jik shouted. Viz stopped and faced Jik. â€œThanks for the message, friend. Hey, Iâ€™ll see you tonight, right? Canâ€™t miss our evening game of Bochi Ochi, can we?â€

Vizâ€™s face broke into a huge smile. â€œAh, yiss, the ould game â€“ you bring the dice; Iâ€™ve got the cards.â€ Viz turned and walked out of the room. Jik slowly dusted himself off and walked in the direction of the Beach Gazebo, wondering worriedly what the Lady could want with him.

—-

Don’t have time to make suggestions for the second parte, but I’m sure someone else here will. I hope I was helpful!

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77

100% cotton

in August 12th, 2006 @ 18:08

another installment of my story:

She quickly realized several things. First, the wind and tide were perfect were she to follow Cassandra’s instructions. Second, she had little choice in the matter. The tiller simply wouldn’t turn around, although it appeared to be in good condition. Third, she was not alone. She could make out the form of a creature perched at the very tip of the mast. Unfortunately, the sail was in her way and she couldn’t make out what it was. She had thought she’d seen a pointed ear, but it could have been a trick of the light.

It was slowly beginning to dawn on her that she had n control over her destination whatsoever. Ah well, she thought despondently with any luck I’ll just drown and put an end to my miserable, unworthy life. Its gone on much to long anyways. Chavah continued in this vein of thougth for a long time. She had abandoned her attempt to steer, seeing that it was utterly useless. Finally, she was brought back to reality by the sounds of someone rumaging through the rucksack

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100% cotton

in August 13th, 2006 @ 09:55

75- “Jik cautiously walked out on the planks, and continued his questioning of why he was being called here”

This scentence sounds a little funny. I think you change tenses. I would try something like:

“Jik cautiously walked out on(to?) the plankes, still wondering about what the Lady wanted with him.”

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79

Kuai Zi Angel Pentatonikk

in August 15th, 2006 @ 00:03

Doing BL’s first, because she posted first. I’ll get around to yours eventually, cotton. And I’m not commented on things people have already said. They’re right, except cotton spelled ‘planks’ wrong.
—

1. Viz’s accent. (Also, there’s a company named Viz Media, so you might want to change his name if you wish to avoid being sued.) It may just be me, but I really don’t like it when characters are written with heavy accents. I find it kind of distracting; it makes it harder to concentrate on the actual content of the words when you’re trying to figure out what the heck they’re saying. (This is one of the reasons why I don’t like Redwall.) In my opinion, it’s enough to add a few accented words and then tell the reader: “Viz had originally come from a different island and had a slight accent.” But this is largely a matter of personal taste, so you do what feels right.

2. This pasage feels a bit odd to me, so I’m going to critique it bit by bit. Edits that don’t need explaining or reasoning are in angle brackets. (Spelling, grammar, skipped words, etc.)

-“Suddenly, he was brought out of his reverie by a piece of cloth.”
Reveries don’t usually end suddenly when they’re being disturbed by something as small and unobtrusive as a piece of cloth. And you’re using passive voice here, which can be used for good but can often be manipulated into something better. I think I’d change it to something like: ‘A piece of cloth waved in the wind, bringing him out of his reverie.’

-“It was the entrance to the Beach Gazebo, made out of the finest silk with a color of the lightest cerulean.”
Kind of awkward. Too wordy. To nitpick, the cloth isn’t the entreance, it’s covering the entrance. So, I’d revise it as: ‘It covered the entrance to the Beach Gazebo, made out of the finest silk and dyed pale cerulean.’

-“Jik raised his hand and knocked on the wall next to it. A silvery voice called[,] â€œCome in.â€ The boy pushed the cloth back a crack. The inside of the Gazebo [was] lushly decorated. A plush blue carpet covered the hexagonal room.”
Full-room carpeting? I want. That way I can bounce off the walls without fear of any injury more serious than rugburn.

I believe you can tell what I am trying to say? Watch your word choice. Rewrite, according to personal taste: ‘The inside of the Gazebo was lushly decorated. A plush blue carpet covered the hexagonal floor.’

-“Silk curtains of the lightest cerulean blew in the breeze coming from the two windows. On the other side of the room were two open doorways, covered in soft curtains.”
You’re being very repetitive here. I’m not sure if this is for artistic or unintentional reasons, but I’ll have a whack at it anyway. That’s what I’m here for.

You said ‘lightest cerulean’ very recently. Maybe a different word or phrase? Ditto for ‘curtains’. Use a thesaurus, or come up with other phrases. I don’t really have a rewrite for this section; I’m not sure how I’d fix it.

-“In the room was a large, square table with papers spread across it and quill pens and inkpots. And there, across from him, by the far side of the room, was a plain couch. And on top of the couch was Lady Marinette.”
You use the verb ‘was’ quite a lot here. I’d substitute something more vivid for it, still being careful not to sound like I’m trying too hard. ‘Sat’ and ‘stood’ are often good choices when describing the locations of objects.

The first sentence is very awkward. It sounds as if you started by talking about the papers and then remembered that there were other things on the desk as well. I’d probably change it to: ‘A clutter of papers, quill pens, and inkpots spread across a table in one of the room’s corners.’ (If it’s not in a corner, change that; I just put it because I needed a location.)

I’m not crazy about the repetion in the second and third sentences, and I’m a very repetetive writer. Here, it looks as if you’re using it for effect, but I don’t really see much effect. I think it would be more effective to say somehting like: ‘A plain couch rested agianst the far wall, affording Jik an excellent view of the person reclining on it. That person was, of course, Lady Marinette.’

-“An icy drink was on a nearby table.”
It’s the curse of ‘was’. I’m not saying never to use it, because it’s a wonderful verb, but I am saying to watch your usage. If it sounds clunky or like you need a different word, it probably is. Hmm… how I’d redo this is a toughie. How about: ‘Stationed by the couch for the Lady’s convinience was a small table, upon which perched a glass of some icy drink.’? I’m not crazy about that sentence; I find it too wordy, but it works. Sort of.

-“She noticed hi[s] confusion and said in a bored way,”
‘In a bored way’ seems somewhat verbose to me. Commas are your friends. ‘She noticed his confusion and said, obviously bored,’

-â€œ’I was beginning to wonder if you had gotten lost, you took so long. Of course, you couldnâ€™t have gotten lost, youâ€™ve spent all your life in the palace, you probably know it like the back of your hand.’â€
Mm… repeating again. I don’t think there’s a ton I can say about this bit, other than it needs work. Sorry about that. Maybe the edit will make it clearer: ‘I was beginning to wonder if you’d gotten lost, you took so long. Of course, you couldn’t have, since you’ve spent all your life in the palace and probably know it like the back of your hand.’

-After a moment of silence, she began to speak.
Speak again?

—
Whew. That took me an hour. Please say you read it all and at least considered my suggestions? I’m sorry if I was too snarky.

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80

100% cotton

in August 18th, 2006 @ 10:21

79- the 4th-to-last comment, about the icy drink, could be changed to “An icy drink waited on a nearby table” also. maybe.

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81

Bellatrix Lestrange

in August 20th, 2006 @ 18:10

(79) (80) (78) (76) – so glad you took your time! thanks – my parents are excellent writers, but they always say “Oh honey, that was great!” grrrrr…

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82

elassÃ«~adael

in August 22nd, 2006 @ 12:58

These are going to be somewhat old as I’ve been gone…

54- thank you for saying that. I especially like the phrase “all works are translations”

congratulations penty!!

“Journalists like to say, “Show, don’t tell.” I think that motto works for fiction, too. If you can reveal something through scenery, dialogue, or action, that’s usually more effective than just telling the reader yourself.” -GAPA RC post 61

my writing teachers kept telling me that and I agree completely

I have no time now, but I’d like to read and edit and if I write anything (I usually stick to poetry) I’ll post it here for editing.

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83

Axa

in August 30th, 2006 @ 12:48

Okay, here is the prolouge-ish thing for this fanfiction I’m working on. Yes fanfiction. I’m bad with making my own characters, so this is easiest for me. Concrit appriciated!
—-

The story, as all do, begins with something simple. An thinly veiled comment that it was “for the team”; in reality, the dark haired boy, the sun child’s ruin, could not bring himself to admit he was leaving the self imposed prison of isolation, even if it was just for a moment.

And the one who was born of the sun- he is forlorn in the evenings, watching the moon with an almost bewitched interest. He is infatuated with the silent mystery of the night, but such thoughts rarely stay with him in the day. For he was made for such a time; his soul is brightly colored, the true definition of vibrance. The day lives with him, and he revels in the pure feeling of sunlight on his back.

But he of the dark countenance is nothing like the day; the soft pastels of the morning never gave him much comfort, and he is content simply to wallow forevermore in a world of singular existence. It is a self inflicted punishment, like many other things in his life. But neither does the night give him solace, for it reminds him too much of past horrors and new fears that threaten his precarious way of life. In no waking moment does he have true peace, and even in dreams the world there is nothing but isolation.

They grow, it is true, from begrudged acquaintances to shaky teammates. The bond solidifies as they go through all manner of tests together- tests of courage, of shinobi, of honor. And tests of loyalty. Their eyes lose the angered tints. But still, one watches the moon at night while the other ignores the hopeful shine of a rising sun. They are opposites aching to be made similar, and this intersecting trait keeps the thin string connecting them from breaking, thickens it.

But one day another comes; he of the black soul, of the red eyes, speaking with a malice conveyed with a lilt of condescension. The Weasel, he cuts the moon from the sky and tells his kin to become something new. But he himself is but another pawn, a product of constant pressure and irritation that formed not a pearl but a black diamond; beautiful, but abnormal and frightening in his complexity and utter lack of emotion. Perhaps he wishes something else for this one he has destroyed- this brother of his- of perhaps his mind disappeared long ago, when he killed those who made him who he is.

The sun is sorry to see the moon in such a state. ‘Would you like my help?’ he asks, with fierce brightness, ready to do anything.

‘I would not’. The night jewel replies (using a tone of hatred to smother his grief), and flickers out

They clash in a dazzling display of strength and passion. But it is but a small step in the staircase that leads to the end; the wavering emotions in their hearts show clearly on their faces. Where they could have made things whole they have broken them; but it would be unlike the pair to be so constructive. And so the part ways, one bleeding but still alive beneath a murky sky, the other lost in a forest of darkest intent.

Years pass. They do not forget.

And that is where this story truly begins

—

Oy. x_x

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84

KZA Penty

in August 30th, 2006 @ 20:44

83 (Axa)- I love your writing. You know I do. ♥ This crit isn’t likely to be very good, since I have homework and there are minor problems I can’t quite put my finger on. But I’ll try, because that’s what I’m here for.

1. Watch your hyphenation. I think ‘dark-haired’, ‘self-imposed’, and ‘self-inflicted’ should all be hyphenated phrases. I’m not absolutely positive about this, but they look funny without them.

2. At times your writing style can feel a little forced and formal. Read it out loud to see what sounds odd. Your description and metaphor are excellent, but they occasionally seem like you’re trying too hard to make something fit that doesn’t. Again, this is a matter of my personal opinion, however, reading your work aloud is never a bad idea.

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85

Skalayne the LIR

in August 30th, 2006 @ 20:59

neat-o!

unfortunately, i’m not much of an editor, but i’m good at complimenting where it’s deserved!

but what’s this a fanfic of? or do I not read enough?
(don’t you dare say I don’t read enough, that’s one of the worst insults)

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86

Axa

in September 1st, 2006 @ 02:48

(84) Thank you for the input, it does help, especially the second part. I think it all needs to be a little smoother in further chapters then, hmmm….

(85) Ha, Naruto, what else? 8D Axa=Huge Naruto fan.

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87

Rebecca Lasley

in September 1st, 2006 @ 06:48

Excellent advice, Penty, about reading your work aloud. It’s so easy to skim past trouble spots when they remain shadowy murmurs inside your head.

One of my writing professors always had us read each other’s writing out loud, and I found the experience most enlightening. Hearing your words spoken by another voice immediately gives you a more objective view. Everything sounds different somehow, read by someone else. Some bits sound better, others worse. Some parts don’t even make sense, you realize, as the reader stumbles and can’t figure out how to follow a passage. Giving up the controls can be a little scary, but I always found the exercise very helpful.

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88

100% cotton

in September 9th, 2006 @ 10:36

87- oh, my gosh, that would scare me ALOT! I don’t always even let people read my writing!

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89

Rosy-Fingered Dawn (THF)

in September 10th, 2006 @ 10:18

I put basically the same thing on the poems thread, but here’s something I’m still working on and have just started:

Rosie trudged along, not caring where she was going. She had a system for almost everything, but none of it was something that people wanted her to do. She would always scuff up her shoes on the dirt and cement on her way to the bus stop. The only thing that other people noticed from what she was doing was that she made her shoes wear out faster. But they didn’t notice how she had patterns in her steps, that she was doing her own kind of tap-dancing that made a pattern in the dirt as well as with the sound. They just didn’t notice. But she did.
School was another problem. No one talked to her. Everyone thought she was something that she wasn’t. Her mom always told her that she was just as good as all of them, that she just showed her thoughts differently. Ha ha. That’s just what she thought. Her mother didn’t understand any better than the rest of them. She was different. She used to love herself, have lots of friends. But then something happened, and she became quiet. Everything in her mind changed. She saw so many patterns, knew how to orginize, but still didn’t get good grades. She just didn’t understand anything like that.
She didn’t think anything could change. Until she found the box.

I’m not exactly sure what is in “the box” or what the box is yet. I’ll figure it out.

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uni0000

in October 9th, 2006 @ 22:09

Righto, who wants to hear a creepy tortue scene? Lol, it’s from my novel, if anyone wants me to post it. I haven’t read what’s been posted here yet, but let’s see…

hmm Rosy, does she have OCD? This may seem like a random question, but with her seeing patterns and orginizing and walking with patterns, it kind of seems like it. I could be wrong, but I have mild OCD, and it just seems familiar. Besides for that, it’s a nice beginning, and the box automaticly made me think of pandora’s box, though I’m sure it’s different from that.

Axa, I’m sorry, but my first thought after reading the prolouge was, “huh?” It’s probably because I haven’t read whatever the fanfiction was based on, but also alot of the writing just went in one ear and out the other. It’s probably a matter of opinion, but I think the metaphors and similies are a bit overloaded. You are just getting one when you’re hit with another. Still, this would probably all make alot more sense if I had read the fiction this is based off.

Ugh. I am such a lazy bum. I’m too lazy to read anything else right now, plus my mum’s about to kick me off the computer. Toodles, from what I can tell, you all write better than people in my core class!

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91

100% cotton

in October 10th, 2006 @ 12:16

you guys shouls all do the nanawrimo. except nobody comes here anymore. *wails*

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uni0000

in October 11th, 2006 @ 19:39

Oh, yeah, huh. I just noticed that the last posts were in september. Aww. Now I’m sad.

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agrrrfishi

in October 12th, 2006 @ 14:27

heres a story about the evil sibinator and me, Agrrrfishi. Enjoy!

DEFEAT OF THE SIBINATOR

One beautiful rainy day in October, a happy peppy school student named Agrrrfishi skipped merrily up the lumpy gravel drive way of her house and to the back door. Supposedly, nobody was home, so she let herself in with her key. Then she sat down, and did her mind numbing homework like a good student should. After completing said homework, she rushed merrily upstairs and into the hallway that lead to the Sacred Chamber of Computers. But then, from behind a corridor corner, emerged the awful, smelly SIBINATOR!(DAH DUH DUUUUHâ€¦). He picked up Agrrrfishi by the ear with one greasy hand and shoved her in her room, locking the door. Then he whispered into the keyhole, â€œIâ€™m gettingâ€™ on the computer! MWAAAAHAHAHAHAH!â€Agrrrrfishi did not cry though. Instead she sat on her bed and devised a plan with a kit ordered from Muse magazineâ€¦
After stuffing the items into a bright knit knapsack, she picked the lock using an Aeiou-Patented bobby pin. Then, she crept quietly, in Bo-Moofuzzy Slippers across the grimy floor that the Sibinator never bothered to clean. She burned a hole through the door with a Urania Brain Power laser. After crawling through the door, she crept behind the Sibinator and cried, â€œSurprise!â€ The Sibinator leapt from his seat and tried to grab Agrrrfishi, but missed. Agrrrfishi hit the Sibinator over the head with a Chad electropower Mega club, and read him some of Crrawâ€™s poetry, which pained as much as the club. She then pied him with Superpower Koko knockout-brand pies, and wrapped him in Featherâ€™s un- breakable Spike weed.As well, she tied Pwt’s unbreak netting of nets around his head.Good prevailed, and Agrrrfishi won the computer(finally) after a lot of hard work. Muse helps to save the day again!

THE END
p.s. The evil Sibinator was sent to the realm of the Pink Bunnies, at least for NOW….

like it?
~Wheeeeeeeee! Agrrrfishi

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94

Phoenix

in October 12th, 2006 @ 15:40

agrrrfishi:

Heh! Funny…I want that survival kit. Could you sen’t me one? Pretty please? Then we can me the Anti-Sibinators, fighting for computer-posession everywhere!

I need some inspiration. I feel like writing something, but I don’t know what. I’m going to go consult my muse.

Have you-all met my muse? His name is Rune. he is a little reddish-brown psudodragon. Last time I measured, his wingspan was…how big is your wingspan, Rune? Oh yes. Three and a half feet, but I think he’s growing. He says he is my better half, and he’s probably right–he has a lot more common sense than me. He likes to comment on my life and decisions, which can be a bit annoying but he does give good advice. Usually, however, he’s hanging out in the library room in my Mindscape. Recently he brought back a little dragon-kit from his native dimension. Her name is Smoke, and she stil hasn’t opened her eyes, she’s so young. She’s so light gray as to be almost transparent, and we think she might be a Phaser or a Dream-Speaker dragon when she grows up. She spends most of her time either on top of my head or inside my shirt, sleeping. She’s only about as big a a silver dollar, when curled up. Rune, however, likes to ride on my back when he’s in our world. He’s a good muse.

By the by: I am not schizophrenic. *smiles*

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KZA Penty

in October 12th, 2006 @ 16:47

93 (agrrrfishi)- I second the request for that survival kit. I can’t critique humour.

94 (Phoenix)- Ah, don’t worry about the whole schizophrenia thing. I have muses too.

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elassÃ«~adael (agredulce)

in October 12th, 2006 @ 16:55

95, 94- I have no muses. I feel lonely.

I’m nano-ing! other than nano I don’t usually write stories though I always try to inspire myself with nanowrimo it usually turns back into poetry.

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Agrrrfishi

in October 13th, 2006 @ 10:35

Phoenix : I will try to find some more!
KZA Penty: Ditto.

I WANT A MUSE! My Muse is oficially Crouching Tiger, the Muse of Enviromental protection, and Composure of Songs. YAYYYYYYY!

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agrrrfishi

in October 14th, 2006 @ 19:01

I want to write a Halloween story. So I believe I will…

Attack On All Hallow’s Eve

Once upon a Halloween night, a small girl named Sandy Piper and her little brother were out Trick -or -Treating in the impenatrable black night, with only th street lights to guide them. Then, Sandy’s brother met some friends and ran off to stuff themselves with candy, leaving Sandy on her own in the inky black. Sandy walked a block or two, until the streets were empty and void of life. She figured she had better go home now, s she turned around and trotted the other way. But as she went, she realized that she was completely lost, with no idea where she was. Quite suddenly, the stories that her father used to tell her sank back into her forefront of her mind. The stories had been about little children who went out daringly alone on All Hallow’s Eve, and never were again seen by the eyes of man or beast alike. She became frightened, and in the midst of her fear, all the street lights flickered and went out, leaving poor Sandy in the darkened gloom. She cried out and began to run, for it is very frightening to be alone and in the dark, with no idea where you are. Then, from behind a green pointy shrub, something clamped a hand over Sandy’s mouth and pulled her into the bushes.
When she next opened her eyes, she was in a dimly lit earthen corridor, and her captor seemed to be nowhere around . But then she saw a door to her left, hewn of stone, with rusty hinges. She pushed it slowly and cautiosly, and it slid silently open. She tiptoed in side, and saw as if she were in a highly colored dream. She was looking at a chamber room that was full to the brim with what seemed to be fluffy pink bunny rabbit toys. She picked up the nearest one, and it immediatleyl looked up at her.
It was seemingly adorable, with large dark eyes and a bright, hot pink body, and she was just about to touch it, when she noticed that it was growing at a very quick rate. She looked at all the others, and saw that they were becoming quite massive. She looked back at the one in her hand. It was no longer cute. It was horrendus, with slits for pupils and huge fangs that could rip her finger off. She dropped it at once. She walked backward, slowly, toward the door, when she noticed that the door had no handle. She was trapped in the room, and it seemed that there was no way out. Then she spied a trapdoor by a massive clawed pair of hot-pink feet. The bunnies were much taller than her by now, and a whole lot fiercer looking. She made a dash for the trapdoor, and the bunnies attacked, clawing at every bit of her that they could reach. She made a final sprint, and smashed right through the flimsy wooden trapdoor. She could hear the bunnies, trying to get at her. But the trapdoor was too tiny, and Sandy ran at breakneck speed toward a set of dirty stairs and to another brown trapdoor. She pushed it open, and breathed in the smell of the night around her.
She crept from the bushes and to the sidewalk. Suddenly, she saw the house next to the drapdoor that was hidden. It was her own . She ran through the door, still disbelieving, and ran into the kitchen.There stood her parents. But they did not exactly look like her parents. They were wearing pink fuzzy ears, and had clawed feet and hands, and large black slits for pupils. Sandy then had a dawning of comprehension. She scratched her fuzzy ears and said with a slight lisp, “Sthorry, parthhents. I forgohttt about theee familhyy reunhion!”

Frightening? Let hot pink bunnies take their course…of EVIL!!!
~Agrrrfishi

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99

agrrrfishi

in October 17th, 2006 @ 15:43

SCARY STORY!(yes I wrote this)

The Necklace

There was a boy and his friend driving to a small party in a car. They were almost there, when their car ran out of gas. The quickest way to their party was through the graveyard. So the boys left the truck, and broke into the graveyard. The boys were silently creeping, weaving in and out of graves, when the younger spotted something shiny lying on the ground. He picked it up. It was a beautiful golden necklace. Perfect, he thought. I will give this to my girlfriend. Then he slipped it into his pocket. When the boys got to the dance, the younger reached his girlfriend, he gave her the golden necklace.”Why thank you!” said the girl. The happy couple hurried to the dance floor. But when they were dancing, the boy noticed that the girl’s skin was getting green and dead looking. Soon she was too weak to dance. The boy walked her to her house with a heavy heart. Then he and his brother walked back to the truck, and began to push it home.
The next day, the girl’s mother called the boy to say that the girl had suddenly died last night. Apparently, the necklace that he had given her had leaked some fluid that she swallowed by accident. It had clogged up her veins and clotted her blood. When the doctor saw the necklace, he had recognised it immediatly. It belonged to a corpse of a young woman who was buried the day before one year ago. She had been on a way to a dance when she had died.

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100

â€ FrigidSymphonyâ€ With Odin On Our Sides, Our Souls Burning With Pride

in October 20th, 2006 @ 13:54

Ok, here’s a battle scene I just wrote. I’ll slip it in to the novel I’m ‘trying’ to write.

The crows were circling. Usually a phenomenon like this would indicate that there would be bloodshed to come, but on this particular day, it meant that fighting was actually going on.
The crows were circling because the battle was taking place on the sea, and you can’t stand on water. So they circled, and waited.
Beneath the crows, two ships were attached to each other by a random combination of thrown grappling hooks. One ship, a merchant vessel from the south, laden with incense, gold and ivory, had been sailing comfortably towards their destination, until they suddenly found themselves being boarded in the middle of the night. The mere fact that they had been boarded was frightening, but that it had been done during the night, when the boarding ship would have had to navigate it’s way through a twisting maze of icebergs and wreckage, would have held them in awe at the seamanship of their opponents had they had time to think about it. As it was, they barely had enough to time for their mercenary army to assume defensive positions along the deck before an onslaught of tall, muscular hairy men wielding giant battleaxes and thin, agile swords was upon them.
The merchant vessel was about to become another of Henkka MersketÃ¤Ã¤nen’s conquests.

Henkka held his axe steady. His first wave of attackers was already onboard the merchant vessel, and after the mercenaries had recovered from the initial surprise, they managed to hold off the norsemen. Henkka could hear the triumphant cries of his warriors as they died and were sent to Wallhall from the elevated platform of his ship where he was standing. The mercenaries were defending themselves well. Too well. Henkka abandoned the hope of taking the vessel with one fast surprise attack and made a motion to send in the full attack force. He would overwhelm them by sheer numbers.
Henkka turned to his colonel. Jani Rasketenainen was an able strategist and an outstanding swordsman, second only to Henkka himself. Henkka adressed him with an amicable tone. “I’m going with them. You stay here and keep an eye on the ship.” he said. Jani replied with a nod and a smile.
Henkka jumped down and rallied a group of warriors around him. Then, with a cry, he charged across a suspended plank between both vessels. He ran straight towards the fray, with complete disregard for anything else. He was in battle now. He was in his element. No one could beat him now.
A mercenary stepped up to bar his mad run. The man was tall, tanned and muscular. Evidently an experienced fighter. He was armed with the jagged hilt of a broken scimitar in his left hand and with a slim norse blade picked up from a fallen enemy in his other. He grinned at Henkka, made a few feints with his sword, then suddenly threw the scimitar hilt directly at Henkka’s face. Henkka had been expecting it, but instead of dodging, as he could have easily done, he raised his arm and deflected the hilt with his bare skin. The move was not so much an efficient fighting maneuver as a means to intimidate his opponent. It had succeded completely. The mercenary stared at Henkka’s arm, as if expecting it to explode, but nothing happened. Then Henkka moved. He raised his battleaxe and swung at the mercenary. The man knew that if he tried to deflect it with his slim blade, it would shatter like wood. So he attempted to sidestep. It almost worked.
Henkka’s axe missed the mercenary’s head, but came down with full force on the man’s shoulder, seperating his left arm from his body. The mercenary gave a cry of pain and made a thrust at Henkka, whose axe was stuck in the wooden floor. Using the shaft of his axe as a support, he swung around the inaccurate thrust and hit the mercenary full on in the neck. It was a killing blow. The mercenary dropped to the floor.
Henkka screamed a rallying cry and tried to pry his axe from the floor. It came up, and Henkka used the momentum to turn himself around. Kicking away a body, he momentarily survued the scene. The mercenaries were certainly giving a good fight, but it was clear they had no chance. The norsemen were to fast and to strong. Henkka screamed again, and rushed towards the center of the fighting, axe raised high. He decapitated one mercenary, hit another one in the heart, until he accidentaly broke his axe on a slab of granite the merchant vessel had been transporting. Cursing, he dropped the broken remains of his axe and drew two slim swords from his back, then re-entered the fray. A mercenary appeared before him, bringing down a scimitar aimed at his head. Henkka ducked, then raised both swords and sliced his hand off with a clean scissor motion. The man stared, dumbstruck, leaving Henkka ample time to disembowel him.

to be continuedâ€¦

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101

agrrrfishi

in October 24th, 2006 @ 18:48

okeeeey dokeyyyyyyy…
we are learning about descriptive writing in my class of Language Arts, so I figs that I should do some descriptive writingses.

THE GHOST

The battered old house stood in the damp earth, swaying as the pounding of gusts of wind and sheets of sleet crashed into its’ windows, washing away the dust and cobwebs with a quick swipe.
Inside, a solitary black cat was shivering, perched on a cracked marble sill and following the progress of the rusty gate with it’s piercing yellow eyes. A nearby table was creaking as it shook violently from the rumble of the thunder. There were tea stains worn in, right by a chipped ming vase that held wilted roses long past dead and a singed brown colour.
The fireplace was full of charred black coal and embers that were long since burned out. On the mantle above, the candleabra held candles with blackened wicks and a single match sat nearby that was cold and curled from used up flame. The dust on the mantle was so thick that it could easily coat a smal child’s hand in gray specks if it was tried.Above the manle was a portrait of a grayed and crooked man whose paint was rapidly peeling. The hearthrug below was old and threadbare with a faded and worn look to it. The only other furniture besides the table were two straight-backed wooden shairs that forced you to sit tall and straight, and creaked noisily if you fidgeted in your place.
Sudden as the wind, something white and misty swept across the fireplace. The cat yowled and leapt from it’s perch, scampering quickly out the door, for even cats could sense the ghost.
In life, the ghost had been the man in the painting, Erias Smithson. The had been a thin old man, gaunt and very sophisticated. He was a very strict man and had black eyes that ran like a sharp knife through you if you did some things wrong. The man grew old, withered , and died like the flowers in the vase on the wooden table.Those flowers had lived as long as he had, and they withered and croaked when he went. Voodoo, some said, but nobody beleived it. But his ghost doomed itself tho wander the house forever to eternity, and so it went.
And so went the tale, and all the children on Hallowen knock on the door of the house of Elias, and some say that they heard him warn them away in a thin hard voice.They say it , but don’t beleive it, and those who did not beleive would be squandered, just like the moon covering the dying sun.

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102

â˜ºKiki the Greatâ˜º

in October 27th, 2006 @ 16:45

I just made up a great sentence:

“The trees,” said Elisa. “They’re getting too strong.”
Mark furrowed his brow.
“We’ll have to attack soon.”

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103

agrrrfishi

in October 30th, 2006 @ 15:54

Here is a great paragraph on Halloween candy and scaryness.

The pitter patter of footsteps did not stop Jaynee from tasting the sweet and sugary flavour of the jawbreaker on her tounge as it infected her taste buds with crunchy and succulent goodness.As she sat silently on the cold wet cement of her front porch, letting the flavor penetrate her entire being, she stared up at the full moon through the thick jet black sky, and thought she heard a wolf baying at it far into the distance. But then, the sound seemed to come closer, as though someone was creeping stealthily toward her, shrouded in the dark night. Then, something grabbed her shoulder. She caught a glimpse of what seemed to be a rotting yellow hand with cracked brown fingernails long overgrown before the hand whipped her around to face itself. Jaynee shrieked in terror, and the sound penetrated the night ahead.

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104

â˜€Kiki the Greatâ˜€

in December 10th, 2006 @ 15:09

103- You used the word “penetrate(ed)” twice. Redundancy is a no-no.

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105

Kuai Zi Angel Pentatonikk

in December 10th, 2006 @ 15:29

It’s amazing what you can hear on the El when everyone’s afraid. Which brings me to one of my best writing tips: If you want to write dialogue, you have to listen to a lot of it. Taking an inconspicuous notebook onto some sort of public transportation and writing down interesting sentences, phrases, or turns of conversation can be an excellent idea-sparker. Just don’t act like you’re hanging onto a stranger’s every word, or they are likely to be more than a bit creeped out and go ‘Are you writing down what I’m saying?’

I’ll start doing critiques again soon.

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106

PinkPantherDiamond (agrrrfishi )

in January 6th, 2007 @ 11:21

106:yeah, i try to avoid doing that

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