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Old 01-25-2014, 10:17 AM   #1441
heavyairship
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Well, it turns out that story is going to be a long one. I'm a couple thousand words into it and I've only just got the plot set up.

Even though I have no idea what I'm doing I must say I'm enjoying it immensely!

I've noticed this thread hasn't been too active lately. Anyone else working on something exciting? If so, care to give a summary? I'll do mine later.
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Old 01-25-2014, 04:41 PM   #1442
ultrasonic
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Short piece of fiction, if not an expansive metaphor for the witch hunt culture we seem to have found ourselves in here in britain
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Old 01-25-2014, 06:25 PM   #1443
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I agreed to do a few short stories for a fan made project I'm involved with. They'll basically be Warhammer 40k fanfics but two to three pages. I have experience with writing eight to ten page stories but not with so few pages.

For those who aren't familiar, it's basically just a scifi universe with post-human, genetically engineered badass. Humanity is all dystopian and fighting off aliens and shit. I want to start with a character low in command maybe work him up. I'm not sure how to go about such a compressed story since I haven't done it before.
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Old 01-27-2014, 10:27 AM   #1444
heavyairship
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Quote:
Originally Posted by ultrasonic
Short piece of fiction, if not an expansive metaphor for the witch hunt culture we seem to have found ourselves in here in britain


Hey I read your story. I'm no expert and I don't really have any experience to speak of but I'm an avid reader and I've been writing songs for several years so here is my take on it for what it's worth.

I thought the last 3-4 pages flowed very well and I liked the way you used repeated words and phrases to emphasize the themes of different sections but...

I didn't really get the main characters motivation for doing what he did. It seemed like the story was being told as it happened in which case I feel like the character should be really into what he's doing at the beginning and then gradually become horrified with it. But it seemed like he was never really on board with it to begin with.

Overall I liked it. I like that you wrote something that actually means something to you. I hope I have the skill to do that one day.

I'm writing a story about a guy who needs to recover a lost artifact in order to redeem a mistake his grandfather made years ago. His grandfathers arch enemy is also after this artifact and they race around the world to get a hold of it. At least that's what it is right now. I'm going to try to just finish it and then make whatever changes I need to once I have the story laid out.
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Old 04-16-2014, 07:33 PM   #1445
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Just conceived and wrote a fair chunk of a new one act play, regarding my own reworking and retelling of the story of Exodus and I've only just arrived at the notion it might really offend some people. Basically, it goes a little something like this:

Moses doesn't really talk to god, he just talks to a group of local children playing around with him, however he unwittingly takes it as being real, confronts the Egyptians and it results in him being killed.

Is it worth carrying on with, or am I just going to get murdered in my sleep?

On a side note, considering the completely other direction, I might just send it to the West Boro Baptist Church. They say any press is good press right? They might just picket my life. Infamy is better than no famy, surely?
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Old 04-16-2014, 11:33 PM   #1446
heavyairship
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Quote:
Originally Posted by ultrasonic
Just conceived and wrote a fair chunk of a new one act play, regarding my own reworking and retelling of the story of Exodus and I've only just arrived at the notion it might really offend some people. Basically, it goes a little something like this:

Moses doesn't really talk to god, he just talks to a group of local children playing around with him, however he unwittingly takes it as being real, confronts the Egyptians and it results in him being killed.

Is it worth carrying on with, or am I just going to get murdered in my sleep?

On a side note, considering the completely other direction, I might just send it to the West Boro Baptist Church. They say any press is good press right? They might just picket my life. Infamy is better than no famy, surely?



It would offend people if you removed God from the story or if you implied that He couldn't keep His promises. But both of those things together, no God and things going badly, there shouldn't be a problem from Christians. Jewish people on the other hand might not be too happy about Moses being made to look like a fool.

The two important things in that story are Moses being called by God and Moses leading Israel out of Egypt; if you are changing those two things than why not just change the character from Moses to some other guy and avoid the controversy?

If this is a comedy then you're pretty much guaranteed to make somebody angry no matter what you do.
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Old 04-22-2014, 06:48 AM   #1447
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Started a new short story - I know there's grammatical mistakes, I cbb changing them for now, I'm more worried about getting everything out, and then I'll patch it up. I'd love to hear what people think about it as an idea, where it seems to be going and how it reads as a whole.

治癒

Chiyu - Healing
PART I
The west winds exert their unflinching force upon the long grass before me and behind me. The stuff is everywhere, as impenetrable as it is irrationally placed and incapable of subtlety. The very same wind that pushes the very same grass against my moving form causes an ominous whistle, its definitive origin un-locatable. How long must this infernal undergrowth persist, holding me from my destined path?
A subtle noise escapes the sea of faded green from behind me. A rustling different to the type Iíve come to know and expect from the ever present wind. I stop dead in my tracks. My cloak flutters in the wind. I taste the air. I can taste their presence. Theyíre silent. Deadly silent. But I taste the air and I know theyíre there. I close my eyes, and almost as if I have no control over it, my right hand slowly makes its way to the left side of my belt and locks its firm grip upon the pommel. I draw it from its sheath.
The smooth and clear metal shimmers in the feint remnants of the sun, hidden behind the varying grey clouds above me, moving as slowly as the men behind me. They stop. I know theyíre there. I can taste it in the air. I drag the blade across the palm of my left hand. How many scars that grace that same spot are there? Who can say? I bring my left forefinger down to the wound and dip the tip into the rising pool of blood and drag it down the length of the blade. Blood for blood. All debts must be paid.
I dip the same finger into the same pool and hold fast for a short while. I drag the finger across the back of my right hand, my sword hand, and form the shapes, the lines, the contours of one figure.

Chikara.
Strength.
I throw my cloak off of my shoulders; I throw my hat off to my side. I turn myself to face behind me. There they stand before me. Two of them. One. Two. This is survival. All those who stand before me, preventing me from fulfilling my fate, will forever live a half-life, perpetually growing until they amount to nothing. These two tread dangerously close to their finite ends.
I draw the blade behind me. I look up, I lock eyes: I hold the glares the send my way. I launch myself forward and I draw the shimmering metal across me, spilling viscera in uniform patterns, slicing a gaping hole across oneís face. He yells out in pain. Itíll be the last time he does. I plunge the blood stained blade within his stomach, sinking it deep until the pommel hits hard, and his cloak becomes one with his bare skin. I twist the blade and yank it out, and with it draw along the wrecked remnants of his internal organs. They spill out as fast as the size limited wound will allow, while the blood flows as freely as ever. His face locked in a permanent expression of pain. He will never feel again.
He drops to his knees; his hand releases the sword it so desperately gripped. His fate spills as readily as the vermillion liquid that escapes his stomach, he coughs twice, saliva and blood propelled in a pathetic show of his ever draining life force. I kick him over onto his back. He is finished.
I turn to face the other man and draw the silver steel sword across the grass. It creates a harsh whisper. Anata ni wa, ikutsu ka no ga hoshī, anata wa rokudenashi? He smiles at me; he lowers his head. He talks with a hushed, yet commanded tone, predominantly pre-cursed by years of unequivocal reverence. Watashi wa kōtei ni anata o jisan shi, anata no unmei o ukeireru tame ni, denka no mae ni ojigi o suru yō meiji rarete ita. Ken o sage, watashiniha jibun jishin o ataeru. Anata wa, kibishi-sa to atta koto wa arimasen. Anata ga futōna chikara ni deatta koto wa arimasen. Anata wa, anata no kōdō no kekka ni chokumen surudarou.
I laugh. I spit at him. His smile fades until his lips draw horizontal, stretching from cheek to ignorant cheek, the smooth and convoluted goblet of saliva that struck his face slowly edging closer to meeting it. He drags a scarred and calloused hand across it and wipes it on the side of his aging cloak. He raises his standard issue military sword, and locks it into position in the standard fighting stance. Arms to the side; blade vertical. Traditions, traditions, so many of them and yet so little base in the ever evolving art of war. Anata hiyowana on'na, anata no hashi o mitasu tame ni junbi shimasu.
We propel ourselves at one another simultaneously, unaffected by nature, separated by the ambiguities toiling behind our respective aims and moral framework. Good always prevails? Detarame. A gentle splash of water ricochets off the back of my hand. Itís raining. When it rains it always pours. Itís time for this man to fall as far as the water that originates from the heavens high.
We strike; we connect. For a moment that lasts a lifetime, itís over within seconds. We throw ourselves away and strike once again. Weíre only testing the water. The clattering of metal on metal vomits reverberation in the form of a sickening ringing. Ringing. Ringing. Strike. Next time will finish it. I stop. I feel the wind brush my skin ever so softly with its feather light touch. I can taste the re-alignment of the stars. It all reads the same: the sky will be painted red with blood.
Like a snake poised to attack, I rise up into my full and optimal height. I throw myself forward with every fibre of being I can muster up in spite of my tearing and ripping muscles. I feign right; I pass by him unscathed. I throw the sword around in a swift and arcing motion, momentum building as the blade swings ever close to its target. It bites just at the point where upper leg meets the lower. It cuts clean. His eyes scream help. Mō owatta yo.
He is still. He is silent. He slides of the stumps I left behind and hits the floor with a deafening thud. He yells out in pain. Iíll let him suffer for a second. In the cross section I left of him, the bone protrudes a ghostly white amongst the red matter that surrounds it. I kick it and laugh as I watch him writhe in agony.
I move swift and purposefully over to the other body, he since has passed beyond this world and unto the next, and search for anything of value. Itís no use to him now, itís not stealing. A few gold coins. A Tantō knife. A water skin. I take them all. I take the knife recently liberated and kneel above the body. I carve two figures into his cheeks.

Shi.
Death.

Yoru.
Night.
With death comes the dawning of the final darkness, the final night time. I move to the still desperately vocal assailant, laying there in the long grass as helpless as can be. I forgot he still carried his sword and was reminded when he swung it wildly in my general direction. It was easily kicked from him, with minimal effort.
I rest the point, as sharp as any ice cold stream, upon his neck and let it dance across the skin, playfully tormenting this broken man before me. I push down. I pull it out and escape the fountain of blood that follows. The force with which it throws itself into the sky dims down with every passing second until it is nothing more than a sighing dribble, and the light leaves his eyes. I carve the same into his cheeks and search for his belongings. He owns nothing.
I use his cloak to wipe the blood that stains my blade red, until I can see my furrowed brow reflected back at me. I put it back where it belongs, sheathed until the next last resort.
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Old 10-05-2014, 03:40 AM   #1448
Harvey Swick
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Originally Posted by ultrasonic
I'd love to hear what people think about it as an idea, where it seems to be going and how it reads as a whole.


as an idea, i think it has some potential and definitely kept me reading and wondering whats going to happen next and it seems to be some sort of epic revenge type thing to me, or some sort of righteous crusade lead by the main character, or i could be completely wrong and the main character is some sort of mercenary after a target, seems like it could go either way. as far as how it reads as a whole, it was definitely a good read IMO, it kept me hooked and the action parts were really cool. i didnt want to get out of my seat for a soda and felt like i had to push pause on the story during the action parts.
i would rate this at a 7/10. definitely not a terrible read and it could be good on its own or as part of a series.
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Old 12-06-2014, 02:49 AM   #1449
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Winter

Winter reached out of its hiding hole. A warm October became frigid as Winter stretched it legs and began to walk. Ice and frost creeping across the world with each step as the sun wilted away in horror of this fractal beast. Skies darkened with clouds as winter reached her arms up, overstretching beyond the stratosphere. Dense clouds gathered as snow drifted across the road, sliding itself in smoky tendrils to scatter in the wind. Winter was awake.
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Old 12-08-2014, 04:39 PM   #1450
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^ That's pretty cool. Very nicely written. I wish I could offer a better critique but I actually no nothing of writing, I just ham fist my way through it.
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