Kwasimodick posted:

Home Chimes
840 words

Grandpa would ring the chime when it was time to eat. We generally feasted on soups of beans, occasionally interspersed with wild game such as grouse. The grouse was often under-cooked, as grandpa believed the bird’s blood increased his vitality. He needed it, he was quite frail. It was a miracle he could prepare the daily soup.

I had dropped out of school at age 8 to help father pick beans in the field. His face was a deep tan, ruined by the rays of the sun. Most of my skin shared this quality after a good half-decade in the field, but my face remained untouched. Father forced me to wear a large, floppy silk hat he’d found near the town market. I hated it, but he said it was vital to keep my “angelic” visage intact.

My trips into town had provided me with a glimpse of many wondrous things. I’d once seen a gold bauble on a woman’s wrist. Another time we ate a food called pizza. It hurt my stomach terribly, but father and I enjoyed the taste immensely. On our monthly trip to town to sell beans, I’d often caught men staring at me. I wondered what it was they saw? We had had a mirror up until about a year ago, when Grandpa shot it with the shotgun. I knew that I was beautiful.

Unlike Grandpa, Dad was quite handsome. He was tall, with broad shoulders and a thick mop of curly red hair. We worked silently in the fields, two laborers with one united vision: get the beans. I knew Dad was a hard worker, and I felt proud of him. I always wanted to help out in any way I could think of. Sometimes, while he was sitting on a tree stump and taking rest, I’d come up behind him and massage his shoulders. “That feels good” he’d say, sparse words on a bright day.

Grandpa died later that week. We threw him behind the old apple orchard. It was a fitting burial place, we thought, since all the apple trees were dead as well. It was now my responsibility to prepare the soups. Finally, I’d be able to add proper seasoning. I knew I’d have to be careful, I didn’t want to upset my sensitive stomach, but at the same time, I felt like variety would spice things up. I begged father to buy a thimble full of paprika, and after some back-and-forth, he acquiesced.

One night, after a long, back-breaking day in the field, father and I were enjoying a bottle of wine I stole from a store in town. He distracted the shop clerk by saying he had lost his wallet in the store the day before, but the clerk insisted that was not the case as the store was closed the day before. We lacked a corkscrew, so father had to break the bottle open. We were careful, and it turned out alright.

Candlelight flickering, we slurped down the last of the bean soup. Nights were generally silent, as we were so tired from the fieldwork and Dad wasn’t much for conversation, but tonight he said something which greatly excited me: he asked for a massage. I got behind the rocking chair he was sitting in and reached down to his thick soldiers, feeling their tension and might. He let out a tiny groan, and I asked him if I could remove my silk hat. He said no.

After forty-five seconds of shoulder rubbing, father stood up and took my hand, looking me in the eye. He looked at me the way those men in town looked at me, with a sense of desire. All of a sudden, a rooster crowed. He led me by the hand to the bedroom. He laid down on Grandpa’s bed and started removing his overalls. The smell of his body was strong, we didn’t often bathe, as the river was on an adjoining property and the owners of that land had a vendetta against our family going back several generations.

Running my hands over his pectoral muscle, I could feel his heart beating quickly. Without taking my eyes off of his, I slid my hand down to his rock-hard abs, tight and hard. He was breathing heavily, I could tell something exciting was going on. I leaned back and took in the scene: he was chiseled, like an Adonis. The only thing I could think of was pleasing him, making him feel fulfilled. He worked so hard in the field, it was my mandate to give Dad whatever he wanted.

It was quite dark in the room, and I wanted to get a good look at Dad’s naked body. Grabbing a kerosene lantern, I hovered it over him, illuminating his gorgeous features. I moved the lamp to his groin and took in a most beautiful sight: a tiny bean, solid gold, worth no less than one million US dollars.

Kwasimodick posted:

dangling from his groin was a tiny, golden bean, with a street value of approximately 1 million US dollars.

sebmojo posted:

I sense there are subtleties in the mise-en-scene we've still to explore.

quote:

Limbo Time [570 words]

Paul figured he had about nineteen minutes left in this part of his life, which was the fifth part so far by his count. He was counting things to ease his nerves. This was not the first time he’d been anxious about a major shift in his life, but in the past he’d had to brook with them post-upheaval, after the change had occurred. This was the first time he was sure he was staring it all in the face, the transition looming before him like he’d crooked his neck up to see Damocles’ dangling sword. Twice before he had suspected he was on this brink of something new, and twice before he had been wrong, and things had stayed the same. Not this time.

He leaned forward in his chair to check the microwave clock. Eighteen minutes now, he remarked to himself, and leaned back. That was based on an estimate, beginning with a full sixty-seven minutes. When his wife June closed the door and left amid his stuttered attempts to stall, to say anything, he had stood frozen for approximately one minute, then had collapsed into the chair, realizing he was completely powerless to the chain of events that would then unfold.

Five minutes to reach the garage level. Three minutes to be on the street. A twenty-two minute drive follows, assuming heavy traffic. The most ambiguous part was when they reached Amy’s driveway and saw his car parked there, and not at an apartment in the city that he was not renting. Who knows how much time would be spent at that juncture. Two minutes was Paul’s guess. Then the drive back, this time only twenty minutes, and then the eight again back to the door, plus an extra minute that Paul figured would add up from extra seconds spent elsewhere.

He took out his phone, held it gingerly as if it might shatter or explode, then set it down. He looked to the door as if there might be a fire raging behind it, but he himself felt neither hot nor cool. He was calming. The initial shock was leaving him. He thought about all the times he had lived this moment in his head, all the places and ways he’d imagined this going down, and in such living color detail he usually ended up giving himself shudders and Amy asked him what was the matter, and he’d sighed over her shoulder and said, “Nothing.” But that part of his life was gone now, and the next had yet to start. It was limbo time.

He stood up, feeling as if he had no weight at all, and headed into the soft, tan light of the kitchen, predicting that this evening would either be very long or very short, and that he could not take the chance of facing it on an empty stomach either way. He would need to make something quick but filling. Sixteen minutes now. He looked in the freezer for a frozen dinner. There was a small chicken pot pie underneath some black bananas. He removed it and turned it over. Conventional Oven Directions, 35 minutes at 425 degrees. No good. Below that: Microwave Directions, 11-14 minutes. Do not microwave foil. Let cool for two minutes before serving.

He pulled the pie out of the package and turned to face the microwave. Its green, friendly diodes smiled at him.

“Hello, old friend,” he said.

neonnoodle posted:

$1,000,000 in gold would weigh about 50 pounds.
There's no way you could compress that into a groin-bean.

sebmojo posted:

A one inch ball (lol) of 24 karat gold weighs a bit less than six ounces, not including cockring/ball fittings. An ounce of gold is $USD1300. So we're looking at a value, on the damned, mean, dirty, cold-rear end streets, of around $8k. We need to go bigger.

A cool mill of gold is gonna weigh, by my reckoning, around 46 pounds. The dad in the story is carrying (attached, let us never forget, to his penis) a ten inch sphere of gold that weighs more than:

•five gallons of water
•a 3-year-old child
•an average human leg
•a Soft Coated Wheaten Terrier
•a 15-foot canoe

Mercedes posted:

Hey guys, I could use a fresh set of eyes to do a quick look over my prose.

It's 1200 words, and I understand if you don't want to read it, but if you do read it, let me hear your thoughts? I enabled comment making to make it easier for you guys. I just want to make sure I'm not sliding back into bad habits.

Heading off to work to not think about it for a few hours before I edit again tonight, but your critiques are always welcome - it helps me out tremendously.

VomitOnLino posted:

Here again (148 Words)

The clatter of the crowded restaurant fades, as and I find myself in a familiar place and time. time?

A door lodged into a tall wedge of a building, standing betweenby a placid river, embedded in concrete. So the river is embedded in concrete? You're trying way too hard to be allusive and poetic here. To the right - a secret bamboo grove. The road is worn and uneven. What road? I thought we were by a river. Pausing on my bicycle, What bicycle, I thought we were in a restaurant? the summer heat waning in the failing light. The air still you want a comma here, I think heavy and motionless. It smells of nothing. Then why mention it.

Recessed into the entrance what entrance a slender a perfectly wrong adjective vending machine hums quietly, chilling its meager selection of beverages. It feels alien. This is meaningless.

Warm light spills quietly HOW DOES LIGHT SPILL NOISILY out of the frosted window - onto concrete steps below. There is indistinct chatter coming through the other side. Being part of it would mean everything. 'everything' is a completely meaningless word here because you have given us no insight into anything about your narrator The desire to step trough the doorway condenses the entire scene to a brilliant single point, the door becoming achingly real, again. WHAT WHEN WAS IT NOT REAL ACHING OR OTHERWISE And then, without warning, it fades.

I never entered. gOOD THE SLENDER VENDING MACHINE MIGHT HAVE BEEN MEAGRE AT YOU

sebmojo posted:

Okay, this is pretty bad. You're trying to be very pared down and poetic without the control to really pull it off. I suggest a round or two of Thunderdome to get this tendency beaten out of you. Otherwise, give me this story in 1000 words not 200.

VomitOnLino posted:

Thanks for the critique, I needed that.

I guess, as I don't write very often, I should take my time instead of throwing half-cooked stuff around.
Cheers.

sebmojo posted:

Nah, bullshit. Don't wait until it's perfect because it never will be. Crank it out man. The more the better. Join Thunderdome and you'll have a weekly crit enema.

VomitOnLino posted:

Here again (148 Words)

The clatter of the crowded restaurant fades, as I find myself in a familiar place and time.

A door lodged into a tall wedge of a building, standing between a placid river, embedded in concrete. To the right - a secret bamboo grove. The road is worn and uneven. Pausing on my bicycle, the summer heat waning in the failing light. The air still heavy and motionless. It smells of nothing.

Recessed into the entrance a slender vending machine hums quietly, chilling its meager selection of beverages. It feels alien.

Warm light spills quietly out of the frosted window - onto concrete steps below. There is indistinct chatter coming through the other side. Being part of it would mean everything. The desire to step trough the doorway condenses the entire scene to a brilliant single point, the door becoming achingly real, again. And then, without warning, it fades.

I never entered.

quote:

With a crack like a gunshot, the support gave way. I fell sideways, the ice breaking like thin glass. My skin screamed as I sank into the water, my muscles paralyzed by shock and cold. Breathing didn't even enter into my mind until it was too late. My entire body was numb, and my mind and soul were following closely behind.

quote:

When I was a child, I had my own kingdom. My grandparents owned some acreage on Higgins Lane, just outside of Stevensville. A large, rushing creek cut through the property, isolating a tiny corner against a barbed-wire fence. Trees and brush grew in a wall on both sides of the creek, hiding the land behind from the house. Through an arched gap in the trees, a small, aging wooden bridge crossed the creek.

This triangle of land - barely a half-acre - was mine. Here, I could be myself, alone. Not alone like with a book, curled up in my room. Books draw you inward; each page grows inside your imagination, like a plant in the soil of your mind.

Behind the trees and across the bridge, I could let loose the garden of my imagination. It poured out and filled that space like an overflowing sink. In one corner, an alien world waited to be explored; in another, a homestead stood against the wilderness; in the third a squad of brave soldiers needed a leader. The only things here were me, and those things I brought with me across the bridge.

In that place, there were no clocks; only the tyrannical sun could call me back. After each long day, it threatened to leave me in darkness as it set behind the mountains. From time to time, my grandfather would appear on the other side of the bridge, to check that I was safe or call me back for meals. In my child's mind, I imagined that he couldn't cross that bridge. No one could, except me.

Each season, the bridge fell apart bit by bit. Boards dropped out, and those that didn't would rot from winters and the perpetual moisture of the creek. One year I knocked a hornet's nest into the creek - I was rather proud of that. When I was twelve, my grandmother forbade me from crossing any more. I took one last look through the archway of foliage, and turned away. The doors of my kingdom were sealed shut.



In my twentieth year, my grandmother died. The house was full of family - aunts, uncles, cousins, and beyond, all pressing against the walls, inflating the house with their grief. I took a walk in the January chill, my feet crunching in the snow. I walked along the creek, stopping where the brush parted. The skeletal remains of the bridge were still there: two supports, thin with age and weather, and a handful of crossmembers. All but one of the boards were askance; snow and frost covered the grey wood.

I looked up; though the brush, I glimpsed a girl dancing in a circle in the snow. She wore a simple flannel dress, a thick wool coat, and leather boots just a bit too big. The girl's short brown curls bounced, framing her blissful smile and bright eyes. I felt I recognized her, but couldn't put my finger on it.

Memories of my years behind the creek rushed back. The last time I had seen it, the bridge had looked intimidating, impossible. As an adult, I could see a way across. The girl fell into the snow, her arms and feet moving back and forth. Giggles of delight carried across the water.

I placed one foot on the support, then another on a skewed, rotted board. Another step, onto the straight board, and then one more brought me halfway across. I saw the girl get up and bounce away.

With a crack like a gunshot, the support gave way. I fell sideways, the ice breaking like thin glass. My skin screamed as I sank into the water, my muscles paralyzed by shock and cold. Breathing didn't even enter into my mind until it was too late. My entire body was numb, and my mind and soul were following closely behind.

Suddenly, I launched upward, out of the ice and into the brush on the shore. My eyes snapped open, blurred by the icy water. Knees deep in the creek was my grandfather. His face was stern; he said nothing as he helped me up and guided me back into the house. As we walked back, he turned and looked back beyond the creek and smiled.



A few summers later, I traveled back to the house. My grandfather and I spent a month in hip waders, rebuilding the bridge - properly, so it would last a decade or more. From their kitchen, I watch my children run across that bridge. From time to time, I check on them, poking my head through the brush and calling their names. In my adult mind, I know that I can no longer cross that bridge. It's their kingdom now.

Once I know that they are safe, I head back to the house. In the hallway, there's an old, fading photograph of a smiling little girl in a flannel dress and boots that are a bit too big. On the back, in perfect cursive, is my grandmother's name, and "Winter 1939."

Gau posted:

Winter 1939

When I was a child, I had my own kingdom. My grandparents owned some acreage on Higgins Lane, just a few miles from my home. A large, rushing creek cut through the property, isolating a tiny corner against a barbed-wire fence. where trees and brush grew like a wall all around of the creek, hiding the land it behind from prying eyes in the house. The only way in was through an arched gap in the trees where a small, aging wooden bridge crossed the creek.

Took the liberty of fiddling with your constructions here. Mostly just to improve (in my opinion) the flow, and to help a reader visualise more clearly the land. Also hopefully make it seem a little more mystical.

This tiny triangle of land - barely a half-acre - was mine. Here, I could be myself, alone. Not sure about this line. A place where somebody can be themselves is pretty mundane. I think playing the secretive, or the land-owner angle would work better. Not alone like with a book, curled up in my room. Books draw you inward; each page grows inside your imagination, like a plant in the soil of your mind. Stand-alone, this pair of sentences are a mistake. You set up a comparison between being outside in the triangle and reading a book, but only say what it is like to read a book (and at length to boot). Either you cut both of them entirely, or you add what about the triangle draws you outward.

A lot to say about only 4 sentences, eh? I'm not sure about the specificity of half-acre either but I chucked in something making it clear that it is very small.

Behind the those trees and across the that bridge, I could let loose upon the world the garden of my imagination. Ah, here is our comparison pay-off. You've put it in the next paragraph, which you shouldn't do because they are natural mini-scene breaks. And looking at it, it doesn't really correctly fit the sentence structure about either. It poured out and filled that space like an overflowing sink. I don't like how you turn the whole garden metaphor suddenly into something about sinks. Also I feel by definition an overflowing sink is a poor example of something filling, rather it is overfilling. In one corner, an alien world waited to be explored; in another, a homestead stood against the wilderness You can do better than this second one.; in the third a squad of brave soldiers needed a leader.

This para should be reworked into the one above.

My imagination could expand into other places, of course, but only little bits at a time. My bunk bed was a spaceship in unexplored territory, or the farm buildings a country town to defend from bandits and raiders, but those belonged to other people, carried other spirits. The only things across the creek were me, and those things I brought with me across the bridge.

This serves no purpose as far as I can see.

In that place, there were no clocks; only the tyrannical Really? sun could call me back. While the sun stayed in the sky, it was my world. Another unpaid off sentence, making the next seem half like a non-sequitur. At night, I imagined that the monsters came out, all of my nightmares come to life Goosebumps, anyone?. After each long day, as the sun threatened to set was setting behind the mountains, I reticently reluctantly shuffled inside. My fear of the monsters always won over conquered my curiosity - but some evenings just barely.

This paragraph is all about reinforcing the footloose and fancy free, and naive, nature of childhood - no clocks, monsters etc. The prose is fairly clunky and I've struck down a few things. Could stand for a rewrite. I don't see the need to frame the sun in such hostile language either, it is the kid's ally not cruel overlord.

From time to time, my grandfather would appear on the other side of the bridge, to check that I was safe or call me back for meals. In my child's Your kid? Ambiguous, just rewrite different. mind, I knew that he couldn't cross that bridge. No one could, except me.

Purposeful or not, foreshadowing occurs here.

Each season, the bridge fell apart bit by bit. Boards dropped out, and those that didn't would rot from winters and the perpetual moisture of the creek. One year I knocked a hornet's nest into the rushing water - I was rather proud of that While I have no problem with the line, it completely destroys the flow of this paragraph. It comes apropos of nothing and makes the next line seem the same way.. When I was twelve, my grandmother forbade me from crossing any more. I took one last look through the archway of foliage, and turned away. The doors of my kingdom were sealed shut.



-

In my twentieth year Not in my post 1920 works of fiction thanks, my grandmother died. The house was full of family - aunts, uncles, cousins, and beyond, all pressing against the walls, inflating the house with their grief it burns IT BURNS. . I walked along the creek in the January chill, my feet crunching in the snow Include detail about being squeezed out the house/needing some air?. A rush of nostalgia stopped me where the brush and trees parted. The skeletal remains of the bridge were still there: two supports, thin with age ...does wood get thin with age? and weather, and a handful of crossmembers plank? slat? beam?. All but one of the boards were askance relevant?; snow and frost covered the grey wood.

I looked up; through the brush, I glimpsed a girl dancing in a circle in the snow. She wore a simple flannel dress, a thick wool coat, and leather boots just a bit too big. The girl's short brown curls bounced, framing her blissful smile and bright eyes. I felt I recognized her, but couldn't put my finger on it.

Memories of my years behind the creek rushed back careful of image repetition, nostalgia rushed back already. The last time I had seen it, the bridge had looked intimidating, impossible. As an adult, I could see a way across. The girl fell into the snow, her arms and feet moving back and forth. Giggles of delight carried across the water.

This might seem pernickety but it feels like you have your adult/child mentalities topsy-turvy. A kid (who is lighter, less risk averse, more optimistic) is way more likely to want to try and cross a rotting bridge over an icy creek than an adult. Adult 'logic' doesn't somehow allow you to calculate the most perfect route across something either.

I placed one foot on the support, then another on a skewed, rotted board. Another step, onto the straight board our mystery straight board makes its long-awaited debut, and then one more brought me halfway across. I saw the girl get up and bounce away behind the brush. I wondered why she hadn’t seen me yet.

With a crack like a gunshot, the support gave way. I fell sideways, the ice breaking like thin glass We have no detail as to how deep or not deep the creek is, adding to confusion here. Add in the actual fall so it becomes clearer.. My skin screamed as I sank into the water, my muscles paralyzed by shock and cold. Breathing didn't even enter into my mind until it was too late Too late meaning in everybody's mind but yours dead I'm afraid. My entire body was numb, and my mind and soul were was following closely behind.

Suddenly, I launched upward, out of the ice and into the brush on the shore. My eyes snapped open, blurred by the icy water. Knees deep in the creek was my grandfather. His face was stern ?; he said nothing as he helped me up and guided me back into the house. As we walked back, he turned and looked back beyond the creek and smiled.

This is not good at all. The random deus ex machina grandfather, his apparent inhuman strength allowing him to launch waterlogged teenagers like rockets while also knee deep in freezing water, then his incomprehensible attitude to the situation. The matter of factness of the para cripples this, the dramatic climax of the piece.

-

A few summers later, I traveled back to the house. My grandfather and I spent a month in hip waders, rebuilding the bridge - properly, so it would last a decade or more. From their kitchen, I watch my children run across that bridge Jesus, how many summers is a few to you? The kids must be at least 5-6+ right? And protag didn't have them before when he was 20?. From time to time, I check on them, poking my head through the brush and calling their names. In my adult mind, I know that I can no longer cross that bridge. It's their kingdom now.

Aw yeah circularity baby. Tense switch in this para too. Could just switch it to historical present I guess?

Once I know that they are safe, I head back to the house. In the hallway, there's an old, fading photograph of a smiling little girl in a flannel dress and boots that are a bit too big. On the back, in perfect cursive, is written my grandmother's name and "Winter 1939."

Sooooo, we get to understand that the mystery girl was a phantasm of his dead grandmother. Maybe his grandparents were childhood sweethearts who played together in the triangle-o-mystery. Still doesn't explain why you drop Winter 1939 like it was some shocking bombshell, especially given it is the name of the whole piece.

Bad Seafood posted:

Erogenous Beef - Sharp Harmony

Obtuse.

HOMEWORK: A simple story about simple people whose simple lives are interrupted by something complicated. 700 words.

Bad Seafood posted:

HOMEWORK: A boy becomes a man in 500 words. No trial by blood stuff.

Fraction posted:

Thunderdome homework.



In The Window (418 words)


There was a man stuck in the window. It wasn’t a large window, and it was a large man.

The man’s feet struck uselessly out at the countertop. The bowl Sean had used for breakfast was lying in a dozen pieces on the floor, and his mother’s jewellery box was close to the sink.

The man in the window stopped struggling. His feet flopped down on the counter, and his entire body sagged.

“Eh, lass?—me lad?”

“Yeah?”

“Could ye give us a hand, so?”

Sean stared at the man- or rather, at his backside. He knew what was happening. He should call his parents. His father would know what to do. His father; he always knew how to fix anything. But his mobile was in his trouser pocket, and that seemed an insurmountable distance. (I think there's a better way to word that. The "distance" thing doesn't convey what you want.) So he just stared at the man’s wide arse, crammed into his too-tight jeans, until he found his voice.

“Sure, if I was an eejit,” he said. His voice sounded strange: too high, too tight, like his cousin’s voice. (I just wanted to say that's a good-rear end sentence.) She was a girl, and three years his junior. (This is implied without explanation.) “Ye was after stealing our stuff, was ye not? Will I make ye a cuppa an’ all?”

“There’s no need ta be giving us cheek, so there’s not.”

The words could have come right out of his mother’s mouth. Sean lifted his shoulders defensively, then scowled at the man’s arse. “Ye was stealing! If my da was here...”

“Aye, sure sure, an’ I’ll be outta here soon, so I will. No need ta tell yer da, no need ta do anythin’.”

That didn’t seem right. Sean wrinkled his nose. He should ring someone. His father. He looked at his mother’s jewellery box and bit his lip. He’d been the one to discover the man. He should be the one to deal with it.

“No, so ye won’t. I know what ta do with ye.”

The man’s arse wiggled. He didn’t know if it was an attempt to break free, or an attempt to dissuade him. (Either reword this or cut it- it doesn't work right now.) It wiggled again, and he stared at it, baffled by the situation. He could feel his mobile in his pocket, pressing hard against him. (The phone isn't moving on its own, and he isn't positioned in a way to make it do this.) He looked away, to the jewellery box. He and swallowed.

“Eh, lad, don’t be doing this, so.”

His hand was in his pocket, his fingers curled around the phone. He lifted it free and the arse, as if sensing danger, wiggled furiously. He bit his lip again, tasted blood, and dialed.

“Police, please.”

Anonymous Robot posted:

In Hell (500 words)

“This isn’t Social Darwinism- I do not mean to imply that this process is natural or right. But it’s happening. Bionics, genetic engineering, and assistive surgeries are creating two divergent species, and robotics are rendering the lower half obsolete. We must take great caution, moving into the new age. In making gods of some of us, we will make beasts of all of us.”

This opening quote is too hammy. IT MAKES US GODS AND BEASTS etc. It would have more impact and seem more believable if it was written in the style of a reflective academic - I do think you aimed for that, but I think you miss the mark. Toning it down is for the best. I also think the very first sentence makes very little sense in English, no matter how I spin it in my head. "It isn't unnatural selection, but I'm not saying it's natural selection or a good thing." So what are you saying? Sorry if I'm being dense here.

Dr. Janus Reed, A Divergent Humanity

Dr "Janus"? Don't do this to me.

“THE oval office OF HELL”. That’s how the graffiti ringing the tunnel entrance read. What had once been an archway had collapsed in on itself, leaving only a small passage open near the floor. “It never ceases to amaze me how a fat gently caress like you can fit through all these little spaces,” called James.

Strong attention grabbing first line, barring the quote. Only quibble is how you set the scene as a tunnel entrance, then make it into a collapsed archway. I can't get a good mental image going of where it is set - what kind of archway? Where are they? Only a little bit more is needed, but I think it is needed.

“Keep the flashlight steady,” answered Alan. He slid along on his back, pulling himself forward by gripping a piece of rebar. On the other side, the archway opened up into a foyer with a stairwell. A terrible smell filled the room. Alan set his own flashlight on the floor and switched it on. “Start coming through. I’m gonna take a look downstairs.”

The smell intensified as he descended the staircase. The thick layer of dust covering the concrete floor had become gummy, and it stuck to his boots. Alan used his cellphone to light the room, and the source of the smell was made apparent.

Gummy dust? I dunno. Also you have a continuity error here in which he has a flashlight in the previous paragraph, and then is lighting the room with his phone.

Sitting slumped against the wall opposite the stairwell was the body of a Labor Solidarity Army soldier. Alan took a photo of the corpse with his camera. The burgundy jacket of the LSA was torn open from gunfire, and the wall behind her was spattered with dried blood from the same. A leather strap rested on her left shoulder; it had probably secured a submachine gun once, but that had been long since looted.

Your instincts to instantly shorten Labor Solidarity Army soldier are totally correct, but I would go further. I find it is always better to start it off with an off-hand slang/acronym and then drop the full name later on. Always seems more convincing that way.

From the same what? Person or gunfire?

No need to be coy. "Where a submachine would have/should have hung."

Alan knelt down in front of her and began to feel out her pockets. There wasn’t much left worth taking- a thumb drive, an empty cigarette carton- but in the left front pocket, he found what he was looking for: two unspent 9mm bullets.

Tough life when an empty carton of cigs is 'worth taking'. Not sure why this soldier keeps two bullets in a front pocket either, seems just odd to me. Some kind of ammo pouch perhaps?

Several weeks prior, Alan had found a handgun in a trash can. He wasn’t a violent person by nature, but he took some comfort from keeping it in his apartment. No matter how badly things went, no matter what happened, he at least had that last line of defense. He couldn’t imagine what kind of situation might require it, but he was glad to have it.

Although nothing is grievously wrong with this at all, your exposition at the start allows me to know that this falls far short of what you wanted. Trying to get inside the 'psychic space' of a suicidal friend by invoking the ghost of Hunter S. Thompson school of thought that suicide is a last line of defence. Is that right? Because reading this without knowing that just makes me think that Alan is in a dangerous line of work and likes the reassurance that he could defend himself against an attacker.

Alan returned to the foyer, where James was waiting for him. “There’s a body down there. Mark down that we’ll need a hazmat to come get it.”

“Anything good?”

“No.”

“loving liar.”

“Did you look around the first floor?”

“Nothing unusual. Broken windows, busted doors, no real structural damage.” James’ golden eyes flashed; they’d adjusted to the light, now. With his angular features and elongated canines, he might’ve cut a striking image, but because it was such a common look for young men, the effect was diminished.

Heavyhanded.

TheRamblingSoul posted:

quote:

Dave steadied himself and then twisted the door knob.

The door opened.

Immediately, a horrible stench poured out and Dave gagged as he cupped his nose and mouth.

quote:

Dave steadied himself. He twisted the door knob, and the door opened, releasing a horrible stench. Dave gagged, cupping his nose and mouth, and retched as he thought "I am in a story about people mounting chicken heads on plaques of their walls."

The Saddest Rhino posted:

TheRamblingSoul posted:

But yeah, like I mentioned above, I'll try reading through more critiques (and good fiction - the last time I remember reading actual fiction was Grapes of Wrath *last year*)

Mercedes posted:

Writing good dialogue comes with practice, like most things. You have to find a balance of too much expository dialogue - like what the daughter said at the end there. Too much. Ebeef already harped on this. Someone like her who went through such a hosed up tramatic experience is not going to be able to explain much of anything. They're going to be going through shock. Something like, "Daddy... I.." and then she drops the bloody knife and hugs her dad just something would have worked a poo poo ton better.

TheRamblingSoul posted:

Is it really important for the audience to know exactly what hosed up things April had to do before she and her dad reunited (eg eating raw chicken hearts and stuff)? Or is it better just to leave the reader to wonder what the hell happened to her that traumatized her so much instead of being explicit? (I think it's the latter)?

TheRamblingSoul posted:

I knew that last part would be a problem.

I essentially tried to cram in that last bit of dialogue to get the story under word count. What you're suggesting would have worked way, way better and still fit the word count - it just didn't cross my mind.

Is it really important for the audience to know exactly what hosed up things April had to do before she and her dad reunited (eg eating raw chicken hearts and stuff)? Or is it better just to leave the reader to wonder what the hell happened to her that traumatized her so much instead of being explicit? (I think it's the latter)?

As far as I know with Horror and Suspense, it works way, way better to let the reader imagine (and thus amplify the reader's internal dread and anxiety) what hosed up things are lurking around the corner and not be sure as opposed to shining the flashlight on the "monster," per se.